Yes, 'tis well! no more remain.
Away then! let's fly
O'er the zephyr-kiss'd ocean!The soul-lighted eye
Sees armies in motion,See proud banners wave
O'er the dust-sprinkled course.
From his forefathers brave
Draws the hero new force.
With sorrow laden,
Within this valley's
All-silent alleysThe fairest maiden
Again I see.
Twice can this be?What! shall I hear it,And not have spiritTo ease her pains?
Unworthy chains?
And now I've see her,
Alas! how changed!With cold demeanour.
And looks estranged,With ghostly tread,—All hope is fled,Yes, fled for ever.The lightnings quiver,Each palace falls;The godlike halls,Each joyous hourOf spirit-power,With love's sweet dayAll fade away!
Yes, fade away!
Already are heard
The prayers of the pious.
Why longer deny us?The favouring zephyr
Forbids all delay.
Away, then! away!
With heart sadly stirr'd,
Your command I receive;
Ye force me to leave.Unkind is the zephyr,—
Oh, wherefore not stay?
Away, then! away!
1811. ——- THE FIRST WALPURGIS-NIGHT.
SWEET smiles the May!
The forest gay
From frost and ice is freed;
No snow is found,
Glad songs resound
Across the verdant mead.
Upon the height
The snow lies light,
Yet thither now we go,There to extol our Father's name,
Whom we for ages know.Amid the smoke shall gleam the flame;
Thus pure the heart will grow.
Amid the smoke shall gleam the flame;Extol we now our Father's name,
Whom we for ages know!
Up, up, then, let us go!
Would ye, then, so rashly act?Would ye instant death attract?Know ye not the cruel threats
Of the victors we obey?Round about are placed their nets
In the sinful heathen's way.Ah! upon the lofty wall
Wife and children slaughter they;And we allHasten to a certain fall.
Ay, upon the camp's high wall
All our children loved they slay.
Ah, what cruel victors they!And we allHasten to a certain fall.
Who fears to-day
His rites to pay,
Deserves his chains to wear.
The forest's free!
This wood take we,
And straight a pile prepare!
Yet in the wood
To stay 'tis good
By day, till all is still,With watchers all around us plac'd
Protecting you from ill.With courage fresh, then let us haste
Our duties to fulfil.
Ye valiant watchers, now divideYour numbers through the forest wide,
And see that all is still,
While they their rites fulfil.
Let us in a cunning wise,Yon dull Christian priests surpriseWith the devil of their talk
We'll those very priests confound.Come with prong, and come with fork.
Raise a wild and rattling soundThrough the livelong night, and prowl
All the rocky passes round.Screechowl, owl,Join in chorus with our howl!
Come with prong, and come with fork,Like the devil of their talk,And with wildly rattling sound,Prowl the desert rocks around!Screechowl, owl,Join in chorus with our howl!
Thus far 'tis right.
That we by night
Our Father's praises sing;
Yet when 'tis day,
To Thee we may
A heart unsullied bring.
'Tis true that now,
And often, Thou
Fav'rest the foe in fight.As from the smoke is freed the blaze,
So let our faith burn bright!And if they crush our golden ways,
Who e'er can crush Thy light?
Comrades, quick! your aid afford!All the brood of hell's abroad;See how their enchanted forms
Through and through with flames are glowing!Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms,
On in quick succession going!Let us, let us haste to fly!
Wilder yet the sounds are growing,And the archfiend roars on high;From the groundHellish vapours rise around.
Terrible enchanted forms,Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms!Wilder yet the sounds are growing!See, the archfiend comes, all-glowing!From the groundHellish vapours rise around!
As from the smoke is freed the blaze,
So let our faith burn bright!And if they crush our golden ways,
Who e'er can crush Thy light?
