Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/404

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The Busts of Goethe and Schiller.
[February,
And, hard by, the modest mansion Where full many a heart has feltMemories uncounted clustering Round the words, "Here Schiller dwelt."
In the churchyard both are buried, Straight beyond the narrow gate,In the mausoleum sleeping With Duke Charles in sculptured state.
For the Monarch loved the Poets, Called them to him from afar,Wooed them near his court to linger, And the planets sought the star.
He, his larger gifts of fortune With their larger fame to blend,Living, counted it an honor That they named him as their friend;
Dreading to be all-forgotten, Still their greatness to divide,Dying, prayed to have his Poets Buried one on either side.
But this suited not the gold-laced Ushers of the royal tomb,Where the princely House of Weimar Slumbered in majestic gloom.
So they ranged the coffins justly, Each with fitting rank and stamp,And with shows of court precedence Mocked the grave’s sepulchral damp.
Fitly now the clownish sexton Narrow courtier-rules rebukes;First he shows the grave of Goethe, Schiller’s next, and last—the Duke's.
Vainly ’midst these truthful shadows Pride would flaunt her painted wing;Here the Monarch waits in silence, And the Poet is the King!
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