 | Poems by Hartley Coleridge |  |
273
SCHILLER'S TRANSLATION OF MACBETH.
[_]
In Schiller's translation of Macbeth, in the 3rd Scene of the 1st Act, lines, of which the following are a free version, are substituted for the original Conference of the Weird Women, previous to the entrance of Macbeth and Banquo. It was manifestly the purpose of Schiller to discard the witch element altogether out of his “Weird Sisters,” and to raise them to a level with the Eumenides and Parcæ. As a modern poet, writing for time present, and probably for the time to come, he might be right in omitting the killing swine, the sailor's thumb, the chestnut munching; but his idea is not in the spirit of ancient or modern demonology. If Schiller showed a more refined taste, Shakspeare exhibits a wider knowledge and a deeper philosophy.
Sister, let's hear: what hast thou been doing?
Second.
On the sea I 've been busy at wrecking and ruin.
Third.
Sister, what thou?
First.
I saw a fisherman all in rags—
A very heap of rags was he,—
Yet he mended his nets and sang merrily,
And cared no more how the old world wags,
Than if he 'd the wealth of the sea in his bags.
At his work late and early,
The light-hearted churl, he
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I hated his mirth—'twas too much to be borne
To see him so merry both early and late.
I had sworn the deadly oath of hate,
And his note must be changed or I forsworn.
So the next time that his net he dragg'd,
With a golden burden the full net swagg'd.
'Tis down on the nail the yellow ones glimmer;
He gloats till his peepers wax dimmer and dimmer.
He hugg'd the bright devil, he lugg'd it along,
And there was an end of his mirth and his song;
And then he lived like the Prodigal Son,
And he gave to his lust dominion.
But Mammon, the rogue, he soon was gone,—
He fled with a lusty pinion.
'Twas faery gold, and he thought “All 's well;”
He knew not—the fool!—'twas the loan of hell.
And all was spent, and grim Want came;
Away slunk the lads of the revel.
Grace cast off him, and he cast off shame,
And he gave himself up to the Devil.
And he served the fiend with hand and will,
And he went to and fro to pillage and kill.
I chanced to pass this very day
Where on the gold he lighted:
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With wan looks scathed and blighted.
And hark what said the hope-lorn elf:—
“False witch, false ocean's daughter,
Thou gavest me gold,—thou shalt have myself!”
So plunged in the salt water.
| Poems by Hartley Coleridge | |