1799. ——-
——-
THESE are the most singular of all the Poems of Goethe, and to many will appear so wild and fantastic, as to leave anything but a pleasing impression. Those at the beginning, addressed to his friend Behrisch, were written at the age of eighteen, and most of the remainder were composed while he was still quite young. Despite, however, the extravagance of some of them, such as the Winter Journey over the Hartz Mountains, and the Wanderer's Storm-Song, nothing can be finer than the noble one entitled Mahomet's Song, and others, such as the Spirit Song' over the Waters, The God-like, and, above all, the magnificent sketch of Prometheus, which forms part of an unfinished piece bearing the same name, and called by Goethe a 'Dramatic Fragment.'
[These three Odes are addressed to a certain Behrisch, who was tutor to Count Lindenau, and of whom Goethe gives an odd account at the end of the Seventh Book of his Autobiography.]
TRANSPLANT the beauteous tree!Gardener, it gives me pain;A happier resting-placeIts trunk deserved.
Yet the strength of its natureTo Earth's exhausting avarice,To Air's destructive inroads,An antidote opposed.
See how it in springtimeCoins its pale green leaves!Their orange-fragrancePoisons each flyblow straight.
The caterpillar's toothIs blunted by them;With silv'ry hues they gleamIn the bright sunshine,
Its twigs the maidenFain would twine inHer bridal-garland;Youths its fruit are seeking.
See, the autumn cometh!The caterpillarSighs to the crafty spider,—Sighs that the tree will not fade.
Hov'ring thitherFrom out her yew-tree dwelling,The gaudy foe advancesAgainst the kindly tree,
And cannot hurt it,But the more artful oneDefiles with nauseous venomIts silver leaves;
And sees with triumphHow the maiden shudders,The youth, how mourns he,On passing by.
Transplant the beauteous tree!Gardener, it gives me pain;Tree, thank the gardenerWho moves thee hence!
1767. ——- SECOND ODE.
THOU go'st! I murmur—Go! let me murmur.Oh, worthy man,Fly from this land!
Deadly marshes,Steaming mists of OctoberHere interweave their currents,Blending for ever.
Noisome insectsHere are engender'd;Fatal darknessVeils their malice.
The fiery-tongued serpent,Hard by the sedgy bank,Stretches his pamper'd body,Caress'd by the sun's bright beams.
Tempt no gentle night-ramblesUnder the moon's cold twilight!Loathsome toads hold their meetingsYonder at every crossway.
Injuring not,Fear will they cause thee.Oh, worthy man,Fly from this land!
1767. ——- THIRD ODE.
BE void of feeling!A heart that soon is stirr'd,Is a possession sadUpon this changing earth.
Behrisch, let spring's sweet smileNever gladden thy brow!Then winter's gloomy tempestsNever will shadow it o'er.
Lean thyself ne'er on a maiden'sSorrow-engendering breast.Ne'er on the arm,Misery-fraught, of a friend.
Already envyFrom out his rocky ambushUpon thee turnsThe force of his lynx-like eyes,
Stretches his talons,On thee falls,In thy shouldersCunningly plants them.
Strong are his skinny arms,As panther-claws;He shaketh thee,And rends thy frame.
Death 'tis to part,'Tis threefold deathTo part, not hopingEver to meet again.
Thou wouldst rejoice to leaveThis hated land behind,Wert thou not chain'd to meWith friendships flowery chains.
Burst them! I'll not repine.No noble friendWould stay his fellow-captive,If means of flight appear.
The remembranceOf his dear friend's freedomGives him freedomIn his dungeon.
Thou go'st,—I'm left.But e'en alreadyThe last year's winged spokesWhirl round the smoking axle.
I number the turnsOf the thundering wheel;The last one I bless.—Each bar then is broken, I'm free then as thou!
1767. ——- MAHOMET'S SONG.
[This song was intended to be introduced in a dramatic poem entitled Mahomet, the plan of which was not carried out by Goethe. He mentions that it was to have been sung by Ali towards the end of the piece, in honor of his master, Mahomet, shortly before his death, and when at the height of his glory, of which it is typical.]
SEE the rock-born stream!Like the gleamOf a star so brightKindly spiritsHigh above the cloudsNourished him while youthfulIn the copse between the cliffs.
