Songs
Klage der Ceres
(1815)
D323
Klage der Ceres
Ist der holde Lenz erschienen? Hat die Erde sich verjüngt?Die besonnten Hügel grünen, Und des Eises Rinde springt. Aus der Ströme blauem Spiegel Lacht der unbewölkte Zeus, Milder wehen Zephyrs Flügel, Augen treibt das junge Reis.In dem Hain erwachen Lieder. Und die Oreade spricht:Deine Blumen kehren wieder, Deine Tochter kehret nicht.Ach, wie lang’ ist’s, dass ich walle Suchend durch der Erde Flur! Titan, deiner Strahlen alleSandt’ ich nach der teuren Spur; Keiner hat mir noch verkündet Von dem lieben Angesicht,Und der Tag, der alles findet,Die Verlorne fand er nicht,Hast du, Zeus, sie mir entrissen? Hat, von ihrem Reiz gerührt,Zu des Orkus schwarzen Flüssen Pluto sie hinabgeführt?Wer wird nach dem düstern Strande Meines Grames Bote sein?Ewig stösst der Kahn vom Lande, Doch nur Schatten nimmt er ein. Jedem sel’gen Aug’ verschlossen Bleibt das nächtliche Gefild,Und so lang der Styx geflossen, Trug er kein lebendig Bild. Nieder führen tausend Steige, Keiner führt zum Tag zurück, Ihre Tränen bringt kein Zeuge Vor der bangen Mutter Blick.Mütter, die aus Pyrrhas Stamme Sterbliche geboren sind,Dürfen durch des Grabes Flamme Folgen dem geliebten Kind;Nur was Jovis Haus bewohnet, Nahet nicht dem dunkeln Strand, Nur die Seligen verschonet,Parzen, eure strenge Hand.Stürzt mich in die Nacht der Nächte Aus des Himmels goldnem Saal! Ehret nicht der Göttin Rechte.Ach! sie sind der Mutter Qual!Wo sie mit dem finstern Gatten Freudlos thronet, stieg’ ich hin, Und träte mit den leisen Schatten Leise vor die Herrscherin.Ach, ihr Auge, feucht von Zähren, Sucht umsonst das goldne Licht, Irret nach entfernten Sphären, Auf die Mutter fällt es nicht –Bis die Freude sie entdecket, Bis sich Brust mit Brust vereint, Und, zum Mitgefühl erwecket, Selbst der rauhe Orkus weint.Eitler Wunsch! Verlorne Klagen! Ruhig in dem gleichen Gleis Rollt des Tages sichrer Wagen, Ewig steht der Schluss des Zeus. Weg von jenen Finsternissen Wandt’ er sein beglücktes Haupt; Einmal in die Nacht gerissen, Bleibt sie ewig mir geraubt,Bis des dunkeln Stromes Welle Von Aurorens Farben glüht, Iris mitten durch die Hölle Ihren schönen Bogen zieht.Ist mir nichts von ihr geblieben? Nicht ein süss erinnernd Pfand, Dass die Fernen sich noch lieben, Keine Spur der teuren Hand? Knüpfet sich kein Liebesknoten Zwischen Kind und Mutter an? Zwischen Lebenden und Toten Ist kein Bündnis aufgetan?Nein, nicht ganz ist sie entflohen! Wir sind nicht ganz getrennt! Haben uns die ewig HohenEine Sprache doch vergönnt!Wenn des Frühlings Kinder sterben, Wenn von Nordes kaltem Hauch Blatt und Blume sich entfärben, Traurig steht der nackte Strauch, Nehm ich mir das höchste Leben Aus Vertumnus’ reichem Horn, Opfernd es dem Styx zu geben,Mir des Samens goldnes Korn. Trauernd senk’ ich’s in die Erde, Leg’ es an des Kindes Herz, Dass es eine Sprache werde Meiner Liebe, meinem Schmerz.Führt der gleiche Tanz der Horen Freudig nun den Lenz zurück, Wird das Tote neu geborenVon der Sonne Lebensblick; Keime, die dem Auge starbenIn der Erde kaltem Schoss,In das heitre Reich der Farben Ringen sie sich freudig los.Wenn der Stamm zum Himmel eilet, Sucht die Wurzel scheu die Nacht, Gleich in ihre Pflege teiletSich des Styx, des Äthers Macht.Halb berühren sie der Toten,Halb der Lebenden Gebiet –Ach, sie sind mir teure Boten,Süsse Stimmen vom Cocyt!Hält er gleich sie selbst verschlossen In dem schauervollen Schlund,Aus des Frühlings jungen Sprossen Redet mir der holde Mund;Dass auch fern vom goldnen Tage, Wo die Schatten traurig ziehen, Liebend noch der Busen schlage, Zärtlich noch die Herzen glühn.O, so lasst euch froh begrüssen, Kinder der verjüngten Au,Euer Kelch soll überfliessenVon des Nektars reinstem Tau. Tauchen will ich euch in Strahlen, Mit der Iris schönstem LichtWill ich eure Blätter malen Gleich Aurorens Angesicht. In des Lenzes heiterm Glanze Lese jede zarte Brust,In des Herbstes welkem Kranze Meinen Schmerz und meine Lust.
