The Poems of GoethePart 6 out of 11Wind blends together Billows all-foaming. Spirit of man, Thou art like unto water! Fortune of man, Thou art like unto wind! 1789.* ----- MY GODDESS. SAY, which Immortal Merits the highest reward? With none contend I, But I will give it To the aye-changing, Ever-moving Wondrous daughter of Jove. His best-beloved offspring. Sweet Phantasy. For unto her Hath he granted All the fancies which erst To none allow'd he Saving himself; Now he takes his pleasure In the mad one. She may, crowned with roses, With staff twined round with lilies, Roam thro' flow'ry valleys, Rule the butterfly-people, And soft-nourishing dew With bee-like lips Drink from the blossom: Or else she may With fluttering hair And gloomy looks Sigh in the wind Round rocky cliffs, And thousand-hued. Like morn and even. Ever changing, Like moonbeam's light, To mortals appear. Let us all, then, Adore the Father! The old, the mighty, Who such a beauteous Ne'er-fading spouse Deigns to accord To perishing mortals! To us alone Doth he unite her, With heavenly bonds, While he commands her, in joy and sorrow, As a true spouse Never to fly us. All the remaining Races so poor Of life-teeming earth. In children so rich. Wander and feed In vacant enjoyment, And 'mid the dark sorrows Of evanescent Restricted life,-- Bow'd by the heavy Yoke of Necessity. But unto us he Hath his most versatile, Most cherished daughter Granted,--what joy! Lovingly greet her As a beloved one! Give her the woman's Place in our home! And oh, may the aged Stepmother Wisdom Her gentle spirit Ne'er seek to harm! Yet know I her sister, The older, sedater, Mine own silent friend; Oh, may she never, Till life's lamp is quench'd, Turn away from me,-- That noble inciter, Comforter,--Hope! 1781. ----- WINTER JOURNEY OVER THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS. [The following explanation is necessary, in order to make this ode in any way intelligible. The Poet is supposed to leave his companions, who are proceeding on a hunting expedition in winter, in order himself to pay a visit to a hypochondriacal friend, and also to see the mining in the Hartz mountains. The ode alternately describes, in a very fragmentary and peculiar manner, the naturally happy disposition of the Poet himself and the unhappiness of his friend; it pictures the wildness of the road and the dreariness of the prospect, which is relieved at one spot by the distant sight of a town, a very vague allusion to which is made in the third strophe; it recalls the hunting party on which his companions have gone; and after an address to Love, concludes by a contrast between the unexplored recesses of the highest peak of the Hartz and the metalliferous veins of its smaller brethren.] LIKE the vulture Who on heavy morning clouds With gentle wing reposing Looks for his prey,-- Hover, my song! For a God hath Unto each prescribed His destined path, Which the happy one Runs o'er swiftly To his glad goal: He whose heart cruel Fate hath contracted, Struggles but vainly Against all the barriers The brazen thread raises, But which the harsh shears Must one day sever. Through gloomy thickets Presseth the wild deer on, And with the sparrows Long have the wealthy Settled themselves in the marsh. Easy 'tis following the chariot That by Fortune is driven, Like the baggage that moves Over well-mended highways After the train of a prince. But who stands there apart? In the thicket, lost is his path; Behind him the bushes Are closing together, The grass springs up again, The desert engulphs him. Ah, who'll heal his afflictions, To whom balsam was poison, Who, from love's fullness, Drank in misanthropy only? First despised, and now a despiser, He, in secret, wasteth All that he is worth, In a selfishness vain. If there be, on thy psaltery, Father of Love, but one tone That to his ear may be pleasing, Oh, then, quicken his heart! Clear his cloud-enveloped eyes Over the thousand fountains Close by the thirsty one In the desert. Thou who createst much joy, For each a measure o'erflowing, Bless the sons of the chase When on the track of the prey, With a wild thirsting for blood, Youthful and joyous Avenging late the injustice Which the peasant resisted Vainly for years with his staff. But the lonely one veil Within thy gold clouds! Surround with winter-green, Until the roses bloom again, The humid locks, Oh Love, of thy minstrel! With thy glimmering torch Lightest thou him Through the fords when 'tis night, Over bottomless places On desert-like plains; With the thousand colours of morning Gladd'nest his bosom; With the fierce-biting storm Bearest him proudly on high; Winter torrents rush from the cliffs,-- Blend with his psalms; An altar of grateful delight He finds in the much-dreaded mountain's Snow-begirded summit, Which foreboding nations Crown'd with spirit-dances. Thou stand'st with breast inscrutable, Mysteriously disclosed, High o'er the wondering world, And look'st from clouds Upon its realms and its majesty, Which thou from the veins of thy brethren Near thee dost water. 1777. ----- TO FATHER* KRONOS. [written in a post-chaise.] (* In the original, Schwager, which has the twofold meaning of brother-in-law and postilion.) HASTEN thee, Kronos! On with clattering trot Downhill goeth thy path; Loathsome dizziness ever, When thou delayest, assails me. Quick, rattle along, Over stock and stone let thy trot Into life straightway lead Now once more Up the toilsome ascent Hasten, panting for breath! Up, then, nor idle be,-- Striving and hoping, up, up! Wide, high, glorious the view Gazing round upon life, While from mount unto mount Hovers the spirit eterne, Life eternal foreboding. Sideways a roof's pleasant shade Attracts thee, And a look that promises coolness On the maidenly threshold. There refresh thee! And, maiden, Give me this foaming draught also, Give me this health-laden look! Down, now! quicker still, down! See where the sun sets Ere he sets, ere old age Seizeth me in the morass, Ere my toothless jaws mumble, And my useless limbs totter; While drunk with his farewell beam Hurl me,--a fiery sea Foaming still in mine eye,-- Hurl me, while dazzled and reeling, Down to the gloomy portal of hell. Blow, then, gossip, thy horn, Speed on with echoing trot, So that Orcus may know we are coming; So that our host may with joy Wait at the door to receive us. 1774. ----- THE WANDERER'S STORM-SONG. [Goethe says of this ode, that it is the only one remaining out of several strange hymns and dithyrambs composed by him at a period of great unhappiness, when the love-affair between him and Frederica had been broken off by him. He used to sing them while wandering wildly about the country. This particular one was caused by his being caught in a tremendous storm on one of these occasions. He calls it a half-crazy piece (halkunsinn), and the reader will probably agree with him.] He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius, Feels no dread within his heart At the tempest or the rain. He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius, Will to the rain-clouds, Will to the hailstorm, Sing in reply As the lark sings, Oh thou on high! Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius, Thou wilt raise above the mud-track With thy fiery pinions. He will wander, As, with flowery feet, Over Deucalion's dark flood, Python-slaying, light, glorious, Pythius Apollo. Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius, Thou wilt place upon thy fleecy pinion When he sleepeth on the rock,-- Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian wing In the forest's midnight hour. Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius, Thou wilt wrap up warmly In the snow-drift; Tow'rd the warmth approach the Muses, Tow'rd the warmth approach the Graces. Ye Muses, hover round me! Ye Graces also! That is water, that is earth, And the son of water and of earth Over which I wander, Like the gods. Ye are pure, like the heart of the water, Ye are pure like the marrow of earth, Hov'ring round me, while I hover Over water, o'er the earth Like the gods. Shall he, then, return, The small, the dark, the fiery peasant? Shall he, then, return, waiting Only thy gifts, oh Father Bromius, And brightly gleaming, warmth-spreading fire? Return with joy? And I, whom ye attended, Ye Muses and ye Graces, Whom all awaits that ye, Ye Muses and ye Graces, Of circling bliss in life Have glorified--shall I Return dejected? Father Bromius! Thourt the Genius, Genius of ages, Thou'rt what inward glow To Pindar was, What to the world Phoebus Apollo. Woe! Woe Inward warmth, Spirit-warmth, Central-point! Glow, and vie with Phoebus Apollo! Coldly soon His regal look Over thee will swiftly glide,-- Envy-struck Linger o'er the cedar's strength, Which, to flourish, Waits him not. Why doth my lay name thee the last? Thee, from whom it began, Thee, in whom it endeth, Thee, from whom it flows, Jupiter Pluvius! Tow'rd thee streams my song. And a Castalian spring Runs as a fellow-brook, Runs to the idle ones, Mortal, happy ones, Apart from thee, Who cov'rest me around, Jupiter Pluvius! Not by the elm-tree Him didst thou visit, With the pair of doves Held in his gentle arm,-- With the beauteous garland of roses,-- Caressing him, so blest in his flowers, Anacreon, Storm-breathing godhead! Not in the poplar grove, Near the Sybaris' strand, Not on the mountain's Sun-illumined brow Didst thou seize him, The flower-singing, Honey-breathing, Sweetly nodding Theocritus. When the wheels were rattling, Wheel on wheel tow'rd the goal, High arose The sound of the lash Of youths with victory glowing, In the dust rolling, As from the mountain fall Showers of stones in the vale-- Then thy soul was brightly glowing, Pindar-- Glowing? Poor heart! There, on the hill,-- Heavenly might! But enough glow Thither to wend, Where is my cot! 1771. ----- THE SEA-VOYAGE. MANY a day and night my bark stood ready laden; Waiting fav'ring winds, I sat with true friends round me, Pledging me to patience and to courage, In the haven. And they spoke thus with impatience twofold: "Gladly pray we for thy rapid passage, Gladly for thy happy voyage; fortune In the distant world is waiting for thee, In our arms thoult find thy prize, and love too, When returning." And when morning came, arose an uproar, And the sailors' joyous shouts awoke us; All was stirring, all was living, moving, Bent on sailing with the first kind zephyr. And the sails soon in the breeze are swelling, And the sun with fiery love invites us; Fill'd the sails are, clouds on high are floating, On the shore each friend exulting raises Songs of hope, in giddy joy expecting Joy the voyage through, as on the morn of sailing, And the earliest starry nights so radiant. But by God-sent changing winds ere long he's driven Sideways from the course he had intended, And he feigns as though he would surrender, While he gently striveth to outwit them, To his goal, e'en when thus press'd, still faithful. But from out the damp grey distance rising, Softly now the storm proclaims its advent, Presseth down each bird upon the waters, Presseth down the throbbing hearts of mortals. And it cometh. At its stubborn fury, Wisely ev'ry sail the seaman striketh; With the anguish-laden ball are sporting Wind and water. And on yonder shore are gather'd standing, Friends and lovers, trembling for the bold one: "Why, alas, remain'd he here not with us! Ah, the tempest! Cast away by fortune! Must the good one perish in this fashion? Might not he perchance.... Ye great immortals!" Yet he, like a man, stands by his rudder; With the bark are sporting wind and water, Wind and water sport not with his bosom: On the fierce deep looks he, as a master,-- In his gods, or shipwreck'd, or safe landed, Trusting ever. 1776. ----- THE EAGLE AND DOVE. IN search of prey once raised his pinions An eaglet; A huntsman's arrow came, and reft His right wing of all motive power. Headlong he fell into a myrtle grove, For three long days on anguish fed, In torment writhed Throughout three long, three weary nights; And then was cured, Thanks to all-healing Nature's Soft, omnipresent balm. He crept away from out the copse, And stretch'd his wing--alas! Lost is all power of flight-- He scarce can lift himself From off the ground To catch some mean, unworthy prey, And rests, deep-sorrowing, On the low rock beside the stream. Up to the oak he looks, Looks up to heaven, While in his noble eye there gleams a tear. Then, rustling through the myrtle boughs, behold, There comes a wanton pair of doves, Who settle down, and, nodding, strut O'er the gold sands beside the stream, And gradually approach; Their red-tinged eyes, so full of love, Soon see the inward-sorrowing one. The male, inquisitively social, leaps On the next bush, and looks Upon him kindly and complacently. "Thou sorrowest," murmurs he: "Be of good cheer, my friend! All that is needed for calm happiness Hast thou not here? Hast thou not pleasure in the golden bough That shields thee from the day's fierce glow? Canst thou not raise thy breast to catch, On the soft moss beside the brook, The sun's last rays at even? Here thou mayst wander through the flowers' fresh dew, Pluck from the overflow The forest-trees provide, Thy choicest food,--mayst quench Thy light thirst at the silvery spring. Oh friend, true happiness Lies in contentedness, And that contentedness Finds everywhere enough." "Oh, wise one!" said the eagle, while he sank In deep and ever deep'ning thought-- "Oh Wisdom! like a dove thou speakest!" 