Young and fresh.From the clouds he dancethDown upon the marble rocks;Then tow'rd heavenLeaps exulting.
Through the mountain-passesChaseth he the colour'd pebbles,And, advancing like a chief,Tears his brother streamlets with himIn his course.
In the valley down below'Neath his footsteps spring the flowers,And the meadowIn his breath finds life.
Yet no shady vale can stay him,Nor can flowers,Round his knees all-softly twiningWith their loving eyes detain him;To the plain his course he taketh,Serpent-winding,
Social streamletsJoin his waters. And now moves heO'er the plain in silv'ry glory,And the plain in him exults,And the rivers from the plain,And the streamlets from the mountain,Shout with joy, exclaiming: "Brother,Brother, take thy brethren with thee,With thee to thine aged father,To the everlasting ocean,Who, with arms outstretching far,Waiteth for us;Ah, in vain those arms lie openTo embrace his yearning children;For the thirsty sand consumes usIn the desert waste; the sunbeamsDrink our life-blood; hills around usInto lakes would dam us! Brother,Take thy brethren of the plain,Take thy brethren of the mountainWith thee, to thy father's arms!
Let all come, then!—And now swells heLordlier still; yea, e'en a peopleBears his regal flood on high!And in triumph onward rolling,Names to countries gives he,—citiesSpring to light beneath his foot.
Ever, ever, on he rushes,Leaves the towers' flame-tipp'd summits,Marble palaces, the offspringOf his fullness, far behind.
Cedar-houses bears the AtlasOn his giant shoulders; flutt'ringIn the breeze far, far above himThousand flags are gaily floating,Bearing witness to his might.
And so beareth he his brethren,All his treasures, all his children,Wildly shouting, to the bosomOf his long-expectant sire.
1774. ——- SPIRIT SONG OVER THE WATERS.
THE soul of manResembleth water:From heaven it cometh,To heaven it soareth.And then againTo earth descendeth,Changing ever.
Down from the loftyRocky wallStreams the bright flood,Then spreadeth gentlyIn cloudy billowsO'er the smooth rock,And welcomed kindly,Veiling, on roams it,Soft murmuring,Tow'rd the abyss.
Cliffs projectingOppose its progress,—Angrily foams itDown to the bottom,Step by step.
Now, in flat channel,Through the meadowland steals it,And in the polish'd lakeEach constellationJoyously peepeth.
Wind is the lovingWooer of waters;Wind blends togetherBillows all-foaming.
Spirit of man,Thou art like unto water!Fortune of man,Thou art like unto wind!
1789.* ——- MY GODDESS.
SAY, which ImmortalMerits the highest reward?With none contend I,But I will give itTo the aye-changing,Ever-movingWondrous daughter of Jove.His best-beloved offspring.Sweet Phantasy.
For unto herHath he grantedAll the fancies which erstTo none allow'd heSaving himself;Now he takes his pleasureIn 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 dewWith bee-like lipsDrink from the blossom:
Or else she mayWith fluttering hairAnd gloomy looksSigh in the windRound 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 beauteousNe'er-fading spouseDeigns to accordTo perishing mortals!
To us aloneDoth he unite her,With heavenly bonds,While he commands her,in joy and sorrow,As a true spouseNever to fly us.
All the remainingRaces so poorOf life-teeming earth.In children so rich.Wander and feedIn vacant enjoyment,And 'mid the dark sorrowsOf evanescentRestricted life,—Bow'd by the heavyYoke of Necessity.
But unto us heHath his most versatile,Most cherished daughterGranted,—what joy!
Lovingly greet herAs a beloved one!Give her the woman'sPlace in our home!
And oh, may the agedStepmother WisdomHer gentle spiritNe'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 vultureWho on heavy morning cloudsWith gentle wing reposingLooks for his prey,—Hover, my song!
For a God hathUnto each prescribedHis destined path,Which the happy oneRuns o'er swiftlyTo his glad goal:He whose heart cruelFate hath contracted,Struggles but vainlyAgainst all the barriersThe brazen thread raises,But which the harsh shearsMust one day sever.
