How all things live and work, and ever blending,Weave one vast whole from Being's ample range!How powers celestial, rising and descending,Their golden buckets ceaseless interchange.Their flight on rapture-breathing pinions winging,From heaven to earth their genial influence bringing,Through the wide whole their chimes melodious ringing.
How all things live and work, and ever blending,
Weave one vast whole from Being's ample range!
How powers celestial, rising and descending,
Their golden buckets ceaseless interchange.
Their flight on rapture-breathing pinions winging,
From heaven to earth their genial influence bringing,
Through the wide whole their chimes melodious ringing.
And the Earth spirit says:
In the currents of life, in action's storm,I float and I waveWith billowy motion,--Birth and the graveA limitless ocean.
In the currents of life, in action's storm,
I float and I wave
With billowy motion,--
Birth and the grave
A limitless ocean.
Not only of knowledge of, but of feeling for, Nature, it is said:
Inscrutable in broadest light,To be unveiled by force she doth refuse.
Inscrutable in broadest light,
To be unveiled by force she doth refuse.
But Faust is in deep sympathy with her; witness:
Thou full-orbed moon! Would thou wert gazing nowFor the last time upon my troubled brow!
Thou full-orbed moon! Would thou wert gazing now
For the last time upon my troubled brow!
and
Loos'd from their icy fetters, streams and rillsIn spring's effusive, quick'ning mildness flow,Hope's budding promise every valley fills.And winter, spent with age, and powerless now,Draws off his forces to the savage hills.
Loos'd from their icy fetters, streams and rills
In spring's effusive, quick'ning mildness flow,
Hope's budding promise every valley fills.
And winter, spent with age, and powerless now,
Draws off his forces to the savage hills.
and the idyllic evening mood, which gives way to a burst of longing:
In the rich sunset see how brightly glowYon cottage homes girt round with verdant green.Slow sinks the orb, the day is now no more;Yonder he hastens to diffuse new light.Oh! for a pinion from the earth to soar,And after, ever after him to strive!Then should I see the world outspread below,Illumined by the deathless evening beams,The vales reposing, every height aglow,The silver brooklets meeting golden streams....Alas! that when on Spirit wing we rise,No wing material lifts our mortal clay.But 'tis our inborn impulse, deep and strong,To rush aloft, to struggle still towards heaven,When far above us pours its thrilling songThe skylark lost amid the purple even,When on extended pinion sweeps amainThe lordly eagle o'er the pine-crowned height.And when, still striving towards its home, the craneO'er moor and ocean wings its onward flight.
In the rich sunset see how brightly glow
Yon cottage homes girt round with verdant green.
Slow sinks the orb, the day is now no more;
Yonder he hastens to diffuse new light.
Oh! for a pinion from the earth to soar,
And after, ever after him to strive!
Then should I see the world outspread below,
Illumined by the deathless evening beams,
The vales reposing, every height aglow,
The silver brooklets meeting golden streams....
Alas! that when on Spirit wing we rise,
No wing material lifts our mortal clay.
But 'tis our inborn impulse, deep and strong,
To rush aloft, to struggle still towards heaven,
When far above us pours its thrilling song
The skylark lost amid the purple even,
When on extended pinion sweeps amain
The lordly eagle o'er the pine-crowned height.
And when, still striving towards its home, the crane
O'er moor and ocean wings its onward flight.
But the most complete expression of Goethe's attitude, not only in the period ofWertherand the first part ofFaust, but generally, is contained in theMonologue, which was probably written not earlier than the spring of 1788:
Spirit sublime! Thou gav'st me, gav'st me allFor which I prayed. Not vainly hast thou turn'dTo me thy countenance in flaming fire;Thou gav'st me glorious Nature for my realm,And also power to feel her and enjoy;Not merely with a cold and wond'ring glance,Thou didst permit me in her depths profound,As in the bosom of a friend, to gaze;Before me thou dost lead her living tribes,And dost in silent grove, in air and stream,Teach me to know my kindred....
Spirit sublime! Thou gav'st me, gav'st me all
For which I prayed. Not vainly hast thou turn'd
To me thy countenance in flaming fire;
Thou gav'st me glorious Nature for my realm,
And also power to feel her and enjoy;
Not merely with a cold and wond'ring glance,
Thou didst permit me in her depths profound,
As in the bosom of a friend, to gaze;
Before me thou dost lead her living tribes,
And dost in silent grove, in air and stream,
Teach me to know my kindred....
His feeling was not admiration alone, nor reverence alone, but the sympathy ofChilde Harold:
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a partOf me and of my soul, as I of them?Is not the love of these deep in my heartWith a pure passion? Should I not contemnAll objects, if compared with these?
Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? Should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these?
and the very confession of faith of such poetic pantheism is in Faust's words:
Him who dare name,And yet proclaim,Yes, I believe?...The All-embracer,All-sustainer,Doth he not embrace, sustainThee, me, himself?Lifts not the heaven its dome above?Doth not the firm-set earth beneath us rise?And beaming tenderly with looks of love,Climb not the everlasting stars on high?
Him who dare name,
And yet proclaim,
Yes, I believe?...
The All-embracer,
All-sustainer,
Doth he not embrace, sustain
Thee, me, himself?
Lifts not the heaven its dome above?
Doth not the firm-set earth beneath us rise?
And beaming tenderly with looks of love,
Climb not the everlasting stars on high?
The poems which date directly after the Wetzlar period are full of this sympathetic pantheistic love for Nature--Mahomet's Song, for example, with its splendid comparison of pioneering genius to a mountain torrent:
Ho! the spring that burstsFrom the mountain heightJoyous and bright,As the gleam of a star....Down in the vale belowFlowers bud beneath his tread ...And woo him with fond eyes.And the streamlets of the mountainsShout to him, and cry out 'Brother'!Brother! take thy brothers with thee,With thee to thine ancient father,To the eternal Ocean,Who with outstretch'd arms awaits us....And so beareth he his brothersTo their primal sire expectant,All his bosom throbbing, heaving,With a wild, tumultuous joy.
Ho! the spring that bursts
From the mountain height
Joyous and bright,
As the gleam of a star....