1774.* ----- PROMETHEUS. COVER thy spacious heavens, Zeus, With clouds of mist, And, like the boy who lops The thistles' heads, Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks, Yet thou must leave My earth still standing; My cottage too, which was not raised by thee; Leave me my hearth, Whose kindly glow By thee is envied. I know nought poorer Under the sun, than ye gods! Ye nourish painfully, With sacrifices And votive prayers, Your majesty: Ye would e'en starve, If children and beggars Were not trusting fools. While yet a child And ignorant of life, I turned my wandering gaze Up tow'rd the sun, as if with him There were an ear to hear my wailings, A heart, like mine, To feel compassion for distress. Who help'd me Against the Titans' insolence? Who rescued me from certain death, From slavery? Didst thou not do all this thyself, My sacred glowing heart? And glowedst, young and good, Deceived with grateful thanks To yonder slumbering one? I honour thee! and why? Hast thou e'er lighten'd the sorrows Of the heavy laden? Hast thou e'er dried up the tears Of the anguish-stricken? Was I not fashion'd to be a man By omnipotent Time, And by eternal Fate, Masters of me and thee? Didst thou e'er fancy That life I should learn to hate, And fly to deserts, Because not all My blossoming dreams grew ripe? Here sit I, forming mortals After my image; A race resembling me, To suffer, to weep, To enjoy, to be glad, And thee to scorn, As I! 1773. ----- GANYMEDE. How, in the light of morning, Round me thou glowest, Spring, thou beloved one! With thousand-varying loving bliss The sacred emotions Born of thy warmth eternal Press 'gainst my bosom, Thou endlessly fair one! Could I but hold thee clasp'd Within mine arms! Ah! upon thy bosom Lay I, pining, And then thy flowers, thy grass, Were pressing against my heart. Thou coolest the burning Thirst of my bosom, Beauteous morning breeze! The nightingale then calls me Sweetly from out of the misty vale. I come, I come! Whither? Ah, whither? Up, up, lies my course. While downward the clouds Are hovering, the clouds Are bending to meet yearning love. For me, Within thine arms Upwards! Embraced and embracing! Upwards into thy bosom, Oh Father all-loving! 1789.* ----- THE BOUNDARIES OF HUMANITY. WHEN the primeval All-holy Father Sows with a tranquil hand From clouds, as they roll, Bliss-spreading lightnings Over the earth, Then do I kiss the last Hem of his garment, While by a childlike awe Fiil'd is my breast. For with immortals Ne'er may a mortal Measure himself. If he soar upwards And if he touch With his forehead the stars, Nowhere will rest then His insecure feet, And with him sport Tempest and cloud. Though with firm sinewy Limbs he may stand On the enduring Well-grounded earth, All he is ever Able to do, Is to resemble The oak or the vine. Wherein do gods Differ from mortals? In that the former See endless billows Heaving before them; Us doth the billow Lift up and swallow, So that we perish. Small is the ring Enclosing our life, And whole generations Link themselves firmly On to existence's Chain never-ending. 1789. * ----- THE GODLIKE. NOBLE be man, Helpful and good! For that alone Distinguisheth him From all the beings Unto us known. Hail to the beings, Unknown and glorious, Whom we forebode! From his example Learn we to know them! For unfeeling Nature is ever: On bad and on good The sun alike shineth; And on the wicked, As on the best, The moon and stars gleam. Tempest and torrent, Thunder and hail, Roar on their path, Seizing the while, As they haste onward, One after another. Even so, fortune Gropes 'mid the throng-- Innocent boyhood's Curly head seizing,-- Seizing the hoary Head of the sinner. After laws mighty, Brazen, eternal, Must all we mortals Finish the circuit Of our existence. Man, and man only Can do the impossible; He 'tis distinguisheth, Chooseth and judgeth; He to the moment Endurance can lend. He and he only The good can reward, The bad can he punish, Can heal and can save; All that wanders and strays Can usefully blend. And we pay homage To the immortals As though they were men, And did in the great, What the best, in the small, Does or might do. Be the man that is noble, Both helpful and good. Unweariedly forming The right and the useful, A type of those beings Our mind hath foreshadow'd! 1782. ----- MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ----- in the wares before you spread, Types of all things may be read. ----- THE GERMAN PARNASSUS. 'NEATH the shadow Of these bushes, On the meadow Where the cooling water gushes. Phoebus gave me, when a boy, All life's fullness to enjoy. So, in silence, as the God Bade them with his sov'reign nod, Sacred Muses train'd my days To his praise.