To My Friends. Translated From Schiller
Beloved friends! Earth hath known brighter days
Than ours; we vainly strive to hide this truth;
Would history be silent in their praise,
The very stones tell of man’s glorious youth,
In heavenly forms on which we crowd to gaze;
But that high-favored race hath sunk in night;
The day is ours—the living still have sight.
Friends of my youth! In happier climes than ours,
As some far-wandering countrymen declare,
The air is perfume; at each step spring flowers.
Nature has not been bounteous to our prayer;
But art dwells here, with her creative powers,
Laurel and myrtle shun our winter snows,
But with the cheerful vine we wreathe our brows.
Though of more pomp and wealth the Briton boast,
Who holds four worlds in tribute to his pride,—
Although from farthest India’s glowing coast
Come gems of gold to burden Thames’ dull tide,
And bring each luxury that Heaven denied,—
Not in the torrent, but the still, calm brook,
Delights Apollo at himself to look.
More nobly lodged than we in northern halls,
At Angelo’s gate the Roman beggar dwells;
Girt by the Eternal City’s honored walls,
Each column some soul-stiring story tells;
While on the earth a second heaven dwells,
Where Michael’s spirit to St. Peter calls;
Yet all this splendor only decks a tomb;
For us fresh flowers from every green hour bloom
And while we live obscure, may others’ names
Through Rumor’s trump be given to the wind;
New forms of ancient glories, ancient shames,
For nothing new the searching sun can find,
As pass the motley groups of human kind;
All other living things grow old and die—
Fancy alone has immortality.