Down in the vale below
Flowers bud beneath his tread ...
And woo him with fond eyes.
And the streamlets of the mountains
Shout to him, and cry out 'Brother'!
Brother! take thy brothers with thee,
With thee to thine ancient father,
To the eternal Ocean,
Who with outstretch'd arms awaits us....
And so beareth he his brothers
To their primal sire expectant,
All his bosom throbbing, heaving,
With a wild, tumultuous joy.
We see the same pathos--the pathos of Pindar and the Psalms--in the comparison:
Like water is the soul of man,From heaven it comes, to heaven it goes,And back again to earth in ceaseless change.
Like water is the soul of man,
From heaven it comes, to heaven it goes,
And back again to earth in ceaseless change.
in the incomparableWanderer, inWanderer's Storm Song,and, above all, inGanymede, already given, of which Loeper remarks:
The poem is, as it were, a rendering of that letter (Werther's of May 10th) in rhythm. The underlying pantheism had already shewn itself in theWanderer's Storm Song. It was not the delight in God of a Brockes, not the adoration of a Klopstock, not sesthetic enjoyment of Nature, not, as in later years, scientific interest; it was rather a being absorbed in, identified with, Nature, a sympathy carried so far that the very ego was surrendered to the elements.
The poem is, as it were, a rendering of that letter (Werther's of May 10th) in rhythm. The underlying pantheism had already shewn itself in theWanderer's Storm Song. It was not the delight in God of a Brockes, not the adoration of a Klopstock, not sesthetic enjoyment of Nature, not, as in later years, scientific interest; it was rather a being absorbed in, identified with, Nature, a sympathy carried so far that the very ego was surrendered to the elements.
On the Lake of Zurich he wrote, June 15th, 1775:
And here I drink new blood, fresh food,From world so free, so blest;How sweet is Nature and how good,Who holds me to her breast.
And here I drink new blood, fresh food,
From world so free, so blest;
How sweet is Nature and how good,
Who holds me to her breast.
and Elmire sings inErmin and Elmire:
From thee, O Nature, with deep breathI drink in painful pleasure.
From thee, O Nature, with deep breath
I drink in painful pleasure.
One of the gems among his Nature poems isAutumn Feelings(it was the autumn of his love for Lilli):
Flourish greener as ye clamber,O ye leaves, to seek my chamber;Up the trellised vine on highMay ye swell, twin-berries tender,Juicier far, and with more splendourRipen, and more speedily.O'er ye broods the sun at even,As he sinks to rest, and heavenSoftly breathes into your earAll its fertilizing fulness,While the moon's refreshing coolness,Magic-laden, hovers near.And alas! ye're watered everBy a stream of tears that rillFrom mine eyes--tears ceasing never,Tears of love that nought can still.
Flourish greener as ye clamber,
O ye leaves, to seek my chamber;
Up the trellised vine on high
May ye swell, twin-berries tender,
Juicier far, and with more splendour
Ripen, and more speedily.
O'er ye broods the sun at even,
As he sinks to rest, and heaven
Softly breathes into your ear
All its fertilizing fulness,
While the moon's refreshing coolness,
Magic-laden, hovers near.
And alas! ye're watered ever
By a stream of tears that rill
From mine eyes--tears ceasing never,
Tears of love that nought can still.
The lyrical effect here depends upon the blending of a single impression of Nature with the passing mood--an occasional poem rare even for Goethe.
In a letter to Frau von Stein he admitted that he was greatly influenced by Nature:
I have slept well and am quite awake, only a quiet sadness lies upon my soul.... The weather agrees exactly with my state of mind, and I begin to believe that it is the weather around me which has the most immediate effect upon me, and the great world thrills my little one with her own mood.
I have slept well and am quite awake, only a quiet sadness lies upon my soul.... The weather agrees exactly with my state of mind, and I begin to believe that it is the weather around me which has the most immediate effect upon me, and the great world thrills my little one with her own mood.
Again,To the Moon, in the spring 1778, expresses perfect communion between Nature and feeling:
Flooded are the brakes and dellsWith thy phantom light,And my soul receives the spellOf thy mystic night.To the meadow dost thou sendSomething of thy grace,Like the kind eye of a friendBeaming on my face.Echoes of departed timesVibrate in mine ear,Joyous, sad, like spirit chimes,As I wander here.Flow, flow on, thou little brook,Ever onward go!Trusted heart and tender lookLeft me even so!Richer treasure earth has noneThan I once possessed--Ah! so rich, that when 'twas goneWorthless was the rest.Little brook! adown the valeRush and take my song:Give it passion, give it wail,As thou leap'st along!Sound it in the winter nightWhen thy streams are full,Murmur it when skies are brightMirror'd in the pool.Happiest he of all createdWho the world can shun,Not in hate, and yet unhated,Sharing thought with none,Save one faithful friend, revealingTo his kindly earThoughts like these, which o'er me stealing,Make the night so drear.
Flooded are the brakes and dells
With thy phantom light,
And my soul receives the spell
Of thy mystic night.
To the meadow dost thou send
Something of thy grace,
Like the kind eye of a friend
Beaming on my face.
Echoes of departed times
Vibrate in mine ear,
Joyous, sad, like spirit chimes,
As I wander here.
Flow, flow on, thou little brook,
Ever onward go!
Trusted heart and tender look
Left me even so!
Richer treasure earth has none
Than I once possessed--
Ah! so rich, that when 'twas gone
Worthless was the rest.
Little brook! adown the vale
Rush and take my song:
Give it passion, give it wail,
As thou leap'st along!
Sound it in the winter night
When thy streams are full,
Murmur it when skies are bright
Mirror'd in the pool.
Happiest he of all created
Who the world can shun,
Not in hate, and yet unhated,
Sharing thought with none,
Save one faithful friend, revealing
To his kindly ear
Thoughts like these, which o'er me stealing,
Make the night so drear.
In January 1778, he wrote to Frau von Stein about the fate of the unhappy Chr. von Lassberg, who had drowned himself in the Ilm:
This inviting grief has something dangerously attractive about it, like the water itself; and the reflections of the stars, which gleam from above and below at once, are alluring.
