But even during the painful transition, of which, in his minor poems, glimpses alone are visible, Scepticism, with Schiller, never insults the devoted, or mocks the earnest mind. It may have sadness—but never scorn. It is the question of a traveller who has lost his way in the great wilderness, but who mourns with his fellow-seekers, and has no bitter laughter for their wanderings from the goal. This division begins, indeed, with a Hymn which atones for whatever pains us in the two whose strain and spirit so gloomily contrast it, viz. the matchless and immortal "Hymn to Joy"—a poem steeped in the very essence of all-loving and all-aiding, Christianity—breathing the enthusiasm of devout yet gladsome adoration, and ranking amongst the most glorious bursts of worship which grateful Genius ever rendered to the benign Creator.

And it is peculiarly noticeable, that, whatever Schiller's state of mind upon theological subjects at the time that this hymn was composed, and though all doctrinal stamp and mark be carefully absent from it, it is yet a poem that never could have been written but in a Christian age, in a Christian land—but by a man whose whole soul and heart had been at one time (nay, was at the very moment of composition) inspired and suffused with that firm belief in God's goodness and His justice—that full assurance of rewards beyond the grave—that exulting and seraphic cheerfulness which associates joy with the Creator—and that animated affection for the Brotherhood of Mankind, which Christianity—and Christianity alone, in its pure, orthodox, gospel form, needing no aid from schoolman or philosopher—taught and teaches. Would, for objects higher than the praise which the ingenuity of labour desires and strives for—would that some faint traces of the splendour which invests the original, could attend the passage of thoughts so noble and so tender, from the verse of a poet to the rhyme of a translator!

Hymn To Joy

Spark from the fire that Gods have fed— Joy—thou Elysian Child divine, Fire-drunk, our airy footsteps tread, O Holy One! thy holy shrine. The heart that Custom from the other Divides, thy charms again unite, And man in man but hails a brother, Wherever rest thy wings of light. Chorus—Embrace ye millions—let this kiss, Brothers, embrace the earth below! You starry worlds that shine on this, One common Father know! He who this lot from fate can grasp— Of one true friend the friend to be,— He who one faithful maid can clasp, Shall hold with us his jubilee; Yes, each who but one single heart In all the earth can claim his own!— Let him who cannot, stand apart, And weep beyond the pale, alone! Chorus—Homage to holy Sympathy, Ye dwellers in our mighty ring; Up to yon Star-pavilions—she Leads to the Unknown King! All being drinks the mother-dew Of joy from Nature's holy bosom; And Vice and Worth her steps pursue— We trace them by the blossom. Hers Love's sweet kiss—the grape's rich treasure, That cheers Life on to Death's abode; Joy in each link—the worm has pleasure, The Cherub has the smile of God! Chorus—Why bow ye down—why down—ye millions? O World, thy Maker's throne to see, Look upward-search the Star-pavilions: There must His mansion be! Joy is the mainspring in the whole Of endless Nature's calm rotation; Joy moves the dazzling wheels that roll In the great Timepiece of Creation; Joy breathes on buds, and flowers they are; Joy beckons—suns come forth from heaven; Joy rolls the spheres in realms afar, Ne'er to thy glass, dim Wisdom, given! Chorus—Joyous as Suns careering gay Along their royal paths on high, March, Brothers, march our dauntless way, As Chiefs to Victory! Joy, from Truth's pure and lambent fires, Smiles out upon the ardent seeker; Joy leads to Virtue Man's desires, And cheers as Suffering's step grows weaker. High from the sunny slopes of Faith, The gales her waving banners buoy; And through the shattered vaults of Death, Springs to the choral Angels-Joy! Chorus—Bear this life, millions, bravely bear— Bear this life for the Better One! See ye the Stars?—a life is there, Where the reward is won. Man never can the gods requite; How fair alike to gods to be! Where want and woe shall melt in light That plays round Bliss eternally! Revenge and Hatred both forgot; No foe, the deadliest, unforgiven; With smiles that tears can neighbour not; No path can lead Regret to Heaven! Chorus—Let all the world be peace and love— Cancel thy debt-book with thy brother; For God shall judge of us above, As we shall judge each other! Joy sparkles to us from the bowl— Behold the juice whose golden colour To meekness melts the savage soul, And gives Despair a Hero's valour. Up, brothers!—Lo, we crown the cup! Lo, the wine flashes to the brim! Let the bright Fount spring heavenward!—Up! To The Good Spirit this glass!—To Him! Chorus—Praised by the ever-whirling ring Of Stars, and tuneful Seraphim— To The Good Spirit—the Father-King In Heaven!—This glass to Him! Strong-hearted Hope to Sorrow's sloth; Swift aid to guiltless Woe; Eternity to plighted Troth; Truth just to Friend and Foe; Proud men before the throne to stand; (These things are worth the dying!) Good fortune to the Honest, and Confusion to the Lying! Chorus—Draw closer in the holy ring, Sworn by the wine-cup's golden river— Sworn by the Stars, and by their King, To keep our vow for ever!

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