Friedrich Schiller - The Bride of Messina, and On the Use of the Chorus in Tragedy

How have her words with soft control
Resistless calmed the tempest of my soul!
No guilt of kindred blood be mine!
Thus with uplifted hands I prey;
Think, brothers, on the awful day,
And tremble at the wrath divine!

Thou art my elder – speak – without dishonor
I yield to thee.

One gracious word, an instant,
My tongue is rival in the strife of love!

I am the guiltier – weaker —

Say not so!
Who doubts thy noble heart, knows thee not well;
The words were prouder, if thy soul were mean.

It burns indignant at the thought of wrong —
But thou – methinks – in passion's fiercest mood,
'Twas aught but scorn that harbored in thy breast.

Oh! had I known thy spirit thus to peace
Inclined, what thousand griefs had never torn
A mother's heart!

I find thee just and true:
Men spoke thee proud of soul.

The curse of greatness!
Ears ever open to the babbler's tale.

Thou art too proud to meanness – I to falsehood!

We are deceived, betrayed!

The sport of frenzy!

And said my mother true, false is the world?

Believe her, false as air.

Give me thy hand!

And thine be ever next my heart!

I gaze
Upon thy brow, and still behold my mother
In some dear lineament.

Her image looks
From thine, and wondrous in my bosom wakes
Affection's springs.

And is it thou? – that smile
Benignant on thy face? – thy lips that charm
With gracious sounds of love and dear forgiveness?

Is this my brother, this the hated foe?
His mien all gentleness and truth, his voice,
Whose soft prevailing accents breathe of friendship!

Shall aught divide us?

We are one forever!

Why stand we thus, and coldly gaze,
While Nature's holy transports burn?
No dear embrace of happier days
The pledge – that discord never shall return!
Brothers are they by kindred band;
We own the ties of home and native land.

Rejoice, my prince, thy messenger returns
And mark that beaming smile! the harbinger
Of happy tidings.

Health to me, and health
To this delivered state! Oh sight of bliss,
That lights mine eyes with rapture! I behold
Their hands in sweet accord entwined; the sons
Of my departed lord, the princely pair
Dissevered late by conflict's hottest rage.

Yes, from the flames of hate, a new-born Phoenix,
Our love aspires!

I bring another joy;
My staff is green with flourishing shoots.
DON CAESAR (taking him aside).
Oh, tell me
Thy gladsome message.

All is happiness
On this auspicious day; long sought, the lost one
Is found.

Discovered! Oh, where is she? Speak!

Within Messina's walls she lies concealed.

A ruddy glow mounts in my brother's cheek,
And pleasure dances in his sparkling eye;
Whate'er the spring, with sympathy of love
My inmost heart partakes his joy.

Come, lead me;
Farewell, Don Manuel; to meet again
Enfolded in a mother's arms! I fly
To cares of utmost need.

Make no delay;
And happiness attend thee!

How thy looks
Awake my soul to transport! Yes, my brother,
We shall be friends indeed! This hour is bright
With glad presage of ever-springing love,
That in the enlivening beam shall flourish fair,
Sweet recompense of wasted years!

The blossom
Betokens goodly fruit.

I tear myself
Reluctant from thy arms, but think not less
If thus I break this festal hour – my heart
Thrills with a holy joy.

Obey the moment!
Our lives belong to love.

What calls me hence —

Enough! thou leav'st thy heart.

No envious secret
Shall part us long; soon the last darkening fold
Shall vanish from my breast.

Attend! Forever
Stilled is our strife; he is my deadliest foe,
Detested as the gates of hell, who dares
To blow the fires of discord; none may hope
To win my love, that with malicious tales
Encroach upon a brother's ear, and point
With busy zeal of false, officious friendship.
The dart of some rash, angry word, escaped
From passion's heat; it wounds not from the lips,
But, swallowed by suspicion's greedy ear,
Like a rank, poisonous weed, embittered creeps,
And hangs about her with a thousand shoots,
Perplexing nature's ties.

Wondering, my prince,
I gaze, for in thy looks some mystery
Strange-seeming shows: scarce with abstracted mien
And cold thou answered'st, when with earnest heart
Thy brother poured the strain of dear affection.
As in a dream thou stand'st, and lost in thought,
As though – dissevered from its earthly frame —
Thy spirit roved afar. Not thine the breast
That deaf to nature's voice, ne'er owned the throbs
Of kindred love: – nay more – like one entranced
In bliss, thou look'st around, and smiles of rapture
Play on thy cheek.