THE BURIAL OF SCHILLER.

Otago Witness, Issue 1582, 18 March 1882, Page 25

THE BURIAL OF SCHILLER.

[Suggested on reading the account of the burial, to Carlyle's " Lifa of Schiller."] Waning night is drear and chilly, Gloom clouds gather in tho sky ; All around is weirdly stilly, Save that winds heave forth a aigh. Mournful sigh for him who slumbers . la the silent sleep of death ; Sigh for whom, in fondest numbers, Germany has spent her breath. Where, like phantoms, grim and ghastly, Stand the monumental stones, There a grave is hollowed fastly For the lonely poet's bones. Night grows colder, darker, denser, No light 'lumes the f un'ral way, Nor the embers of a censer Burn before the honoured clay. Soft, he moves, borne on the shoulders Of his dearest, fondest friends ; Mark their grief for him that moulders— Ah, true friendship never ends. Down they put the gloomy bier, Heads bowed low with tender love ; Each o'er it drops a gushing tearEach sends a prayer above. Lo I the clouda have sailed asunder, And' the moon, with mellow beams, From her frowning bed of thunder, Breaks, and on the coffin gleams. Mark the faces -solace given, Aa the flood falls at their feet ; w For they feel that light of heaven Comes, His love-smile, gracious, sweet. Now, the coffin, gently fading, Sinks'into' the dismal gap; And the sods— haw o(t the spading ! Soon the noble frame enwrap. Soft, the mournerß, slowly leaving, Call a blessing on the clay ; And with bosom's tender heaving, Homeward, heart-crushed, wend their way. Once again the clouds are meeting, . And the moonlight fade 3 from sight ; Fast the silv'ry rays are fleeting, • Fled I and darksome is the night. Hark ! methinks I hear a groaning Burst upon the midnight air, Like a nation's mighty moaning Iv the spirit-wind's despair. Hark, again ! now wailing, wailing, Oh, what agony of woe T Round a myriad griefs are sailing, Sobs are wafted to and fro. Soft, the voices now are sighing O'er the poet's tranquil sleep, Schiller, inthy cold grave lying, Mourning thee, they weep, they weep. Changing as by magic power, Speak the passionate tones of woe, Line, a* evening's c&lmeßt hour, ■ Wi ispering winds that come and go. Lower, lower, now, they're growing, Sweetly, like some lake-bound bell ; ' On the dying breath ia flowing, " Happy Schiller, fare thee well." ' Chaeles Umbers.

Dunedin, 7th March, 1882.