-- With the bright and silv'ry flood Of Parnassus stirr'd my blood, And the seal so pure and chaste By them on my lips was placed. With her modest pinions, see, Philomel encircles me! In these bushes, in yon grove, Calls she to her sister-throng, And their heavenly choral song Teaches me to dream of love. Fullness waxes in my breast Of emotions social, blest; Friendship's nurturedÄlove awakes,-- And the silence Phoebus breaks Of his mountains, of his vales, Sweetly blow the balmy gales; All for whom he shows affection, Who are worthy his protection, Gladly follow his direction. This one comes with joyous bearing And with open, radiant gaze; That a sterner look is wearing, This one, scarcely cured, with daring Wakes the strength of former days; For the sweet, destructive flame Pierced his marrow and his frame. That which Amor stole before Phoebus only can restore, Peace, and joy, and harmony, Aspirations pure and free. Brethren, rise ye! Numbers prize ye! Deeds of worth resemble they. Who can better than the bard Guide a friend when gone astray? If his duty he regard, More he'll do, than others may. Yes! afar I hear them sing! Yes! I hear them touch the string, And with mighty godlike stroke Right and duty they inspire, And evoke, As they sing, and wake the lyre, Tendencies of noblest worth, To each type of strength give birth. Phantasies of sweetest power Flower Round about on ev'ry bough, Bending now Like the magic wood of old, 'Neath the fruit that gleams like gold. What we feel and what we view In the land of highest bliss,-- This dear soil, a sun like this,-- Lures the best of women too. And the Muses' breathings blest Rouse the maiden's gentle breast, Tune the throat to minstrelsy, And with cheeks of beauteous dye, Bid it sing a worthy song, Sit the sister-band among; And their strains grow softer still, As they vie with earnest will. One amongst the band betimes Goes to wander By the beeches, 'neath the limes, Yonder seeking, finding yonder That which in the morning-grove She had lost through roguish Love, All her breast's first aspirations, And her heart's calm meditations, To the shady wood so fair Gently stealing, Takes she that which man can ne'er Duly merit,--each soft feeling,-- Disregards the noontide ray And the dew at close of day,Ä In the plain her path she loses. Ne'er disturb her on her way! Seek her silently, ye Muses Shouts I hear, wherein the sound Of the waterfall is drown'd. From the grove loud clamours rise, Strange the tumult, strange the cries. See I rightly? Can it be? To the very sanctuary, Lo, an impious troop in-hies! O'er the land Streams the band; Hot desire, Drunken-fire In their gaze Wildly plays,-- Makes their hair Bristle there. And the troop, With fell swoop, Women, men, Coming then, Ply their blows And expose, Void of shame, All the frame. Iron shot, Fierce and hot, Strike with fear On the ear; All they slay On their way. O'er the land Pours the band; All take flight At their sight. Ah, o'er ev'ry plant they rush! Ah, their cruel footsteps crush All the flowers that fill their path! Who will dare to stem their wrath? Brethren, let us venture all! Virtue in your pure cheek glows. Phoebus will attend our call When he sees our heavy woes; And that we may have aright Weapons suited to the fight, He the mountain shaketh now-- From its brow Rattling down Stone on stone Through the thicket spread appear. Brethren, seize them! Wherefore fear? Now the villain crew assail, As though with a storm of hail, And expel the strangers wild From these regions soft and mild Where the sun has ever smil'd! What strange wonder do I see? Can it be? All my limbs of power are reft. And all strength my hand has left. Can it he? None are strangers that I see! And our brethren 'tis who go On before, the way to show! Oh, the reckless impious ones! How they, with their jarring tones, Beat the time, as on they hie! Quick, my brethren!--let us fly! To the rash ones, yet a word! Ay, my voice shall now be heard, As a peal of thunder, strong! Words as poets' arms were made,-- When the god will he obey'd, Follow fast his darts ere long. Was it possible that ye Thus your godlike dignity Should forget? The Thyrsus rude Must a heavy burden feel To the hand but wont to steal O'er the lyre in gentle mood. From the sparkling waterfalls, From the brook that purling calls, Shall Silenus' loathsome beast Be allow'd at will to feast? Aganippe's * wave he sips With profane and spreading lips,-- With ungainly feet stamps madly, Till the waters flow on sadly. Fain I'd think myself deluded In the sadd'ning sounds I hear; From the holy glades secluded Hateful tones assail the ear. Laughter wild (exchange how mournful!) Takes the place of love's sweet dream; Women-haters and the scornful In exulting chorus scream. Nightingale and turtle dove Fly their nests so warm and chaste, And, inflamed with sensual love, Holds the Faun the Nymph embrac'd. Here a garment's torn away, Scoffs succeed their sated bliss, While the god, with angry ray, Looks upon each impious kiss. Vapour, smoke, as from a fire, And advancing clouds I view; Chords not only grace the lyre, For the bow its chords bath too. Even the adorer's heart Dreads the wild advancing hand, For the flames that round them dart Show the fierce destroyer's hand. Oh neglect not what I say, For I speak it lovingly! From our boundaries haste away, From the god's dread anger fly! Cleanse once more the holy place, Turn the savage train aside! Earth contains upon its face Many a spot unsanctified; Here we only prize the good. Stars unsullied round us burn. If ye, in repentant mood, From your wanderings would return,-- If ye fail to find the bliss That ye found with us of yore,-- Or when lawless mirth like this Gives your hearts delight no more,-- Then return in pilgrim guise, Gladly up the mountain go, While your strains repentant rise, And our brethren's advent show. Let a new-born wreath entwine Solemnly your temples round; Rapture glows in hearts divine When a long-lost sinner's found. Swifter e'en than Lathe's flood Round Death's silent house can play, Ev'ry error of the good Will love's chalice wash away. All will haste your steps to meet, As ye come in majesty,-- Men your blessing will entreat;-- Ours ye thus will doubly be! 1798. (* Aganippe--A spring in Boeotia, which arose out of Mount Helicon, and was sacred to Apollo and the Muses.) ----- LILY'S MENAGERIE. [Goethe describes this much-admired Poem, which he wrote in honour of his love Lily, as being "designed to change his surrender of her into despair, by drolly-fretful images."] THERE'S no menagerie, I vow, Excels my Lily's at this minute; She keeps the strangest creatures in it, And catches them, she knows not how. Oh, how they hop, and run, and rave, And their clipp'd pinions wildly wave,-- Poor princes, who must all endure The pangs of love that nought can cure. What is the fairy's name?--Is't Lily?--Ask not me! Give thanks to Heaven if she's unknown to thee. Oh what a cackling, what a shrieking, When near the door she takes her stand, With her food-basket in her hand! Oh what a croaking, what a squeaking! Alive all the trees and the bushes appear, While to her feet whole troops draw near; The very fish within, the water clear Splash with impatience and their heads protrude; And then she throws around the food With such a look!