Weimar.

ON SEEING THE GOETHE-SCHILLER MONUMENT AT WEIMAR.

N the Platz before the theatre

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In the town of Weimar stand
Goethe, Schiller, - two immortals,
Idols of their fatherland!
Germany indeed may point with
Pride unto that poet pair;
As in life they by each other

Stood, so now the wreath they share.
One the Reaper cut down early,

Scarce had shone on him life's prime;
But the other lived to carry

On his locks the silver rime.
Honored by their prince and country
In the Fürstengraft they lie,
Side by side their bodies crumble,
But their works will live for aye.

George Browning.

THE BURIAL OF SCHILLER.

THE solemn, still, and shadowy hour,

When Saturday in Sabbath dies,

O'er Weimar hangs, with clouds that lower,
And veil in black the moon and skies.

Lo! from yon mansion lights appear,

Pale glimmering through the midnight gloom! A coffined form is on the bier,

And thence borne forward to the tomb.

That funeral train, how sad they go
Behind the cold, unconscious clay;
While sighs and sobs of bitter woe
Sound deep along the silent way!

Now, as the open grave beside
That dismal bier its bearers rest,
A heavier flood of sorrow's tide

Rolls o'er each mourner's burdened breast.

For him who slumbers in the shroud,
With trembling as they lift the pall,
The moon rends off her veil of cloud,
And o'er him lets her lustre fall.

She beams her silvery, soft adieu,
And is again in darkness hid,
As if affrighted, thus to view
The name on that dread coffiu-lid.

For 't is her lover, now no more;
Her friend, that they to dust consign!
And ne'er again is she to pour
Her light for eyes like his to shine!

"T is done! that mournful, final rite,
Too sacred for the glare of day!

Beneath the curtain folds of night

Earth, earth has closed o'er Schiller's clay!

And hark! the heavens in thunder groan;
They weep in torrents o'er his bed!
Their searching, fiery bolts are thrown,
As if to find and wake the dead!

These funeral honors, so sublime,
Befit him well to whom they're paid,
And at the birth of holy Time

"T is meet his dust at rest be laid !

His spirit, bright with heavenly fire,
Has burned its way through mortal strife,
And gained its high, intense desire
To solve the mystery of life!

It is the budding month of May;
The passing storm will call the bloom;
A tribute Nature soon will pay,

To dress her deathless poet's tomb.

Hannah Flagg Gould.

THE BUSTS OF GOETHE AND SCHILLER.

THIS is Goethe, with a forehead

THIS

Like the fabled front of Jove;

In its massive lines the tokens

More of majesty than love.

This is Schiller, in whose features,
With their passionate calm regard,
We behold the true ideal

Of the high heroic bard,

Whom the inward world of feeling
And the outward world of sense
To the endless labor summon,
And the endless recompense.

These are they, sublime and silent,
From whose living lips have rung
Words to be remembered ever
In the noble German tongue;

Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling
Into loftiest speech or song,
Still through all the listening ages
Pours its torrent swift and strong.

As to-day in sculptured marble
Side by side the poets stand,
So they stood in life's great struggle
Side by side and hand to hand,

In the ancient German city,

Dowered with many a deathless name, Where they dwelt and toiled together, Sharing each the other's fame:

One till evening's lengthening shadows Gently stilled his faltering lips,

But the other's sun at noonday
Shrouded in a swift eclipse.

There their names are household treasures,
And the simplest child you meet
Guides you where the house of Goethe
Fronts upon the quiet street;

And, hard by, the modest mansion
Where full many a heart has felt
Memories uncounted clustering

Round the words "Here Schiller dwelt."

In the churchyard both are buried,

Straight beyond the narrow gate, In the mausoleum sleeping

With Duke Charles in sculptured state.

For the monarch loved the poets,

Called them to him from afar, Wooed them near his court to linger, And the planets sought the star.

He, his larger gifts of fortune

With their larger fame to blend,

Living, counted it an honor

That they named him as their friend;

Dreading to be all-forgotten,

Still their greatness to divide, Dying, prayed to have his poets Buried one on either side.