This inviting grief has something dangerously attractive about it, like the water itself; and the reflections of the stars, which gleam from above and below at once, are alluring.
To the same year belongsThe Fisher, which gave such melodious voice to the magic effect of a shimmering expanse of water, 'the moist yet radiant blue,' upon the mood; just as, later on,The Erlking, with the grey of an autumn evening woven ghostlike round tree and shrub, made the mind thrill with foreboding.
Goethe was always an industrious traveller. In his seventieth year he went to Frankfort, Strassburg, the Rhine, Thuringia, and the Harz Mountains (Harzreise, 1777): 'We went up to the peaks, and down to the depths of the earth, and hammered atall the rocks.' His love for Nature increased with his science; but, at the same time, poetic expression of it took a more objective form; the passionate vehemence, the really revolutionary attitude of theWertherperiod, gave way to one equally spiritual and intellectual, but more temperate.
This transition is clearly seen in the Swiss letters. In his first Swiss travels, 1775, he was only just free fromWerther, and his mind was too agitated for quiet observation:
Hasten thee, Kronos!...Over stock and stone let thy trotInto life straightway lead....Wide, high, glorious the viewGazing round upon life,While from mount unto mountHovers the spirit eterne,Life eternal foreboding....
Hasten thee, Kronos!...
Over stock and stone let thy trot
Into life straightway lead....
Wide, high, glorious the view
Gazing round upon life,
While from mount unto mount
Hovers the spirit eterne,
Life eternal foreboding....
Far more significant and ripe--in fact, mature--are the letters in 1779, shewing, as they do, the attitude of a man of profound mind, in the prime of his life and time. He was the first German poet to fall under the spell of the mountains--the strongest spell, as he held, which Nature wields in our latitudes. 'These sublime, incomparable scenes will remain for ever in my mind'; and of one view in particular, over the mountains of Savoy and Valais, the Lake of Geneva, and Mont Blanc, he said: 'The view was so great, man's eye could not grasp it.'
He wrote of his feelings with perfect openness to Frau von Stein, and these letters extended farther back than those from Switzerland, and were partly mixed with them.
From Selz:
An uncommonly fine day, a happy country--still all green, only here and there a yellow beech or oak leaf. Meadows still in their silver beauty--a soft welcome breeze everywhere. Grapes improving with every step and every day. Every peasant's house has a vine up to the roof, and every courtyard a greatoverhanging arbour. The air of heaven soft, warm, and moist. The Rhine and the clear mountains near at hand, the changing woods, meadows, fields like gardens, do men good, and give me a kind of comfort which I have long lacked.
An uncommonly fine day, a happy country--still all green, only here and there a yellow beech or oak leaf. Meadows still in their silver beauty--a soft welcome breeze everywhere. Grapes improving with every step and every day. Every peasant's house has a vine up to the roof, and every courtyard a greatoverhanging arbour. The air of heaven soft, warm, and moist. The Rhine and the clear mountains near at hand, the changing woods, meadows, fields like gardens, do men good, and give me a kind of comfort which I have long lacked.
The pen remains as ever the pen of a poet, but he looks at Switzerland now with a mature, settled taste, analyzing his impressions, and studying mountains, glaciers, boulders, scientifically.
Of the Staubbach Fall, near Lauterbrunnen (Oct. 9th, 1779):
The clouds broke in the upper air, and the blue sky came through. Clouds clung to the steep sides of the rocks; even the top where the Staubbach falls over, was lightly covered. It was a very noble sight ... then the clouds came down into the valley and covered all the foreground. The great wall over which the water falls, still stood out on the right. Night came on.... In the Munsterthal, through which we came, everything was lofty, but more within the mind's power of comprehension than these. In comparison with the immensities, one is, and must remain, too small.
The clouds broke in the upper air, and the blue sky came through. Clouds clung to the steep sides of the rocks; even the top where the Staubbach falls over, was lightly covered. It was a very noble sight ... then the clouds came down into the valley and covered all the foreground. The great wall over which the water falls, still stood out on the right. Night came on.... In the Munsterthal, through which we came, everything was lofty, but more within the mind's power of comprehension than these. In comparison with the immensities, one is, and must remain, too small.
And after visiting the Berne glacier from Thun (Oct. 14):
It is difficult to write after all this ... the first glance from the mountain is striking, the district is surprisingly extensive and pleasant ... the road indescribably beautiful ... the view from the Lake of Brienz towards the snow mountains at sunset is great.
It is difficult to write after all this ... the first glance from the mountain is striking, the district is surprisingly extensive and pleasant ... the road indescribably beautiful ... the view from the Lake of Brienz towards the snow mountains at sunset is great.
More eloquent is the letter of October 3rd, from the Munsterthal:
The passage through this defile roused in me a grand but calm emotion. The sublime produces a beautiful calmness in the soul, which, entirely possessed by it, feels as great as it ever can feel. How glorious is such a pure feeling, when it rises to the very highest without overflowing. My eye and my soul were both able to take in the objects before me, and as I was preoccupied by nothing, and had no false tastes to counteract their impression, they had on me their full and naturaleffect. When we compare such a feeling with that we are sensible of, when we laboriously harass ourselves with some trifle, and strain every nerve to gain as much as possible for it, and, as it were, to patch it out, striving to furnish joy and aliment to the mind from its own creation; we then feel sensibly what a poor expedient, after all, the latter is....When we see such objects as these for the first time, the unaccustomed soul has to expand itself, and this gives rise to a sort of painful joy, an overflowing of emotion which agitates the mind and draws from us the most delicious tears.... If only destiny had bidden me to dwell in the midst of some grand scenery, then would I every morning have imbibed greatness from its grandeur, as from a lonely valley I would extract patience and repose.One guesses in the dark about the origin and existence of these singular forms.... These masses must have been formed grandly and simply by aggregation. Whatever revolutions may subsequently have up-heaved, rent, and divided them ... the idea of such nightly commotions gives one a deep feeling of the eternal stability of the masses.... One feels deeply convinced that here there is nothing accidental, that here there is working an eternal law which, however slowly, yet surely governs the universe.