--the very gods delighting (To say nought of beasts). There begins, then, a biting, A picking, a pecking, a sipping, And each o'er the legs of another is tripping, And pushing, and pressing, and flapping, And chasing, and fuming, and snapping, And all for one small piece of bread, To which, though dry, her fair hands give a taste, As though it in ambrosia had been plac'd. And then her look! the tone With which she calls: Pipi! Pipi! Would draw Jove's eagle from his throne; Yes, Venus' turtle doves, I wean, And the vain peacock e'en, Would come, I swear, Soon as that tone had reach'd them through the air. E'en from a forest dark had she Enticed a bear, unlick'd, ill-bred, And, by her wiles alluring, led To join the gentle company, Until as tame as they was he: (Up to a certain point, be't understood!) How fair, and, ah, how good She seem'd to be! I would have drain'd my blood To water e'en her flow'rets sweet. "Thou sayest: I! Who? How? And where?"-- Well, to be plain, good Sirs--I am the bear; In a net-apron, caught, alas! Chain'd by a silk-thread at her feet. But how this wonder came to pass I'll tell some day, if ye are curious; Just now, my temper's much too furious. Ah, when I'm in the corner plac'd, And hear afar the creatures snapping, And see the flipping and the flapping, I turn around With growling sound, And backward run a step in haste, And look around With growling sound. Then run again a step in haste, And to my former post go round. But suddenly my anger grows, A mighty spirit fills my nose, My inward feelings all revolt. A creature such as thou! a dolt! Pipi, a squirrel able nuts to crack! I bristle up my shaggy back Unused a slave to be. I'm laughed at by each trim and upstart tree To scorn. The bowling-green I fly, With neatly-mown and well-kept grass: The box makes faces as I pass,-- Into the darkest thicket hasten I, Hoping to 'scape from the ring, Over the palings to spring! Vainly I leap and climb; I feel a leaden spell. That pinions me as well, And when I'm fully wearied out in time, I lay me down beside some mock-cascade, And roll myself half dead, and foam, and cry, And, ah! no Oreads hear my sigh, Excepting those of china made! But, ah, with sudden power In all my members blissful feelings reign! 'Tis she who singeth yonder in her bower! I hear that darling, darling voice again. The air is warm, and teems with fragrance clear, Sings she perchance for me alone to hear? I haste, and trample down the shrubs amain; The trees make way, the bushes all retreat, And so--the beast is lying at her feet. She looks at him: "The monster's droll enough! He's, for a bear, too mild, Yet, for a dog, too wild, So shaggy, clumsy, rough!" Upon his back she gently strokes her foot; He thinks himself in Paradise. What feelings through his seven senses shoot! But she looks on with careless eyes. I lick her soles, and kiss her shoes, As gently as a bear well may; Softly I rise, and with a clever ruse Leap on her knee.--On a propitious day She suffers it; my ears then tickles she, And hits me a hard blow in wanton play; I growl with new-born ecstasy; Then speaks she in a sweet vain jest, I wot "Allons lout doux! eh! la menotte! Et faites serviteur Comme un joli seigneur." Thus she proceeds with sport and glee; Hope fills the oft-deluded beast; Yet if one moment he would lazy be, Her fondness all at once hath ceas'd. She doth a flask of balsam-fire possess, Sweeter than honey bees can make, One drop of which she'll on her finger take, When soften'd by his love and faithfulness, Wherewith her monster's raging thirst to slake; Then leaves me to myself, and flies at last, And I, unbound, yet prison'd fast By magic, follow in her train, Seek for her, tremble, fly again. The hapless creature thus tormenteth she, Regardless of his pleasure or his woe; Ha! oft half-open'd does she leave the door for me, And sideways looks to learn if I will fly or no. And I--Oh gods! your hands alone Can end the spell that's o'er me thrown; Free me, and gratitude my heart will fill; And yet from heaven ye send me down no aid-- Not quite in vain doth life my limbs pervade: I feel it! Strength is left me still. 1775. ----- TO CHARLOTTE. 'MIDST the noise of merriment and glee, 'Midst full many a sorrow, many a care, Charlotte, I remember, we remember thee, How, at evening's hour so fair, Thou a kindly hand didst reach us, When thou, in some happy place Where more fair is Nature s face, Many a lightly-hidden trace Of a spirit loved didst teach us. Well 'tis that thy worth I rightly knew,-- That I, in the hour when first we met, While the first impression fill'd me yet, Call'd thee then a girl both good and true. Rear'd in silence, calmly, knowing nought, On the world we suddenly are thrown; Hundred thousand billows round us sport; All things charm us--many please alone, Many grieve us, and as hour on hour is stealing, To and fro our restless natures sway; First we feel, and then we find each feeling By the changeful world-stream borne away. Well I know, we oft within us find Many a hope and many a smart. Charlotte, who can know our mind? Charlotte, who can know our heart? Ah! 'twould fain be understood, 'twould fain o'erflow In some creature's fellow-feelings blest, And, with trust, in twofold measure know All the grief and joy in Nature's breast. Then thine eye is oft around thee cast, But in vain, for all seems closed for ever. Thus the fairest part of life is madly pass'd Free from storm, but resting never: To thy sorrow thou'rt to-day repell'd By what yesterday obey'd thee. Can that world by thee be worthy held Which so oft betray'd thee? Which, 'mid all thy pleasures and thy pains, Lived in selfish, unconcern'd repose? See, the soul its secret cells regains, And the heart--makes haste to close. Thus found I thee, and gladly went to meet thee; "She's worthy of all love!" I cried, And pray'd that Heaven with purest bliss might greet thee, Which in thy friend it richly hath supplied. 1776.* ----- LOVE'S DISTRESSES. WHO will hear me? Whom shall I lament to? Who would pity me that heard my sorrows? Ah, the lip that erst so many raptures Used to taste, and used to give responsive, Now is cloven, and it pains me sorely; And it is not thus severely wounded By my mistress having caught me fiercely, And then gently bitten me, intending To secure her friend more firmly to her: No, my tender lip is crack'd thus, only By the winds, o'er rime and frost proceeding, Pointed, sharp, unloving, having met me. Now the noble grape's bright juice commingled With the bee's sweet juice, upon the fire Of my hearth, shall ease me of my torment. Ah, what use will all this be, if with it Love adds not a drop of his own balsam? 