Klage der Ceres
Has fair spring appeared?Has the earth grown young again? The sunny hills turn green,the ice’s crust cracks.From the blue mirror of the rivers cloudless Zeus laughs,the Zephyrs’ wings beat more gently, the young shoots push forth buds. Song awakens in the grove,and the Oread speaks:your flowers returnbut your daughter does not.Ah, how long have I been wandering through the earth’s meadows, searching! Titan, I sent all your rays of lightto seek out my dear one;no one has yet brought me wordof her beloved countenance,and day, that finds all things,has not found my lost daughter.Have you, Zeus, snatched her from me? Has Pluto, touched by her charms, carried herdown to the black rivers of Orcus?Who will convey the tidings of my grief to the sombre shore?The boat forever pulls away from land, but it takes only shades on board.The fields of night remain closed to the eyes of every immortal, and so long as the Styx has flowed it has borne no living creature.A thousand paths lead downwards, but none leads back to the light.No witness evokes the daughter’s tears before the eyes of the anxious mother.Mothers, born immortalof Pyrrha’s race,may follow their beloved childrenthrough the flames of the grave.Only they that dwell in the house of Jove may not approach the dark shore.Your stern hand, O Fates,spares only the immortals.Plunge me from the golden halls of heaven into the night of nights!Do not respect the rights of the goddess; alas, they are a mother’s torment!Where she is joylessly enthronedwith her gloomy spouse, I would descend, and with the soft shadowstread softly before the queen.Ah, here eyes, moist with tears,seek in vain the golden light;they stray to far-off spheres,but do not alight on her mother –until, to her joy, she discovers her,until their bosoms are united,and even harsh Orcus,aroused to pity, weeps.Vain wish! Forlorn laments!The trusty chariot of dayrolls calmly on its even course; the decree of Zeus stands for ever. He has turned his august head away from those black realms. Snatched into the night,she remains forever lost to me, until the waves of the dark river glow with the colours of the dawn, and Iris draws her fair bow through the midst of hell.Is nothing of her left to me?No sweet pledge to remind methat, though far distant, we still love one another? No trace of her beloved hand?Is there no bond of lovebetween mother and child?Is there no alliancebetween the living and the dead?No, she is not completely lost to me!We are not completely separated!For the eternal godshave granted us a language!When the children of spring die, when leaves and flowers fadeat the north wind’s cold breath,and the bare bushes stand mournful, I take the highest lifefrom Vertumnus’ cornucopia,and sacrifice the seed’s golden corn to the Styx.Lamenting, I plant it in the earth, laying it on the heart of my child, that it may become a languageof my love and my sorrow.Then, when the unchanging dance of the hours brings back joyous spring,what was dead is born anewunder the sun’s life-giving gaze;seeds which the eye took for dead in the earth’s cold wombstruggle joyfully freeinto the bright realm of colours. As stems surge towards the sky, roots shyly seek the night,the powers of the Styx and those of the ether are equally divided in their cultivation.They exist half in the regions of the dead and half in those of the living –ah, to me they are dear messengers, sweet voices from Cocytus!Though it holds her captivein the gruesome abyss,her beloved mouth speaks to methrough spring’s young shoots,it tells me that, though far from the golden day, where the shades wander mournfully,her breast still beats lovingly,and hearts still glow tenderly.O, let me greet you joyfully, children of the reborn meadows; your cup shall overflowwith the purest dew of nectar.I shall bathe you in sunbeams,I shall paint your leaveswith the rainbow’s fairest light, like Aurora’s countenance.In the serene radiance of spring, in the faded wreath of autumn, every tender heart may discern my sorrow and my joy.
If you would like to use our texts and translations, please click here for more information.
Composer
Franz Peter Schubert was an late Classical and early Romantic composer. He produced a vast oeuvre during his short life, composing more the 600 vocal works (largely Lieder), and well as several symphonies, operas, and a large body of piano music. He was uncommonly gifted from a young age, but appreciation of his music was limited during his lifetime. His work became more popular in the decades after his death, and was praised by 19th century composers, including Mendelssohn, Schumann, Brahms, and Liszt.
Information from Wikipedia. Read more here.
See Full Entry
Poet
Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller was a German poet, philosopher, physician, historian, and playwright. During the last seventeen years of his life (1788–1805), Schiller struck up a productive, if complicated, friendship with the already famous and influential Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. They frequently discussed issues concerning aesthetics, and Schiller encouraged Goethe to finish works he left as sketches. This relationship and these discussions led to a period now referred to as Weimar Classicism. They also worked together on Xenien, a collection of short satirical poems in which both Schiller and Goethe challenge opponents to their philosophical vision.
Taken from Wikipedia. To view the full article, please click here.
See Full Entry
Sorry, no further description available.
Klage der Ceres
Klage der Ceres
If you would like to use our texts and translations, please click here for more information.
Composer
Franz Peter Schubert was an late Classical and early Romantic composer. He produced a vast oeuvre during his short life, composing more the 600 vocal works (largely Lieder), and well as several symphonies, operas, and a large body of piano music. He was uncommonly gifted from a young age, but appreciation of his music was limited during his lifetime. His work became more popular in the decades after his death, and was praised by 19th century composers, including Mendelssohn, Schumann, Brahms, and Liszt.
Information from Wikipedia. Read more here.
See Full Entry
Poet
Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller was a German poet, philosopher, physician, historian, and playwright. During the last seventeen years of his life (1788–1805), Schiller struck up a productive, if complicated, friendship with the already famous and influential Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. They frequently discussed issues concerning aesthetics, and Schiller encouraged Goethe to finish works he left as sketches. This relationship and these discussions led to a period now referred to as Weimar Classicism. They also worked together on Xenien, a collection of short satirical poems in which both Schiller and Goethe challenge opponents to their philosophical vision.
Taken from Wikipedia. To view the full article, please click here.
See Full Entry
Sorry, no further description available.