The Song of the Bell Friedrich Schiller

Walled in fast within the earth
Stands the form burnt out of clay.
This must be the bell’s great birth!
Fellows, lend a hand to-day.
Sweat must trickle now
From the burning brow,
Till the work its master honour.
Blessing comes from Heaven’s Donor.
While we our serious work are doing,
We ought to speak a serious word,
More easily our work pursuing,
When noble speech the while is heard.
Now let us earnestly be spying
What our weak powers can create;
I scorn the man who is not trying
On his own work to meditate.
This is the fairest of man’s graces:
The power to think and understand—
For in his inmost heart he traces
What he has fashioned with his hand.
Wood that from the pine-tree came
Keep right dry with zealous care,
That the deftly governed flame
Through the furnace hole may flare.
Boiling copper’s thick—
Get the tin now, quick!
Let the substance, liquid growing,
In a docile way be flowing.
What with the help of fire’s great power.
In this deep pit our hands have framed,
High on the belfry of the tower
In mighty tones shall be proclaimed.
In ages far beyond the morrow,
A voice for many shall ring out,
And it will mourn with those in sorrow
And join the choir of the devout.
What fate, forever changing, fleeting,
To mortals far below may bring,
Against the crown of metal beating,
As music of the bell will ring.
Bubbles leaping, white and spry!
Good! The masses flow at last.
Mix them with the alkali,
That they be more quickly cast.
From all foam quite free
Shall the mixture be,
From the metal pure before us,
Rise a perfect voice sonorous.
The bell with festive peal and cheering
Greets the belovèd tender child,
Upon his life’s first way appearing,
Still in the arms of sleep beguiled.
Deep in the womb of time there stay
His destinies, both dark and gay.
His mother’s gentle, loving care
Is watching still his morning fair.
The years fly swiftly—all is play.
Away from girls, impatient, tearing,
The boy starts wildly forth to roam,
He sees the world, and, after faring,
Comes back, a stranger, to his home.
In beauty and youth’s splendour glowing,
A vision from some heavenly height,
While blushes on her cheeks are growing,
He sees the maiden with delight.
And now a strange and nameless yearning
Has seized upon the young man’s heart,
From sports and wild companions turning,
With tearful eyes he roams apart.
And happy at her slightest speaking,
Her footsteps blushingly to trace,
He wanders over meadows, seeking
The fairest flowers his love to grace.
Oh, tender longing, sweetest hoping,
First love’s enchanting, golden days!
The eye can see the heavens oping,
A bliss the heart unhindered sways.
Would it might bloom eternally—
The time of young love’s ecstasy!
See, how brown the blow-pipes grow!
When this stick has been dipped in,
And a glaze begins to show,
Then the casting should begin.
Now good fellows, quick!
Prove the mixture thick!
Hard and soft united duly
Are a lucky omen truly.
For when the stern and mild are pairing,
The tender with the strong and daring,
The tone must ring out fair and strong.
Let him who binds himself forever,
To sound his heart and hers endeavour!
Passion is short, repentance long.
On the young bride’s tresses lightly
Lies the wreath of blossoms white,
When the church bells, ringing brightly,
To the festive hour invite.
Lovely festival—the ending
Of—alas!—life’s joyous May,
Beautiful illusions rending
With the veil and bride’s array!
Passion will fly!
Love must remain;
The flower must die,
The fruit to attain.
The man must go out
To stern hostile life,
For power and strife,
To plant and to toil,
To gain and to foil,
To wager and dare,
His luck to ensnare.
And now without end the blessings are streaming,
With goodly possessions the storerooms are teeming,
The rooms are expanding, the house has to grow.
And in it there moves
The good, modest housewife,
The mother of children,
Who wise and dear
Here rules in her sphere,
And teaches the girls
And wards off the boys,
While work without end
Her busy hands tend,
Enlarging her share
Through order and care,
Her sweet-smelling linen-chests filling with treasure,
By spinning her thread in the speediest measure.
Her neatly and smoothly kept closets are full
Of linen like snow and the shining fair wool;
And still adding glamour and charm to the best,
She never can rest.
And the father with happy eye
From his mansion’s high gable is counting
Blessings fair that before him lie—
Pillars and posts as high as the trees,
Barns that are bursting with treasures that please,
Granges with bounties swelling and bending,
Grain-fields waving in billows unending.
He boasts with noble pride:
Firm as the ground abide
My homestead’s splendours bright
Against misfortune’s might!
Covenants with powers of fate
Will—alack!—not always last,
And misfortune travels fast.
Now the casting can begin,
For the dented mould is fair:
But before we pour it in,
Let us say a pious prayer!
Push the tendon hard!
God shall be our guard!
In the bell's ear smoking, glowing,
Waves of fiery brown are flowing.
Most wholesome is the force of fire,
When man can tame and guard its ire,
And from this heavenly force man takes
Good help for what he moulds and makes.
But frightful is this power's abuse
When, from its fetters broken loose,
Upon its own track wantonly
It roams as nature's daughter free.
Horror when unbound and growing
—Fiend that no resistance stays!—
Through the peopled city blowing
Sweeps along the monster-blaze!
Elements have ever hated
What the hand of man created.
From the cloud
Rain is pouring,
Earth restoring.
From the cloud, even so,
Lightnings glow!
From the tower hear the wail:
’Tis the gale!
Bloody red
Are the heavens;
Daylight ne’er such brightness shed!
Riot leavens
All the crowds!
Dense smoke-clouds!
Fiery pillar, flickering, glowing,
Down the street is swiftly going,
Like the wind so rapid growing.
Hot, as if in furnace baking,
Glows the air; the beams are breaking,
Windows rattle, posts are falling,
Mothers straying, children calling,
Beasts are moaning,
Crushed, and groaning.
All run, save and flee in fright,
Bright as daylight is the night,
Chains of eager hands are plying,
Pails are flying,
Arching water-spouts are playing,
Flames with hissing fountains spraying;
Howling wild the storm is straying,
Driving on the flame with roars.
Crackling in the dry grain-stores
Shoots the flame, through garrets sweeping,
Fast along the rafters creeping,
And, as if with monstrous blowing
It would sweep along in flight
The whole earth with all its might,
Rises, now gigantic growing,
To the sky.
Man stands by:
Hopeless, awestruck, he is yielding,
Sees the heavens their power wielding,
His own works to ruin going.
Now the homestead
Is burnt bare;
Savage storms are raging there.
Empty window-holes are staring
Horror-haunted,
And the sailing clouds undaunted
Peer inside.