Through gloomy thicketsPresseth the wild deer on,And with the sparrowsLong have the wealthySettled themselves in the marsh.
Easy 'tis following the chariotThat by Fortune is driven,Like the baggage that movesOver well-mended highwaysAfter the train of a prince.
But who stands there apart?In the thicket, lost is his path;Behind him the bushesAre 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, wastethAll that he is worth,In a selfishness vain.If there be, on thy psaltery,Father of Love, but one toneThat to his ear may be pleasing,Oh, then, quicken his heart!Clear his cloud-enveloped eyesOver the thousand fountainsClose by the thirsty oneIn the desert.
Thou who createst much joy,For each a measure o'erflowing,Bless the sons of the chaseWhen on the track of the prey,With a wild thirsting for blood,Youthful and joyousAvenging late the injusticeWhich the peasant resistedVainly for years with his staff.
But the lonely one veilWithin thy gold clouds!Surround with winter-green,Until the roses bloom again,The humid locks,Oh Love, of thy minstrel!
With thy glimmering torchLightest thou himThrough the fords when 'tis night,Over bottomless placesOn desert-like plains;With the thousand colours of morningGladd'nest his bosom;With the fierce-biting stormBearest him proudly on high;Winter torrents rush from the cliffs,—Blend with his psalms;An altar of grateful delightHe finds in the much-dreaded mountain'sSnow-begirded summit,Which foreboding nationsCrown'd with spirit-dances.
Thou stand'st with breast inscrutable,Mysteriously disclosed,High o'er the wondering world,And look'st from cloudsUpon its realms and its majesty,Which thou from the veins of thy brethrenNear 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 trotDownhill goeth thy path;Loathsome dizziness ever,When thou delayest, assails me.Quick, rattle along,Over stock and stone let thy trotInto life straightway lead
Now once moreUp the toilsome ascentHasten, panting for breath!Up, then, nor idle be,—Striving and hoping, up, up!
Wide, high, glorious the viewGazing round upon life,While from mount unto mountHovers the spirit eterne,Life eternal foreboding.
Sideways a roof's pleasant shadeAttracts thee,And a look that promises coolnessOn 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 setsEre he sets, ere old ageSeizeth me in the morass,Ere my toothless jaws mumble,And my useless limbs totter;While drunk with his farewell beamHurl me,—a fiery seaFoaming 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 joyWait 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 heartAt the tempest or the rain.He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,Will to the rain-clouds,Will to the hailstorm,Sing in replyAs the lark sings,Oh thou on high!
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,Thou wilt raise above the mud-trackWith 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 pinionWhen he sleepeth on the rock,—Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian wingIn the forest's midnight hour.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,Thou wilt wrap up warmlyIn 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 earthOver 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 hoverOver water, o'er the earthLike the gods.
Shall he, then, return,The small, the dark, the fiery peasant?Shall he, then, return, waitingOnly 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 lifeHave glorified—shall IReturn dejected?
Father Bromius!Thourt the Genius,Genius of ages,Thou'rt what inward glowTo Pindar was,What to the worldPhoebus Apollo.
Woe! Woe Inward warmth,Spirit-warmth,Central-point!Glow, and vie withPhoebus Apollo!Coldly soonHis regal lookOver thee will swiftly glide,—
Envy-struckLinger 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 springRuns 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-treeHim didst thou visit,With the pair of dovesHeld 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'sSun-illumined browDidst thou seize him,The flower-singing,Honey-breathing,Sweetly noddingTheocritus.
When the wheels were rattling,Wheel on wheel tow'rd the goal,High aroseThe sound of the lashOf youths with victory glowing,In the dust rolling,As from the mountain fallShowers of stones in the vale—Then thy soul was brightly glowing, Pindar—Glowing? Poor heart!