1789.* ----- THE MUSAGETES. IN the deepest nights of Winter To the Muses kind oft cried I: "Not a ray of morn is gleaming, Not a sign of daylight breaking; Bring, then, at the fitting moment, Bring the lamp's soft glimm'ring lustre, 'Stead of Phoebus and Aurora, To enliven my still labours!" Yet they left me in my slumbers, Dull and unrefreshing, lying, And to each late-waken'd morning Follow'd days devoid of profit. When at length return'd the spring-time, To the nightingales thus spake I: "Darling nightingales, oh, beat ye Early, early at my window,-- Wake me from the heavy slumber That chains down the youth so strongly!" Yet the love-o'erflowing songsters Their sweet melodies protracted Through the night before my window, Kept awake my loving spirit, Rousing new and tender yearnings In my newly-waken'd bosom. And the night thus fleeted o'er me, And Aurora found me sleeping,-- Ay, the sun could scarce arouse me. Now at length is come the Summer, And the early fly so busy Draws me from my pleasing slumbers At the first-born morning-glimmer. Mercilessly then returns she, Though the half-aroused one often Scares her from him with impatience, And she lures her shameless sisters, So that from my weary eyelids Kindly sleep ere long is driven. From my couch then boldly spring I, And I seek the darling Muses, in the beechen-grove I find them, Full of pieasure to receive me; And to the tormenting insects Owe I many a golden hour. Thus be ye, unwelcome beings, Highly valued by the poet, As the flies my numbers tell of. 1798. ----- MORNING LAMENT. OH thou cruel deadly-lovely maiden, Tell me what great sin have I committed, That thou keep'st me to the rack thus fasten'd, That thou hast thy solemn promise broken? 'Twas but yestere'en that thou with fondness Press'd my hand, and these sweet accents murmured: "Yes, I'll come, I'll come when morn approacheth, Come, my friend, full surely to thy chamber." On the latch I left my doors, unfasten'd, Having first with care tried all the hinges, And rejoic'd right well to find they creak'd not. What a night of expectation pass'd I! For I watch'd, and ev'ry chime I number'd; If perchance I slept a few short moments, Still my heart remain'd awake forever, And awoke me from my gentle slumbers. Yes, then bless'd I night's o'erhanging darkness, That so calmly cover'd all things round me; I enjoy'd the universal silence, While I listen'd ever in the silence, If perchance the slightest sounds were stirring. "Had she only thoughts, my thoughts resembling, Had she only feelings, like my feelings, She would not await the dawn of morning. But, ere this, would surely have been with me." Skipp'd a kitten on the floor above me, Scratch'd a mouse a panel in the corner, Was there in the house the slightest motion, Ever hoped I that I heard thy footstep, Ever thought I that I heard thee coming. And so lay I long, and ever longer, And already was the daylight dawning, And both here and there were signs of movement. "Is it yon door? Were it my door only!" In my bed I lean'd upon my elbow, Looking tow'rd the door, now half-apparent, If perchance it might not be in motion. Both the wings upon the latch continued, On the quiet hinges calmly hanging. And the day grew bright and brighter ever; And I heard my neighbour's door unbolted, As he went to earn his daily wages, And ere long I heard the waggons rumbling, And the city gates were also open'd, While the market-place, in ev'ry corner, Teem'd with life and bustle and confusion. In the house was going now and coming Up and down the stairs, and doors were creaking Backwards now, now forwards,--footsteps clatter'd Yet, as though it were a thing all-living, From my cherish'd hope I could not tear me. When at length the sun, in hated splendour. Fell upon my walls, upon my windows, Up I sprang, and hasten'd to the garden, There to blend my breath, so hot and yearning, With the cool refreshing morning breezes, And, it might be, even there to meet thee: But I cannot find thee in the arbour, Or the avenue of lofty lindens. 1789.* ----- THE VISIT. FAIN had I to-day surprised my mistress, But soon found I that her door was fasten'd. Yet I had the key safe in my pocket, And the darling door I open'd softly! In the parlour found I not the maiden, Found the maiden not within her closet, Then her chamber-door I gently open'd, When I found her wrapp'd in pleasing slumbers, Fully dress'd, and lying on the sofa. While at work had slumber stolen o'er her; For her knitting and her needle found I Resting in her folded bands so tender; And I placed myself beside her softly, And held counsel, whether I should wake her. Then I looked upon the beauteous quiet That on her sweet eyelids was reposing On her lips was silent truth depicted, On her cheeks had loveliness its dwelling, And the pureness of a heart unsullied In her bosom evermore was heaving. All her limbs were gracefully reclining, Set at rest by sweet and godlike balsam. Gladly sat I, and the contemplation Held the strong desire I felt to wake her Firmer and firmer down, with mystic fetters. "Oh, thou love," methought, "I see that slumber, Slumber that betrayeth each false feature, Cannot injure thee, can nought discover That could serve to harm thy friend's soft feelings. "Now thy beauteous eyes are firmly closed, That, when open, form mine only rapture. And thy sweet lips are devoid of motion, Motionless for speaking or for kissing; Loosen'd are the soft and magic fetters Of thine arms, so wont to twine around me, And the hand, the ravishing companion Of thy sweet caresses, lies unmoving. Were my thoughts of thee but based on error, Were the love I bear thee self-deception, I must now have found it out, since Amor Is, without his bandage, placed beside me." Long I sat thus, full of heartfelt pleasure At my love, and at her matchless merit; She had so delighted me while slumbering, That I could not venture to awake her. Then I on the little table near her Softly placed two oranges, two roses; Gently, gently stole I from her chamber. When her eyes the darling one shall open, She will straightway spy these colourd presents, And the friendly gift will view with wonder, For the door will still remain unopen'd. If perchance I see to-night the angel, How will she rejoice,--reward me doubly For this sacrifice of fond affection! 