Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/403

THE BUSTS OF GOETHE AND SCHILLER.

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 sense
To the endless labor summon,
 And the endless recompense.

These are they, sublime and silent,
 From whose living lips have rung
Words 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 meet
Guides you where the house of Goethe
 Fronts upon the quiet street;