The passage through this defile roused in me a grand but calm emotion. The sublime produces a beautiful calmness in the soul, which, entirely possessed by it, feels as great as it ever can feel. How glorious is such a pure feeling, when it rises to the very highest without overflowing. My eye and my soul were both able to take in the objects before me, and as I was preoccupied by nothing, and had no false tastes to counteract their impression, they had on me their full and naturaleffect. When we compare such a feeling with that we are sensible of, when we laboriously harass ourselves with some trifle, and strain every nerve to gain as much as possible for it, and, as it were, to patch it out, striving to furnish joy and aliment to the mind from its own creation; we then feel sensibly what a poor expedient, after all, the latter is....
When we see such objects as these for the first time, the unaccustomed soul has to expand itself, and this gives rise to a sort of painful joy, an overflowing of emotion which agitates the mind and draws from us the most delicious tears.... If only destiny had bidden me to dwell in the midst of some grand scenery, then would I every morning have imbibed greatness from its grandeur, as from a lonely valley I would extract patience and repose.
One guesses in the dark about the origin and existence of these singular forms.... These masses must have been formed grandly and simply by aggregation. Whatever revolutions may subsequently have up-heaved, rent, and divided them ... the idea of such nightly commotions gives one a deep feeling of the eternal stability of the masses.... One feels deeply convinced that here there is nothing accidental, that here there is working an eternal law which, however slowly, yet surely governs the universe.
By the Lake of Geneva, where he thought of Rousseau, he went up the Dole:
The whole of the Pays de Vaux and de Gex lay like a plan before us ... we kept watching the mist, which gradually retired ... one by one we distinctly saw Lausanne ... Vevey.... There are no words to express the beauty and grandeur of this view ... the line of glittering glaciers was continually drawing the eye back again to the mountains.
The whole of the Pays de Vaux and de Gex lay like a plan before us ... we kept watching the mist, which gradually retired ... one by one we distinctly saw Lausanne ... Vevey.... There are no words to express the beauty and grandeur of this view ... the line of glittering glaciers was continually drawing the eye back again to the mountains.
From Cluse he wrote:
The air was as warm as it usually is at the beginning of September, and the country we travelled through beautiful. Many of the trees still green; most of them had assumed a brownish-yellow tint, but only a few were quite bare. The crops were rich and verdant, the mountains caught from the red sunset a rosy hue blended with violet, and all these rich tints were combined with grand, beautiful, and agreeable forms of the landscape.
The air was as warm as it usually is at the beginning of September, and the country we travelled through beautiful. Many of the trees still green; most of them had assumed a brownish-yellow tint, but only a few were quite bare. The crops were rich and verdant, the mountains caught from the red sunset a rosy hue blended with violet, and all these rich tints were combined with grand, beautiful, and agreeable forms of the landscape.
At Chamouni, about effects of light:
Here too again it seemed to us as if the sun had first of all attracted the light mists which evaporated from the tops of the glaciers, and then a gentle breeze had, as it were, combed the fine vapours like a fleece of foam over the atmosphere. I never remember at home, even in the height of summer, to have seen any so transparent, for here it was a perfect web of light.
Here too again it seemed to us as if the sun had first of all attracted the light mists which evaporated from the tops of the glaciers, and then a gentle breeze had, as it were, combed the fine vapours like a fleece of foam over the atmosphere. I never remember at home, even in the height of summer, to have seen any so transparent, for here it was a perfect web of light.
At the Col de Baume:
Whilst I am writing, a remarkable phenomenon is passing along the sky. The mists, which are shifting about and breaking in some places, allow you through their openings, as through skylights, to catch a glimpse of the blue sky, while at the same time the mountain peaks, rising above our roofs of vapour, are illuminated by the sun's rays....
Whilst I am writing, a remarkable phenomenon is passing along the sky. The mists, which are shifting about and breaking in some places, allow you through their openings, as through skylights, to catch a glimpse of the blue sky, while at the same time the mountain peaks, rising above our roofs of vapour, are illuminated by the sun's rays....
At Leukertad, at the foot of the Gemmi, he wrote (Nov. 9th):
The clouds which gather here in this valley, at one time completely hiding the immense rocks and absorbing them in a waste impenetrable gloom, or at another letting a part of them be seen like huge spectres, give to the people a cast of melancholy. In the midst of such natural phenomena, the people are full of presentiments and forebodings ... and the eternal and intrinsic energy of his (man's) nature feels itself at every nerve moved to forebode and to indulge in presentiments.
The clouds which gather here in this valley, at one time completely hiding the immense rocks and absorbing them in a waste impenetrable gloom, or at another letting a part of them be seen like huge spectres, give to the people a cast of melancholy. In the midst of such natural phenomena, the people are full of presentiments and forebodings ... and the eternal and intrinsic energy of his (man's) nature feels itself at every nerve moved to forebode and to indulge in presentiments.
On the way across the Rhine glacier to the Furka, he felt the half-suggestive, half-distressing sense of mountain loneliness:
It was a strange sight ... in the most desolate region of the world, in a boundless monotonous wilderness of mountains enveloped in snow, where for three leagues before and behind you would not expect to meet a living soul, while on both sides you had the deep hollows of a web of mountains, you might see a line of men wending their way, treading each in the deep footsteps of the one before him, and where, in the whole of the wide expanse thus smoothed over, the eye could discern nothing but the track they left behind them. The hollows, as we left them, lay behind us grey andboundless in the mist. The changing clouds continually passed over the pale disc of the sun, and spread over the whole scene a perpetually moving veil.
It was a strange sight ... in the most desolate region of the world, in a boundless monotonous wilderness of mountains enveloped in snow, where for three leagues before and behind you would not expect to meet a living soul, while on both sides you had the deep hollows of a web of mountains, you might see a line of men wending their way, treading each in the deep footsteps of the one before him, and where, in the whole of the wide expanse thus smoothed over, the eye could discern nothing but the track they left behind them. The hollows, as we left them, lay behind us grey andboundless in the mist. The changing clouds continually passed over the pale disc of the sun, and spread over the whole scene a perpetually moving veil.
He sums up the impressions made on him with:
The perception of such a long chain of Nature's wonders, excites within me a secret and inexpressible feeling of enjoyment.
