Elegy On The Death Of A Young Man Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: AA BCBCDEFEGHGH IJIJKLKLMNMN OOOHPOOOGOOG QRQRSHSHOOOO OTOUVHQHGHGH WOXOHVHVOGOG GOGOQQQQOOOO QYQYZVZQOA2OA2 PHPHQQQQOPOP

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Mournful groans as when a tempest lowersB
Echo from the dreary house of woeC
Death notes rise from yonder minster's towersB
Bearing out a youth they slowly goC
Yes a youth unripe yet for the bierD
Gathered in the spring time of his daysE
Thrilling yet with pulses strong and clearF
With the flame that in his bright eye playsE
Yes a son the idol of his motherG
Oh her mournful sigh shows that too wellH
Yes my bosom friend alas my brotherG
Up each man the sad procession swellH
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Do ye boast ye pines so gray and oldI
Storms to brave with thunderbolts to sportJ
And ye hills that ye the heavens upholdI
And ye heavens that ye the suns supportJ
Boasts the graybeard who on haughty deedsK
As on billows seeks perfection's heightL
Boasts the hero whom his prowess leadsK
Up to future glory's temple brightL
If the gnawing worms the floweret blastM
Who can madly think he'll ne'er decayN
Who above below can hope to lastM
If the young man's life thus fleets awayN
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Joyously his days of youth so gladO
Danced along in rosy garb becladO
And the world the world was then so sweetO
And how kindly how enchantinglyH
Smiled the future with what golden eyeP
Did life's paradise his moments greetO
While the tear his mother's eye escapedO
Under him the realm of shadows gapedO
And the fates his thread began to severG
Earth and Heaven then vanished from his sightO
From the grave thought shrank he in affrightO
Sweet the world is to the dying everG
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Dumb and deaf 'tis in that narrow placeQ
Deep the slumbers of the buried oneR
Brother Ah in ever slackening raceQ
All thy hopes their circuit cease to runR
Sunbeams oft thy native hill still laveS
But their glow thou never more canst feelH
O'er its flowers the zephyr's pinions waveS
O'er thine ear its murmur ne'er can stealH
Love will never tinge thine eye with goldO
Never wilt thou embrace thy blooming brideO
Not e'en though our tears in torrents rolledO
Death must now thine eye forever hideO
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Yet 'tis well for precious is the restO
In that narrow house the sleep is calmT
There with rapture sorrow leaves the breastO
Man's afflictions there no longer harmU
Slander now may wildly rave o'er theeV
And temptation vomit poison fellH
O'er the wrangle on the PhariseeQ
Murderous bigots banish thee to hellH
Rogues beneath apostle masks may leerG
And the bastard child of justice playH
As it were with dice with mankind hereG
And so on until the judgment dayH
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O'er thee fortune still may juggle onW
For her minions blindly look aroundO
Man now totter on his staggering throneX
And in dreary puddles now be foundO
Blest art thou within thy narrow cellH
To this stir of tragi comedyV
To these fortune waves that madly swellH
To this vain and childish lotteryV
To this busy crowd effecting naughtO
To this rest with labor teeming o'erG
Brother to this heaven with devils fraughtO
Now thine eyes have closed forevermoreG
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Fare thee well oh thou to memory dearG
By our blessings lulled to slumbers sweetO
Sleep on calmly in thy prison drearG
Sleep on calmly till again we meetO
Till the loud Almighty trumpet soundsQ
Echoing through these corpse encumbered hillsQ
Till God's storm wind bursting through the boundsQ
Placed by death with life those corpses fillsQ
Till impregnate with Jehovah's blastO
Graves bring forth and at His menace dreadO
In the smoke of planets melting fastO
Once again the tombs give up their deadO
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Not in worlds as dreamed of by the wiseQ
Not in heavens as sung in poet's songY
Not in e'en the people's paradiseQ
Yet we shall o'ertake thee and ere longY
Is that true which cheered the pilgrim's gloomZ
Is it true that thoughts can yonder beV
True that virtue guides us o'er the tombZ
That 'tis more than empty phantasyQ
All these riddles are to thee unveiledO
Truth thy soul ecstatic now drinks upA2
Truth in radiance thousandfold exhaledO
From the mighty Father's blissful cupA2
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Dark and silent bearers draw then nighP
To the slayer serve the feast the whileH
Cease ye mourners cease your wailing cryP
Dust on dust upon the body pileH
Where's the man who God to tempt presumesQ
Where the eye that through the gulf can seeQ
Holy holy holy art thou God of tombsQ
We with awful trembling worship TheeQ
Dust may back to native dust be groundO
From its crumbling house the spirit flyP
And the storm its ashes strew aroundO
But its love its love shall never dieP

Friedrich Schiller



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