Das Schicksal

In the sacred valleys of peace,
Where love weaves its garlands,
To the feasts of the gods,
The magic of the golden age faded away.
When the iron hand of fate,
The great mistress, hardship,
Commanded the overpowering lineage
To endure the long, bitter fight;

He sprang from his mother's cradle,
There he found her, the beautiful trace
To his virtue's heavy victory,
The son of sacred nature;
The highest gift of the lofty spirits,
The lion's strength of virtue began
In the triumph that a godly boy
Won from the monstrous foes.

The joy of the golden harvest
Can only thrive in the sun's blaze;
And only in his blood did the fighter
Learn to be free and proud;
Triumph! The paradises faded,
Like flames bursting from the clouds,
Like suns emerging from chaos,
Heroes broke free from storms.

From hardship springs every joy,
And only through pain does it thrive
The dearest thing my heart has cherished,
The sweet allure of humanity;
So, raised in deep waters,
Where no mortal eye could see,
Calmly smiling from the black waves
In proud bloom, Cypria arose.

United through hardship, swearing
By the sweet intoxication of youth,
The Dioscuri bound by death,
And sword and lance were exchanged;
In their hearts' jubilation, they rushed
Like a pair of eagles to the fight,
Like lions sharing their prey,
The lovers divided immortality.

Hardship teaches to scorn lament,
Ashamed and without glory, it does not
Let the strength of youth wither,
It gives courage to the heart, light to the mind;
The old man's fist is rejuvenated;
It comes, like God's lightning, near,
And shatters mountains of rock,
And paves its way on giants.

With its sacred thunderclaps,
With relentless determination, it accomplishes
On one great day,
What hardly centuries can achieve;
And when in its tempests
Even an Elysium fades,
And worlds tremble at its thunder -
What is great and divine endures.

O you, playmate of the colossi,
O wise, wrathful nature,
What a giant's heart ever resolved,
Only sprouts in your school.
Indeed, Arcadia has fled;
The better fruit of life thrives
Through her, the mother of heroes,
The iron necessity.

For the golden morning of my life,
Thanks to you, O Pepromene!
A stringed instrument and sweet worries
And dreams and tears you gave me;
The flames and storms spared
My youthful Elysium,
And peace and quiet love reigned
In the sanctuary of my heart.

Let it ripen from the midday flame,
Let it now ripen from battle and pain,
The bloom on the boundless trunk,
Like a sprout of God, this heart!
Fueled by the storm, let my spirit
Seize life's highest joy,
Let the joy of virtue's triumph
Renew my heart in scarce happiness!

In the holiest of storms, let
My prison walls collapse,
And let my spirit flow
More glorious and free into the unknown land!
Here often bleeds the eagle's wing;
Also over there awaits battle and pain!
Until the last rays of the sun,
Nourished by victory, this heart.