The perception of such a long chain of Nature's wonders, excites within me a secret and inexpressible feeling of enjoyment.
The most profound change in his mental life was brought about by his visit to Italy, 1786-87. The poetic expression of this refining process, this striving towards the classic ideal, towards Sophrosyne, wasIphigenia.
Its effect upon his feeling for Nature appeared in a more matter-of-fact tone; the man of feeling gave way to the scientific observer.
He had, as he said (Oct. 30th, 1887), lately 'acquired the habit of looking only at things, and not, as formerly, seeing with and in the things what actually was not there.'
He no longer imputed his feelings to Nature, and studied her influence on himself, but looked at her with impersonal interest. Weather, cloud, mountain formation, the species of stone, landscape, and social themes, were all treated almost systematically as so much diary memoranda for future use. There was no artistic treatment in such jottings; meteorology, botany, and geology weighed too heavily.
The question, 'Is a place beautiful?' paled beside 'Is its soil clay?' 'Are its rocks quartz, chalk, or mica schist?' The problem of the archetypal plant was more absorbing than the finest groups of trees. The years of practical life at Weimar, and, above all, the ever-growing interest in science, were the chief factors in this change, which led him, as he said in hisTreatise on Granite,
from observation and description of the human heart, that part of creation which is the most youthful, varied, unstable, and destructible, to observation of that Son of Nature, which is the oldest, deepest, most stable, most indestructible.
from observation and description of the human heart, that part of creation which is the most youthful, varied, unstable, and destructible, to observation of that Son of Nature, which is the oldest, deepest, most stable, most indestructible.
The enthusiastic subjective realism of stormy youth was replaced by the measured objective realism of ripe manhood. Hence the difference between his letters from Switzerland and those from Italy, where this inner metamorphosis was completed; as he said, 'Between Weimar and Palermo I have had many changes.'
For all that, he revelled in the beauty of Italy. As he once said:
It is natural to me to revere the great and beautiful willingly and with pleasure; and to develop this predisposition day by day and hour by hour by means of such glorious objects, is the most delightful feeling.
It is natural to me to revere the great and beautiful willingly and with pleasure; and to develop this predisposition day by day and hour by hour by means of such glorious objects, is the most delightful feeling.
The sea made a great impression upon him:
I set out for the Lido...landed, and walked straight across the isthmus. I heard a loud hollow murmur--it was the sea! I soon saw it; it crested high against the shore as it retired, it was about noon and time of ebb. I have then at last seen the sea with my own eyes, and followed it on its beautiful bed, just as it quitted it.
I set out for the Lido...landed, and walked straight across the isthmus. I heard a loud hollow murmur--it was the sea! I soon saw it; it crested high against the shore as it retired, it was about noon and time of ebb. I have then at last seen the sea with my own eyes, and followed it on its beautiful bed, just as it quitted it.
But further on he only remarks: 'The sea is a great sight.' Elsewhere, too, it is only noticed very shortly.
Rome stimulated his mind to increased productiveness, and, partly for this reason, he could not assimilate all the new impressions which poured in upon him from without, from ruins, paintings, churches, palaces, the life of the people. He drew a great deal too; from Frascati he wrote (Nov. 15th, 1786):
The country around is very pleasant; the village lies on the side of a hill, or rather of a mountain, and at every step the draughtsman comes upon the most glorious objects. The prospect is unbounded. Rome lies before you, and beyond it on the right is the sea, the mountains of Tivoli, and so on.
The country around is very pleasant; the village lies on the side of a hill, or rather of a mountain, and at every step the draughtsman comes upon the most glorious objects. The prospect is unbounded. Rome lies before you, and beyond it on the right is the sea, the mountains of Tivoli, and so on.
In Rome itself (Feb. 2nd, 1787):
Of the beauty of a walk through Rome by moonlight it is impossible to form a conception without having witnessed it.
Of the beauty of a walk through Rome by moonlight it is impossible to form a conception without having witnessed it.
During Carnival (Feb. 21st):
The sky, so infinitely fine and clear, looked down nobly and innocently upon the mummeries.
The sky, so infinitely fine and clear, looked down nobly and innocently upon the mummeries.
In the voyage to Sicily:
At noon we went on board; the weather being extremely fine, we enjoyed the most glorious of views. The corvette lay at anchor near to the Mole. With an unclouded sun the atmosphere was hazy, giving to the rocky walls of Sorrento, which were in the shade, a tint of most beautiful blue. Naples with its living multitudes lay in full sunshine, and glittered brilliantly with countless tints.
At noon we went on board; the weather being extremely fine, we enjoyed the most glorious of views. The corvette lay at anchor near to the Mole. With an unclouded sun the atmosphere was hazy, giving to the rocky walls of Sorrento, which were in the shade, a tint of most beautiful blue. Naples with its living multitudes lay in full sunshine, and glittered brilliantly with countless tints.
and on April 1st:
With a cloudy sky, a bright but broken moonlight, the reflection on the sea was infinitely beautiful.
With a cloudy sky, a bright but broken moonlight, the reflection on the sea was infinitely beautiful.
At first, Italy, and especially Rome, felt strange to him, in scenery, sky, contour, and colour. It was only by degrees that he felt at home there.
He refers to this during his second visit to Rome in a notable remark, which aptly expresses the faculty of apperception--the link between us and the unfamiliar, which enables mental growth.
June 16th, 1787:
One remark more! Now for the first time do the trees, the rocks, nay, Rome itself, grow dear to me; hitherto I have always felt them as foreign, though, on the other hand, I took pleasure in minor subjects having some resemblance to those I saw in youth.
One remark more! Now for the first time do the trees, the rocks, nay, Rome itself, grow dear to me; hitherto I have always felt them as foreign, though, on the other hand, I took pleasure in minor subjects having some resemblance to those I saw in youth.
On August 18th, 1787, he wrote:
Yesterday before sunrise I drove to Acqua Acetosa. Verily, one might well lose his senses in contemplating the clearness, the manifoldness, the dewy transparency, the heavenly hue of the landscape, especially in the distance.
