Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/403
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1858.]
The Busts of Goethe and Schiller.
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This is Goethe, with a forehead Like the fabled front of Jove;In its massive lines the tokens More of majesty than love.
This is Schiller, in whose features, With their passionate calm regard,We behold the true ideal Of the high heroic Bard,
Whom the inward world of feeling And the outward world of senseTo the endless labor summon, And the endless recompense.
These are they, sublime and silent, From whose living lips have rungWords to be remembered ever In the noble German tongue:
Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling Into loftiest speech or song,Still through all the listening ages Pours its torrent swift and strong.
As to-day in sculptured marble Side by side the Poets stand,So they stood in life's great struggle, Side by side and hand to hand.
In the ancient German city, Dowered with many a deathless name,Where they dwelt and toiled together, Sharing each the other's fame:
One till evening's lengthening shadows Gently stilled his faltering lips,But the other's sun at noonday Shrouded in a swift eclipse.
There their names are household treasures, And the simplest child you meetGuides you where the house of Goethe Fronts upon the quiet street;