Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.
Cassandra
By Friedrich von Schiller (1759–1805)J
Ere the lofty ramparts fell;
Hymns of jubilee resounded
From the golden-chorded shell.
Now from fields of strife and slaughter
Rests at peace each valiant head,
While to Priam’s fairest daughter
Peleus’ godlike son must wed.
Where the columned fanes extend,
Troop on troop, in bright apparel,
To the Thymbrian’s altar bend.
Through the streets the Bacchic madness
Rushing comes with hollow swell,
And on thoughts of silent sadness
One alone is left to dwell.
Did Cassandra’s footsteps rove,
Lonely, desolate, unheeded,
Through Apollo’s laurel grove.
Mid the forest depths slow winding
Wandered the prophetic maid,
And, her sacred locks unbinding,
Flung to earth the mystic braid.
Each exulting bosom shares;
And the sires new hopes awaken,
And glad pomp the sister wears.
I alone must inly sorrow,
Whom the sweet illusions fly,
Who behold the fatal morrow,
Winged with ruin, hover nigh.
Not, alas! in Hymen’s hand—
In the clouds behold it glaring,—
But ’t is not an altar-brand.
Lo! the festal board they ’re spreading;
But my full foreboding mind
Marks the fateful footsteps treading
Of the gloomy god behind.
And they mock my bosom’s smart:
Lonely then, in silent sadness,
Let me wear my burdened heart.
By the happy shunned, discarded,
Scorn of pleasure’s frolic ring,
Heavy falls thy lot awarded,
Pythian god!—remorseless king!
My awakened sense decreed,
In this land of utter blindness
Thy dark oracles to read?
Visual sense too perfect lending,
Why withhold the warding power?
It must fall—the doom impending,—
Must draw on—the dreaded hour.
Darkly hovering threats our breath?
Life itself is naught but error,
And to know—alas! is death.
Hide, O, hide fate’s dreary portal!
Make mine eyes from blood-stain free!
’T is a fearful thing, the mortal
Vessel of thy truth to be.
And the joys that once were mine!
Ne’er came strains of gladness o’er me
Since my voice hath echoed thine.
Thou, the thankless future giving,
Didst the present render vain;
Vain the hope, the bliss of living,—
Take thy false gift back again!
Might my perfumed locks be crowned,
Since thy servant I, forever,
At the altar’s foot was bound.
All youth’s spring-tide sorrow-shaken,
Life consumed in ceaseless smart,
Each rude shock by Troy partaken
Smote on my presaging heart.
Others wake to life and love,—
All who shared my childhood’s pleasures;
I—can only anguish prove!
Spring, that clothes the earth in glory,
Brings no rapture to my mind.
Who that reads life’s coming story
Aught of bliss in life can find?
Who, in bright illusions dressed,
Think’st this night he shall enfold thee,—
He—of Greeks the first and best.
See, with pride her bosom swelling—
Transports she can scarce contain—
Heavenly powers! yourselves excelling
In the dream that fires her brain.
Heart its bosom-lord proclaimed,—
Saw his beauteous face entreating,
With the glow of love enflamed.
Then, methought, with him how brightly
Might my days domestic shine!
But a Stygian vision nightly
Stepped betwixt his arms and mine.
From the queen of night repair:
Wheresoe’er I walk or wander—
Grisly shapes!—I see them there.
Even while frolic youth ran bounding,
Thronging still they on me pressed,
Ghastly crowds my path surrounding.—
No! I never can be blest.
Murder’s eye—I see it glare.
Right or left my sight advancing,
Horror meets me everywhere.
Though I fain would ’scape, unwilling,—
Knowing, shuddering, fixed I stand,
And, my destiny fulfilling,
Perish in the stranger land.”
Hark! wild clamors rolling spread,—
At the temple gate extended,
Thetis’ mighty son lies dead.
Discord rears her snaky tresses;
All the gods afar have flown;
And the thunder-cloud thick presses
Heavily o’er Ilion.