Yesterday before sunrise I drove to Acqua Acetosa. Verily, one might well lose his senses in contemplating the clearness, the manifoldness, the dewy transparency, the heavenly hue of the landscape, especially in the distance.
In October, when he heard of the engagement of a beautiful Milanese lady with whom he had fallen in love:
I again turned me instantly to Nature, as a subject for landscapes, a field I had been meanwhile neglecting, and endeavoured to copy her in this respect with the utmost fidelity. I was, however, more successful in mastering her with my eyes.... All the sensual fulness which that region offers us in rocks and trees, in acclivities and declivities, in peaceful lakes and lively streams, all this was grasped by my eye more appreciatively, if possible, than ever before, and I could hardly resent the wound which had to such degree sharpened my inward and outward sense.
I again turned me instantly to Nature, as a subject for landscapes, a field I had been meanwhile neglecting, and endeavoured to copy her in this respect with the utmost fidelity. I was, however, more successful in mastering her with my eyes.... All the sensual fulness which that region offers us in rocks and trees, in acclivities and declivities, in peaceful lakes and lively streams, all this was grasped by my eye more appreciatively, if possible, than ever before, and I could hardly resent the wound which had to such degree sharpened my inward and outward sense.
On leaving Rome, he wrote:
Three nights before, the full moon shone in the clearest heaven, and the enchantment shed over the vast town, though often felt before, was never felt so keenly as now. The great masses of light, clear as in mild daylight, the contrast of deep shades, occasionally relieved by reflexions dimly portraying details, all this transported us as if into another, a simpler and a greater, world.
Three nights before, the full moon shone in the clearest heaven, and the enchantment shed over the vast town, though often felt before, was never felt so keenly as now. The great masses of light, clear as in mild daylight, the contrast of deep shades, occasionally relieved by reflexions dimly portraying details, all this transported us as if into another, a simpler and a greater, world.
The later diaries on his travels are sketchy throughout, and more laconic and objective: for example, at Schaffhausen (Sept. 18th):
Went out early, 7.30, to see the Falls of the Rhine; colour of water, green--causes of this, the heights covered by mist--the depths clear, and we saw the castle of Laufen half in mist; thought of Ossian. Love mist when moved by deep feeling.
Went out early, 7.30, to see the Falls of the Rhine; colour of water, green--causes of this, the heights covered by mist--the depths clear, and we saw the castle of Laufen half in mist; thought of Ossian. Love mist when moved by deep feeling.
At Brunnen:
Green of the lake, steep banks, small size of boatman in comparison to the enormous masses of rock. One saw precipices grown over by trees, summits covered by clouds. Sunshine over the scene, one felt the formless greatness of Nature.
Green of the lake, steep banks, small size of boatman in comparison to the enormous masses of rock. One saw precipices grown over by trees, summits covered by clouds. Sunshine over the scene, one felt the formless greatness of Nature.
He was conscious of the great change in himself since his last visit there, and wrote to Schiller (Oct. 14th, 1797):
I remember the effect these things had upon me twenty years ago. The total impression remained with me, but the details faded, and I had a wonderful longing to repeat the whole experience and correct my impressions. I had become another man, and therefore it must needs appear different to me.
I remember the effect these things had upon me twenty years ago. The total impression remained with me, but the details faded, and I had a wonderful longing to repeat the whole experience and correct my impressions. I had become another man, and therefore it must needs appear different to me.
In later years he travelled a great deal in the Harz Mountains, to Carlsbad, Toplitz, the Maine, Marienbad, etc. After the death of his great friends, Schiller and Carl August, he was more and more lonely, and his whole outlook, with increasing years, grew more impersonal, his attitude to Nature more abstract and scientific; the archetypal plant was superseded by the theory of colours. But he kept fresh eyes for natural beauty into ripe age; witness this letter from Heidelberg, May 4th, 1808, to Frau von Stein:
Yesterday evening, after finishing my work, I went alone to the castle, and first scrambled about among the ruins, and then betook myself to the great balcony from which one can overlook the whole country. It was one of the loveliest of May evenings and of sunsets. No! I have really never seen such a fine view! Just imagine! One looked into the beautiful though narrow Neckar valley, covered on both sides with woods and vineyards and fruit trees just coming into flower. Further off the valley widened, and one saw the setting sun reflected in the Rhine as it flowed majestically through most beautiful country. On its further side the horizon was bounded by the Vosges mountains, lit up by the sun as if by a fire. The whole country was covered with fresh green, and close to me were the enormous ruins of the old castle, half in light and half in shade. You can easily fancy how it fascinated me. I stood lost in the view quite half an hour, till the rising moon woke me from my dreams.
Yesterday evening, after finishing my work, I went alone to the castle, and first scrambled about among the ruins, and then betook myself to the great balcony from which one can overlook the whole country. It was one of the loveliest of May evenings and of sunsets. No! I have really never seen such a fine view! Just imagine! One looked into the beautiful though narrow Neckar valley, covered on both sides with woods and vineyards and fruit trees just coming into flower. Further off the valley widened, and one saw the setting sun reflected in the Rhine as it flowed majestically through most beautiful country. On its further side the horizon was bounded by the Vosges mountains, lit up by the sun as if by a fire. The whole country was covered with fresh green, and close to me were the enormous ruins of the old castle, half in light and half in shade. You can easily fancy how it fascinated me. I stood lost in the view quite half an hour, till the rising moon woke me from my dreams.
Goethe's true lyrical period was in the seventies, before his Italian journeys; during and after that time he wrote more dramatic and epic poetry, with ballads and the more narrative kind of epic. In sendingDer Jüngling und der Mühlbachto Schiller from Switzerland in 1797, he wrote: 'I have discovered splendid material for idylls and elegies, and whatever that sort of poetry is called.'
Nature lyrics were few during his Italian travels, as in the journey to Sicily, 1787; among them wereCalm at Sea:
Silence deep rules o'er the waters,Calmly slumbering lies the main.
Silence deep rules o'er the waters,
Calmly slumbering lies the main.
andProsperous Voyage:
The mist is fast clearing,And radiant is heaven,Whilst Æolus loosensOur anguish-fraught bond.