1765. ----- THE MAGIC NET. Do I see a contest yonder? See I miracles or pastimes? Beauteous urchins, five in number, 'Gainst five sisters fair contending,-- Measured is the time they're beating-- At a bright enchantress' bidding. Glitt'ring spears by some are wielded, Threads are others nimbly twining, So that in their snares, the weapons One would think, must needs be captured, Soon, in truth, the spears are prison'd; Yet they, in the gentle war-dance, One by one escape their fetters In the row of loops so tender, That make haste to seize a free one Soon as they release a captive. So with contests, strivings, triumphs, Flying now, and now returning, Is an artful net soon woven, In its whiteness like the snow-flakes, That, from light amid the darkness, Draw their streaky lines so varied, As e'en colours scarce can draw them. Who shall now receive that garment Far beyond all others wish'd-for? Whom our much-loved mistress favour As her own acknowledged servant? I am blest by kindly Fortune's Tokens true, in silence pray'd for! And I feel myself held captive, To her service now devoted. Yet, e'en while I, thus enraptured, Thus adorn'd, am proudly wand'ring, See! yon wantons are entwining, Void of strife, with secret ardour, Other nets, each fine and finer, Threads of twilight interweaving, Moonbeams sweet, night-violets' balsam. Ere the net is noticed by us, Is a happier one imprison'd, Whom we, one and all, together Greet with envy and with blessings. 1803. ----- THE GOBLET. ONCE I held a well-carved brimming goblet,-- In my two hands tightly clasp'd I held it, Eagerly the sweet wine sipp'd I from it, Seeking there to drown all care and sorrow. Amor enter'd in, and found me sitting, And he gently smiled in modest fashion, Smiled as though the foolish one he pitied. "Friend, I know a far more beauteous vessel, One wherein to sink thy spirit wholly; Say, what wilt thou give me, if I grant it, And with other nectar fill it for thee?" Oh, how kindly hath he kept his promise! For to me, who long had yearn'd, he granted Thee, my Lida, fill'd with soft affection. When I clasp mine arms around thee fondly, When I drink in love's long-hoarded balsam From thy darling lips so true, so faithful, Fill'd with bliss thus speak I to my spirit "No! a vessel such as this, save Amor Never god hath fashion'd or been lord of! Such a form was ne'er produced by Vulcan With his cunning, reason-gifted hammers! On the leaf-crown'd mountains may Lyaeus Bid his Fauns, the oldest and the wisest, Pass the choicest clusters through the winepress, And himself watch o'er the fermentation: Such a draught no toil can e'er procure him!" 1781. ----- TO THE GRASSHOPPER. AFTER ANACREON. [The strong resemblance of this fine poem to Cowley's Ode bearing the same name, and beginning "Happy insect! what can be," will be at once seen.] HAPPY art thou, darling insect, Who, upon the trees' tall branches, By a modest draught inspired, Singing, like a monarch livest! Thou possessest as thy portion All that on the plains thou seest, All that by the hours is brought thee 'Mongst the husbandmen thou livest, As a friend, uninjured by them, Thou whom mortals love to honour, Herald sweet of sweet Spring's advent! Yes, thou'rt loved by all the Muses, Phoebus' self, too, needs must love thee; They their silver voices gave thee, Age can never steal upon thee. Wise and gentle friend of poets, Born a creature fleshless, bloodless, Though Earth's daughter, free from suff'ring, To the gods e'en almost equal. 1781. ----- FROM 'THE SORROWS OF YOUNG WERTHER.' [Prefixed to the second edition.] EV'RY youth for love's sweet portion sighs, Ev'ry maiden sighs to win man's love; Why, alas! should bitter pain arise From the noblest passion that we prove? Thou, kind soul, bewailest, lov'st him well, From disgrace his memory's saved by thee; Lo, his spirit signs from out its cell: BE A MAN, NOR SEEK TO FOLLOW ME. 1775. ----- TRILOGY OF PASSION. I. TO WERTHER. [This poem, written at the age of seventy-five, was appended to an edition of 'Werther,' published at that time.] ONCE more, then, much-wept shadow, thou dost dare Boldly to face the day's clear light, To meet me on fresh blooming meadows fair, And dost not tremble at my sight. Those happy times appear return'd once more. When on one field we quaff'd refreshing dew, And, when the day's unwelcome toils were o'er, The farewell sunbeams bless'd our ravish'd view; Fate bade thee go,--to linger here was mine,-- Going the first, the smaller loss was thine. The life of man appears a glorious fate: The day how lovely, and the night how great! And we 'mid Paradise-like raptures plac'd, The sun's bright glory scarce have learn'd to taste. When strange contending feelings dimly cover, Now us, and now the forms that round us hover; One's feelings by no other are supplied, 'Tis dark without, if all is bright inside; An outward brightness veils my sadden'd mood, When Fortune smiles,--how seldom understood! Now think we that we know her, and with might A woman's beauteous form instils delight; The youth, as glad as in his infancy, The spring-time treads, as though the spring were he Ravish'd, amazed, he asks, how this is done? He looks around, the world appears his own. With careless speed he wanders on through space, Nor walls, nor palaces can check his race; As some gay flight of birds round tree-tops plays, So 'tis with him who round his mistress strays; He seeks from AEther, which he'd leave behind him, The faithful look that fondly serves to bind him. Yet first too early warn'd, and then too late, He feels his flight restrain'd, is captur'd straight To meet again is sweet, to part is sad, Again to meet again is still more glad, And years in one short moment are enshrin'd; But, oh, the harsh farewell is hid behind! Thou smilest, friend, with fitting thoughts inspired; By a dread parting was thy fame acquired, Thy mournful destiny we sorrow'd o'er, For weal and woe thou left'st us evermore, And then again the passions' wavering force Drew us along in labyrinthine course; And we, consumed by constant misery, At length must part--and parting is to die! How moving is it, when the minstrel sings, To 'scape the death that separation brings! Oh grant, some god, to one who suffers so, To tell, half-guilty, his sad tale of woe 1824 II. ELEGY. When man had ceased to utter his lament, A god then let me tell my tale of sorrow. WHAT hope of once more meeting is there now In the still-closed blossoms of this day? Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou; What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom play No longer doubt! Descending from the sky, She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high. And thus thou into Paradise wert brought, As worthy of a pure and endless life; Nothing was left, no wish, no hope, no thought, Here was the boundary of thine inmost strife: And seeing one so fair, so glorified, The fount of yearning tears was straightway dried. No motion stirr'd the day's revolving wheel, In their own front the minutes seem'd to go; The evening kiss, a true and binding seal, Ne'er changing till the morrow's sunlight glow. The hours resembled sisters as they went. Yet each one from another different. The last hour's kiss, so sadly sweet, effac'd A beauteous network of entwining love. Now on the threshold pause the feet, now haste. As though a flaming cherub bade them move; The unwilling eye the dark road wanders o'er, Backward it looks, but closed it sees the door. And now within itself is closed this breast, As though it ne'er were open, and as though, Vying with ev'ry star, no moments blest Had, in its presence, felt a kindling glow; Sadness, reproach, repentance, weight of care, Hang heavy on it in the sultry air. Is not the world still left? The rocky steeps, Are they with holy shades no longer crown'd? Grows not the harvest ripe? No longer creeps The espalier by the stream,--the copse around? Doth not the wondrous arch of heaven still rise, Now rich in shape, now shapeless to the eyes? As, seraph-like, from out the dark clouds' chorus, With softness woven, graceful, light, and fair, Resembling Her, in the blue aether o'er us, A slender figure hovers in the air,-- Thus didst thou see her joyously advance, The fairest of the fairest in the dance. Yet but a moment dost thou boldly dare To clasp an airy form instead of hers; Back to thine heart! thou'lt find it better there, For there in changeful guise her image stirs What erst was one, to many turneth fast, In thousand forms, each dearer than the last. As at the door, on meeting lingerd she, And step by step my faithful ardour bless'd, For the last kiss herself entreated me, And on my lips the last last kiss impress'd,-- Thus clearly traced, the lov'd one's form we view, With flames engraven on a heart so true,-- A heart that, firm as some embattled tower, Itself for her, her in itself reveres, For her rejoices in its lasting power, Conscious alone, when she herself appears; Feels itself freer in so sweet a thrall, And only beats to give her thanks in all. The power of loving, and all yearning sighs For love responsive were effaced and drown'd; While longing hope for joyous enterprise Was form'd, and rapid action straightway found; If love can e'er a loving one inspire, Most lovingly it gave me now its fire; And 'twas through her!--an inward sorrow lay On soul and body, heavily oppress'd; To mournful phantoms was my sight a prey, In the drear void of a sad tortured breast; Now on the well-known threshold Hope hath smil'd, Herself appeareth in the sunlight mild. Unto the peace of God, which, as we read, Blesseth us more than reason e'er bath done, Love's happy peace would I compare indeed, When in the presence of the dearest one. There rests the heart, and there that sweetest thought, The thought of being hers, is check'd by nought. In the pure bosom doth a yearning float, Unto a holier, purer, unknown Being Its grateful aspiration to devote, The Ever-Nameless then unriddled seeing; We call it: piety!--such blest delight I feel a share in, when before her sight. Before her sight, as 'neath the sun's hot ray, Before her breath, as 'neath the spring's soft wind, In its deep wintry cavern melts away Self-love, so long in icy chains confin'd; No selfishness and no self-will are nigh, For at her advent they were forced to fly. It seems as though she said: "As hours pass by They spread before us life with kindly plan; Small knowledge did the yesterday supply, To know the morrow is conceal'd from man; And if the thought of evening made me start, The sun at setting gladden'd straight my heart. "Act, then, as I, and look, with joyous mind, The moment in the face; nor linger thou! Meet it with speed, so fraught with life, so kind In action, and in love so radiant now; Let all things be where thou art, childlike ever, Thus thoult be all, thus, thou'lt be vanquish'd never." Thou speakest well, methought, for as thy guide The moment's favour did a god assign, And each one feels himself when by thy side, Fate's fav'rite in a moment so divine; I tremble at thy look that bids me go, Why should I care such wisdom vast to know? Now am I far! And what would best befit The present minute? I could scarcely tell; Full many a rich possession offers it, These but offend, and I would fain repel. Yearnings unquenchable still drive me on, All counsel, save unbounded tears, is gone. Flow on, flow on in never-ceasing course, Yet may ye never quench my inward fire! Within my bosom heaves a mighty force, Where death and life contend in combat dire. Medicines may serve the body's pangs to still; Nought but the spirit fails in strength of will,-- Fails in conception; wherefore fails it so? A thousand times her image it portrays; Enchanting now, and now compell'd to go, Now indistinct, now clothed in purest rays! How could the smallest comfort here be flowing? The ebb and flood, the coming and the going! * * * * * * Leave me here now, my life's companions true! Leave me alone on rock, in moor and heath; But courage! open lies the world to you, The glorious heavens above, the earth beneath; Observe, investigate, with searching eyes, And nature will disclose her mysteries. To me is all, I to myself am lost, Who the immortals' fav'rite erst was thought; They, tempting, sent Pandoras to my cost, So rich in wealth, with danger far more fraught; They urged me to those lips, with rapture crown'd, Deserted me, and hurl'd me to the ground. 1823. III. ATONEMENT. [Composed, when 74 years old, for a Polish lady, who excelled in
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