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On Venus, daughter of the seas,
She calls the tempest to appease–
To each wild-shrieking wind
Along the ocean-desert borne,
She vows a steer with golden horn–
Vain vow–relentless wind!
On every goddess of the deep,
On all the gods in heaven that be,
She calls–to soothe in calm, awhile
The tempest-laden sea!

“Hearken the anguish of my cries!
From thy green halls, arise–arise,
Leucothoe the divine!
Who, in the barren main afar,
Oft on the storm-beat mariner
Dost gently-saving shine.
Oh,–reach to him thy mystic veil,
To which the drowning clasp may cling,
And safely from that roaring grave,
To shore my lover bring!”

And now the savage winds are hushing.
And o’er the arched horizon, blushing,
Day’s chariot gleams on high!
Back to their wonted channels rolled,
In crystal calm the waves behold
One smile on sea and sky!
All softly breaks the rippling tide,
Low-murmuring on the rocky land,
And playful wavelets gently float
A corpse upon the strand!

‘Tis he!–who even in death would still
Not fail the sweet vow to fulfil;
She looks–sees–knows him there!
From her pale lips no sorrow speaks,
No tears glide down her hueless cheeks;
Cold-numbed in her despair–
She looked along the silent deep,
She looked upon the brightening heaven,
Till to the marble face the soul
Its light sublime had given!

“Ye solemn powers men shrink to name,
Your might is here, your rights ye claim–
Yet think not I repine
Soon closed my course; yet I can bless
The life that brought me happiness–
The fairest lot was mine!
Living have I thy temple served,
Thy consecrated priestess been–
My last glad offering now receive
Venus, thou mightiest queen!”

Flashed the white robe along the air,
And from the tower that beetled there
She sprang into the wave;
Roused from his throne beneath the waste,
Those holy forms the god embraced–
A god himself their grave!
Pleased with his prey, he glides along–
More blithe the murmured music seems,
A gush from unexhausted urns
His everlasting streams!

FOOTNOTES:
[1] We have already seen in “The Ring of Polycrates,” Schiller’s mode of dealing with classical subjects. In the poems that follow, derived from similar sources, the same spirit is maintained. In spite of Humboldt, we venture to think that Schiller certainly does not narrate Greek legends in the spirit of an ancient Greek. The Gothic sentiment, in its ethical depth and mournful tenderness, more or less pervades all that he translates from classic fable into modern pathos. The grief of Hero in the ballad subjoined, touches closely on the lamentations of Thekla, in “Wallenstein.” The Complaint of Ceres, embodies Christian grief and Christian hope. The Trojan Cassandra expresses the moral of the Northern Faust. Even the “Victory Feast” changes the whole spirit of Homer, on whom it is founded, by the introduction of the ethical sentiment at the close, borrowed, as a modern would apply what he so borrows from the moralizing Horace. Nothing can be more foreign to the Hellenic genius, (if we except the very disputable intention of the “Prometheus”), than the interior and typical design which usually exalts every conception in Schiller. But it is perfectly open to the modern poet to treat of ancient legends in the modern spirit. Though he selects a Greek story, he is still a modern who narrates–he can never make himself a Greek any more than Aeschylus in the “Persae” could make himself a Persian. But this is still more the privilege of the poet in narrative, or lyrical composition, than in the drama, for in the former he does not abandon his identity, as in the latter he must–yet even this must has its limits. Shakspeare’s wonderful power of self-transfusion has no doubt enabled him, in his plays from Roman history, to animate his characters with much of Roman life. But no one can maintain that a Roman would ever have written plays in the least resembling “Julius Caesar,” or “Coriolanus,” or “Antony and Cleopatra.” The portraits may be Roman, but they are painted in the manner of the Gothic school. The spirit of antiquity is only in them, inasmuch as the representation of human nature, under certain circumstances, is accurately, though loosely outlined. When the poet raises the dead, it is not to restore, but to remodel.

[2] This notes the time of year–not the time of day–viz., about the 23d of September.–HOFFMEISTER.

[3] Hecate as the mysterious goddess of Nature.–HOFFMEISTER.