The mist is fast clearing,
And radiant is heaven,
Whilst Æolus loosens
Our anguish-fraught bond.
The most perfect of all such short poems was theEvening Song, written one September night of 1783 on the Gickelhahn, near Ilmenau. He was writing at the same time to Frau von Stein: 'The sky is perfectly clear, and I am going out to enjoy the sunset. The view is great and simple--the sun down.'
Every tree top is at peace.E'en the rustling woods do ceaseEvery sound;The small birds sleep on every bough.Wait but a moment--soon wilt thouSleep in peace.The hush of evening, the stilling of desire in the silence of the wood, the beautiful resolution of all discords in Nature's perfect concord, the naive and splendid pantheism of a soul which feels itself at one with the world--all this is not expressed in so many words in theNight Song; but it is all there, like the united voicesin a great symphony. (SCHURÉ.)
Every tree top is at peace.E'en the rustling woods do ceaseEvery sound;The small birds sleep on every bough.Wait but a moment--soon wilt thouSleep in peace.
Every tree top is at peace.
E'en the rustling woods do cease
Every sound;
The small birds sleep on every bough.
Wait but a moment--soon wilt thou
Sleep in peace.
The hush of evening, the stilling of desire in the silence of the wood, the beautiful resolution of all discords in Nature's perfect concord, the naive and splendid pantheism of a soul which feels itself at one with the world--all this is not expressed in so many words in theNight Song; but it is all there, like the united voicesin a great symphony. (SCHURÉ.)
The lines are full of that pantheism which not only brings subject and object, Mind and Nature, into symbolic relationship, but works them into one tissue. Taken alone withThe FisherandTo the Moon, it would suffice to give him the first place as a poet of Nature.
He was not only the greatest poet, but the greatest and most universal thinker of modern times. With him feeling and knowledge worked together, the one reaching its climax in the lyrics of his younger days, the other gradually moderating the fervour of passion, and, with the more objective outlook of age, laying greater stress upon science. His feelingfor Nature, which followed an unbroken course, like his mental development generally, stands alone as a type of perfectly modern feeling, and yet no one, despite the many intervening centuries, stood so near both to Homer and to Shakespeare, and in philosophy to Spinoza.
But because with Goethe poetry and philosophy were one, his pantheism is full of life and poetic vision, whilst that of the wise man of Amsterdam is severely mathematical and abstract. And the postulate of this pantheism was sympathy, harmony between Nature and the inner life. He felt himself a part of the power which upholds and encompasses the world. Nature became his God, love of her his religion. In his youth, in the period ofWerther, Ganymede, and the first part ofFaust, this pantheism was a nameless, unquenchable aspiration towards the divine--for wings to reach, like the rays of light, to unmeasured heights; as he said in the Swiss mountains, 'Into the limitless spaces of the air, to soar over abysses, and let him down upon inaccessible rocks.'
After the Italian journeys science took the lead, the student of Nature supplanted the lover, even his symbolism took a more abstract and realistic form. But he never, even in old age, lost his love for the beauties of Nature, and, holding to Spinoza's fundamental ideas of the unchangeableness and eternity of Nature's laws, and the oneness of the Cosmos, he sought to think it out and base it upon scientific grounds, through the unbroken succession of animal and vegetable forms of life, the uniform 'formation and transformation of all organic Nature.' He wrote to Frau von Stein: 'I cannot express to you how legible the book of Nature is growing to me; my long spelling out has helped me. It takes effect now all of a sudden; my quiet delight is inexpressible; I find much that is new, but nothing that is unexpected--everything fits in andconforms, because I have no system, and care for nothing but truth for its own sake. Soon everything about living things will be clear to me.'[13]
Poetic and scientific intuition were simultaneous with him, and their common bond was pantheism. This pantheism marked an epoch in the history of feeling. For Goethe not only transformed the unreal feeling of his day into real, described scenery, and inspired it with human feeling, and deciphered the beauty of the Alps, as no one else had done, Rousseau not excepted; but he also brought knowledge of Nature into harmony with feeling for her, and with his wonderfully receptive and constructive mind so studied the earlier centuries, that he gathered out all that was valuable in their feeling.
As Goethe in Germany, so Byron in England led the feeling for Nature into new paths by his demoniac genius and glowing pantheism. Milton's great imagination was too puritan, too biblical, to allow her independent importance; he only assigned her arôlein relation to the Deity. In fiction, too, she had no place; but, on the other hand, we find her in such melancholy, sentimental outpourings as Young'sNight Thoughts:
Night, sable Goddess! from her ebon throneIn rayless majesty now stretches forthHer leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world...Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulseOf life stood still, and Nature made a pause;An awful pause, prophetic of her end...etc.
Night, sable Goddess! from her ebon throne
In rayless majesty now stretches forth
Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumb'ring world...
Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the gen'ral pulse
Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause;
An awful pause, prophetic of her end...etc.
There is a wealth of imagery and comparison amid Ossian's melancholy and mourning; clouds and mist are the very shadows of his struggling heroes. For instance:
His spear is a blasted pine, his shield the rising moon. He sat on the shore like a cloud of mist on the rising hill.Thou art snow on the heath; thy hair is the mist of Cromla, when it curls on the hill, when it shines tothe beam of the west. Thy breasts are two smooth rocks seen from Branno of streams.As the troubled noise of the ocean when roll the waves on high; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven, such is the noise of battle.As autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, towards each other approached the heroes.The clouds of night came rolling down, Darkness rests on the steeps of Cromla. The stars of the north arise over the rolling of Erin's waves; they shew their heads of fire through the flying mist of heaven. A distant wind roars in the wood. Silent and dark is the plain of death.
His spear is a blasted pine, his shield the rising moon. He sat on the shore like a cloud of mist on the rising hill.
Thou art snow on the heath; thy hair is the mist of Cromla, when it curls on the hill, when it shines tothe beam of the west. Thy breasts are two smooth rocks seen from Branno of streams.
As the troubled noise of the ocean when roll the waves on high; as the last peal of the thunder of heaven, such is the noise of battle.
As autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, towards each other approached the heroes.
