The Burial of Schiller

The still and solemn, shadowy hour,
When Saturday in Sabbath dies,
O'er Weimar hangs; with clouds that lower
And veil in black the moon and skies.

Lo! from yon mansion lights appear,
Pale glimmering through the midnight gloom.
A coffined form is on the bier,
And thence borne forward to the tomb.

The funeral train, how sad and slow
They follow that cold sleeping clay;
While sighs and sobs of bitter wo
Sound deep along the silent way.

And now, the open grave beside,
That dismal bier the bearers rest;
And heavier waves of sorrow's tide
Roll mighty o'er each mourner's breast.

From him who slumbers in the shroud,
As tremblingly they lift the pall,
The moon rends off her veil of cloud,
And o'er him lets her lustre fall.

She beams her silvery, soft adieu,
And is again in darkness hid;
As if affrighted, thus to view
The name on that dread coffin lid.

For 't is her lover, now no more—
Her friend, whom they to dust consign!
And ne'er again is she to pour
Her light,—for eyes like his to shine.

'T is done,—the fearful, final rite,
Too sacred for the glare of day,
Has passed beneath the shadowy night—
Earth, earth has closed o'er SCHILLER'S clay!

But, hark! the heavens in thunder groan;
They weep in torrents o'er his bed;
And searching, fiery bolts are thrown,
As if to find and wake the dead.

These funeral honors, so sublime,
Befit him well to whom they're paid;
And, at the birth of holy time,
'T is meet his dust at rest be laid.

His spirit, bright with heavenly fire,
Has burned its way through mortal strife;
And gained its high, intense desire
To solve the mystery of life.

It is the budding month of May:
This passing storm will call the bloom;
A tribute nature soon will pay,
To dress her deathless Poet's tomb.