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;

  And, hard by, the modest mansion
  Where full many a heart has felt
  Memories 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 daunt her painted wing;
  Here the Monarch waits in silence,
  And the Poet is the King!