The clouds of night came rolling down, Darkness rests on the steeps of Cromla. The stars of the north arise over the rolling of Erin's waves; they shew their heads of fire through the flying mist of heaven. A distant wind roars in the wood. Silent and dark is the plain of death.
Wordsworth's influence turned in another direction. His real taste was pastoral, and he preached freer intercourse with Nature, glossing his ideas rather artificially with a theism, through which one reads true love of her, and an undeniable, though hidden, pantheism.
InThe Influence of Natural Objectshe described how a life spent with Nature had early purified him from passion:
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to meWith stinted kindness. In November days,When vapours, rolling down the valleys, madeA lonely scene more lonesome, among woodsAt noon, and 'mid the calm of summer nights,When by the margin of the trembling lakeBeneath the gloomy hills, I homeward wentIn solitude, such intercourse was mine.'Twas mine among the fields both day and night,And by the waters all the summer long,And in the frosty season, when the sunWas set, and visible for many a mile,The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,I heeded not the summons....
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours, rolling down the valleys, made
A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods
At noon, and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When by the margin of the trembling lake
Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went
In solitude, such intercourse was mine.
'Twas mine among the fields both day and night,
And by the waters all the summer long,
And in the frosty season, when the sun
Was set, and visible for many a mile,
The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,
I heeded not the summons....
Like Klopstock, he delighted in sledging
while the starsEastward were sparkling bright, and in the westThe orange sky of evening died away.
while the stars
Eastward were sparkling bright, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Far more characteristic of the man is the confession inTintern Abbey:
Nature then(The coarser pleasures of my boyish daysAnd their glad animal movements all gone by)To me was all in all. I cannot paintWhat then I was. The sounding cataractHaunted me like a passion; the tall rock,The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,The colours and their forms, were then to meAn appetite, a feeling and a loveThat had no need of a remoter charmBy thought supplied, or any interestUnborrow'd from the eye.
Nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all. I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
The colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite, a feeling and a love
That had no need of a remoter charm
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrow'd from the eye.
Beautiful notes, to be struck again more forcibly by the frank pantheism of Byron.
What Scott had been doing for Scotland,[14]and Moore for Ireland, Wordsworth, with still greater fidelity to truth, tried to do for England and her people; in contrast to Byron and Shelley, who forsook home to range more widely, or Southey, whoseThalababegins with an imposing description of night in the desert:
How beautiful is night!A dewy freshness fills the silent air,No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stainBreaks the serene of heaven;In full-orb'd glory yonder Moon divineRolls through the dark blue depths.Beneath her steady rayThe desert-circle spreadsLike the round ocean, girdled with the sky.How beautiful is night!
How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air,
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain
Breaks the serene of heaven;
In full-orb'd glory yonder Moon divine
Rolls through the dark blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray
The desert-circle spreads
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night!
But all that previous English poets had done seemed harmless and innocent in comparison with Byron's revolutionary poetry. Prophecy in Rousseau became poetry in Byron.
There was much common ground between these two passionate aspiring spirits, who never attained to Goethe's serenity. Both were melancholy, and fled from their fellows; both strove for perfect liberty and unlimited self-assertion; both felt with the wild and uproarious side of Nature, and found idyllic scenes marred by thoughts of mankind.
Byron's turbulence never subsided; and his love for Nature, passionate and comprehensive as it was, was always 'sickled o'er' with misanthropy and pessimism, with the 'world-pain.'
He turned to her first through disdain of his kind and love of introspection, and later on, when he was spurned by the London world which had been at his feet, and disdain grew into hatred and disgust, from a wish to be alone. But, as Boettger says:
Though this heart, in which the whole universe is reflected, is a sick one, it has immeasurable depths, and an intensified spirit life which draws everything under its sway and inspires it, feeling and observing everything only as part of itself.
Though this heart, in which the whole universe is reflected, is a sick one, it has immeasurable depths, and an intensified spirit life which draws everything under its sway and inspires it, feeling and observing everything only as part of itself.
The basis of Byron's feeling for Nature was a revolutionary one--elementary passion. The genius which threw off stanza after stanza steeped in melody, was coupled with an unprecedented subjectivity and individualism. When the first part ofChilde Haroldcame out, dull London society was bewitched by the music and novelty of this enthusiastic lyric of Nature, with its incomparable interweaving of scenery and feeling:
The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew,As glad to waft him from his native home....But when the sun was sinking in the sea,He seized his harp...Adieu, adieu! my native shoreFades o'er the waters blue;The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,And shrieks the wild sea-mew;Yon sun that sets upon the seaWe follow in his flight;Farewell awhile to him and thee,My native land, good-night!
The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew,
As glad to waft him from his native home....
But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
He seized his harp...
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew;
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land, good-night!
He says of the beauty of Lusitania:
Oh Christ! it is a goodly sight to seeWhat Heaven hath done for this delicious land.What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!...The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd,The cork trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,The mountain moss, by scorching skies imbrown'd,The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep.The tender azure of the unruffled deep,The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,The vine on high, the willow branch below,Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.
Oh Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land.
What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!...
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd,
The cork trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,
The mountain moss, by scorching skies imbrown'd,
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep.
The tender azure of the unruffled deep,
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,
The vine on high, the willow branch below,
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.
Yet his spirit drives him away, 'more restless than the swallow in the skies.'
The charm of the idyllic is in the lines:
But these between, a silver streamlet glides....Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow.
But these between, a silver streamlet glides....
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow.
The beauty of the sea and night in this:
The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand....How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brownDistinct....Bending o'er the vessel's laving sideTo gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere.
The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand....How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brownDistinct....
The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand....
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown
Distinct....
Bending o'er the vessel's laving sideTo gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere.
Bending o'er the vessel's laving side
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere.
He reflects that:
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,To slowly trace the forest's shady scene....To climb the trackless mountain all unseenWith the wild flock that never needs a fold,Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean,--This is not solitude; 'tis but to holdConverse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,And roam along, the world's tired denizen,With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ...This is to be alone--this, this is solitude.
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene....
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen
With the wild flock that never needs a fold,
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean,--
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd.
But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ...
This is to be alone--this, this is solitude.
His preference for wild scenery shews here: