Ivan the Czar

“Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich mussIhn wieder haben! ...... Trostlose allmacht,Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren armVerlangern, eine kleine UbereilungMit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann!” Schiller.

He sat in silence on the ground,The old and haughty Czar,Lonely, though princes girt him round,And leaders of the war;He had cast his jewell’d sabre,That many a field had won,To the earth beside his youthful dead--His fair and first-born son.With a robe of ermine for its bedWas laid that form of clay,Where the light a stormy sunset shedThrough the rich tent made way;And a sad and solemn beautyOn the pallid face came down,Which the lord of nations mutely watch’d,In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones at last, of woe and fear,From his full bosom broke--A mournful thing it was to hearHow then the proud man spoke!The voice that through the combatHad shouted far and high,Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,Burden’d with agony.

“There is no crimson on thy cheek,And on thy lip no breath;I call thee, and thou dost not speak--They tell me this is death!And fearful things are whisperingThat I the deed have done--For the honour of thy father’s name,Look up, look up, my son!

“Well might I know death’s hue and mien--But on thine aspect, boy!What, till this moment, have I seenSave pride and tameless joy?Swiftest thou wert to battle,And bravest there of all--How could I think a warrior’s frameThus like a flower should fall?

“I will not bear that still cold look--Rise up, thou fierce and free!Wake as the storm wakes! I will brookAll, save this calm, from thee!Lift brightly up, and proudly,Once more thy kindling eyes!Hath my word lost its power on earth?I say to thee, arise!

“Didst thou not know I loved thee well?Thou didst not! and art gone,In bitterness of soul, to dwellWhere man must dwell alone.Come back, young fiery spirit!If but one hour, to learnThe secrets of the folded heartThat seem’d to thee so stern.

“Thou wert the first, the first, fair childThat in mine arms I press’d:Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiledLike summer on my breast!I rear’d thee as an eagle,To the chase thy steps I led,I bore thee on my battle-horse,I look upon thee--dead!

“Lay down my warlike banners here,Never again to wave,And bury my red sword and spear,Chiefs! in my first-born’s grave!And leave me!--I have conquer’d,I have slain: my work is done!Whom have I slain? Ye answer not--Thou too art mute, my son!”

And thus his wild lament was pour’dThrough the dark resounding night,And the battle knew no more his sword,Nor the foaming steed his might.He heard strange voices moaningIn every wind that sigh’d;From the searching stars of heaven he shrank--Humbly the conqueror died.