There, on the hill,—Heavenly might!But enough glowThither 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; fortuneIn 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 raisesSongs of hope, in giddy joy expectingJoy 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 drivenSideways 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 sportingWind 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 pinionsAn eaglet;A huntsman's arrow came, and reftHis right wing of all motive power.Headlong he fell into a myrtle grove,For three long days on anguish fed,In torment writhedThroughout three long, three weary nights;And then was cured,Thanks to all-healing Nature'sSoft, 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 himselfFrom off the groundTo 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, strutO'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, leapsOn the next bush, and looksUpon him kindly and complacently."Thou sorrowest," murmurs he:"Be of good cheer, my friend!All that is needed for calm happinessHast thou not here?Hast thou not pleasure in the golden boughThat 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 overflowThe forest-trees provide,Thy choicest food,—mayst quenchThy light thirst at the silvery spring.Oh friend, true happinessLies in contentedness,And that contentednessFinds everywhere enough.""Oh, wise one!" said the eagle, while he sankIn 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 lopsThe thistles' heads,Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks,Yet thou must leaveMy earth still standing;My cottage too, which was not raised by thee;Leave me my hearth,Whose kindly glowBy thee is envied.
I know nought poorerUnder the sun, than ye gods!Ye nourish painfully,With sacrificesAnd votive prayers,Your majesty:Ye would e'en starve,If children and beggarsWere not trusting fools.
While yet a childAnd ignorant of life,I turned my wandering gazeUp tow'rd the sun, as if with himThere were an ear to hear my wailings,A heart, like mine,To feel compassion for distress.
Who help'd meAgainst 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 thanksTo yonder slumbering one?
I honour thee! and why?Hast thou e'er lighten'd the sorrowsOf the heavy laden?Hast thou e'er dried up the tearsOf the anguish-stricken?Was I not fashion'd to be a manBy omnipotent Time,And by eternal Fate,Masters of me and thee?
Didst thou e'er fancyThat life I should learn to hate,And fly to deserts,Because not allMy blossoming dreams grew ripe?
Here sit I, forming mortalsAfter 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 blissThe sacred emotionsBorn of thy warmth eternalPress 'gainst my bosom,Thou endlessly fair one!Could I but hold thee clasp'dWithin mine arms!
Ah! upon thy bosomLay I, pining,And then thy flowers, thy grass,Were pressing against my heart.Thou coolest the burningThirst of my bosom,Beauteous morning breeze!The nightingale then calls meSweetly from out of the misty vale.I come, I come!Whither? Ah, whither?
Up, up, lies my course.While downward the cloudsAre hovering, the cloudsAre bending to meet yearning love.For me,Within thine armsUpwards!Embraced and embracing!Upwards into thy bosom,Oh Father all-loving!
1789.* ——- THE BOUNDARIES OF HUMANITY.
WHEN the primevalAll-holy FatherSows with a tranquil handFrom clouds, as they roll,Bliss-spreading lightningsOver the earth,Then do I kiss the lastHem of his garment,While by a childlike aweFiil'd is my breast.
For with immortalsNe'er may a mortalMeasure himself.If he soar upwardsAnd if he touchWith his forehead the stars,Nowhere will rest thenHis insecure feet,And with him sportTempest and cloud.
Though with firm sinewyLimbs he may standOn the enduringWell-grounded earth,All he is everAble to do,Is to resembleThe oak or the vine.
Wherein do godsDiffer from mortals?In that the formerSee endless billowsHeaving before them;Us doth the billowLift up and swallow,So that we perish.
Small is the ringEnclosing our life,And whole generationsLink themselves firmlyOn to existence'sChain never-ending.
1789. * ——- THE GODLIKE.
NOBLE be man,Helpful and good!For that aloneDistinguisheth himFrom all the beingsUnto us known.
Hail to the beings,Unknown and glorious,Whom we forebode!From his exampleLearn we to know them!
For unfeelingNature is ever:On bad and on goodThe 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, fortuneGropes 'mid the throng—Innocent boyhood'sCurly head seizing,—Seizing the hoaryHead of the sinner.
After laws mighty,Brazen, eternal,Must all we mortalsFinish the circuitOf our existence.
Man, and man onlyCan do the impossible;He 'tis distinguisheth,Chooseth and judgeth;He to the momentEndurance can lend.
He and he onlyThe good can reward,The bad can he punish,Can heal and can save;All that wanders and straysCan usefully blend.And we pay homageTo the immortalsAs 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 formingThe right and the useful,A type of those beingsOur mind hath foreshadow'd!
1782. ——-
——-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 GodBade them with his sov'reign nod,Sacred Muses train'd my daysTo his praise.—With the bright and silv'ry floodOf Parnassus stirr'd my blood,And the seal so pure and chasteBy 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 songTeaches me to dream of love.
Fullness waxes in my breastOf emotions social, blest;Friendship's nurtured─love awakes,—And the silence Phoebus breaksOf 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 flamePierced his marrow and his frame.That which Amor stole beforePhoebus 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 bardGuide 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 powerFlowerRound about on ev'ry bough,Bending nowLike 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 blestRouse 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 wanderBy the beeches, 'neath the limes,
Yonder seeking, finding yonderThat which in the morning-groveShe 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 rayAnd the dew at close of day,─
In the plain her path she loses.Ne'er disturb her on her way!
Seek her silently, ye Muses
Shouts I hear, wherein the soundOf 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 landStreams the band;Hot desire,Drunken-fireIn their gazeWildly plays,—Makes their hairBristle there.And the troop,With fell swoop,Women, men,Coming then,Ply their blowsAnd expose,Void of shame,All the frame.Iron shot,Fierce and hot,Strike with fearOn the ear;All they slayOn their way.O'er the landPours the band;All take flightAt their sight.
Ah, o'er ev'ry plant they rush!Ah, their cruel footsteps crushAll 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 arightWeapons suited to the fight,He the mountain shaketh now—From its browRattling downStone on stoneThrough 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 wildFrom these regions soft and mildWhere 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 goOn 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 yeThus your godlike dignityShould forget? The Thyrsus rude
Must a heavy burden feel
To the hand but wont to stealO'er the lyre in gentle mood.From the sparkling waterfalls,From the brook that purling calls,Shall Silenus' loathsome beastBe allow'd at will to feast?Aganippe's * wave he sipsWith 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 MountHelicon, 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 endureThe 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 clearSplash with impatience and their heads protrude;And then she throws around the foodWith 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, ledTo join the gentle company,Until as tame as they was he:(Up to a certain point, be't understood!)How fair, and, ah, how goodShe seem'd to be! I would have drain'd my bloodTo 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 passI'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 backUnused a slave to be.I'm laughed at by each trim and upstart treeTo 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 dayShe 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 serviteurComme 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 fastBy 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 aloneCan 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 traceOf 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 rapturesUsed to taste, and used to give responsive,Now is cloven, and it pains me sorely;And it is not thus severely woundedBy my mistress having caught me fiercely,And then gently bitten me, intendingTo secure her friend more firmly to her:No, my tender lip is crack'd thus, onlyBy the winds, o'er rime and frost proceeding,Pointed, sharp, unloving, having met me.Now the noble grape's bright juice commingledWith the bee's sweet juice, upon the fireOf my hearth, shall ease me of my torment.Ah, what use will all this be, if with itLove adds not a drop of his own balsam?
1789.* ——- THE MUSAGETES.
IN the deepest nights of WinterTo 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 morningFollow'd days devoid of profit.
When at length return'd the spring-time,To the nightingales thus spake I:"Darling nightingales, oh, beat yeEarly, early at my window,—Wake me from the heavy slumberThat chains down the youth so strongly!"Yet the love-o'erflowing songstersTheir sweet melodies protractedThrough the night before my window,Kept awake my loving spirit,Rousing new and tender yearningsIn 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 busyDraws me from my pleasing slumbersAt the first-born morning-glimmer.Mercilessly then returns she,Though the half-aroused one oftenScares her from him with impatience,And she lures her shameless sisters,So that from my weary eyelidsKindly 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 insectsOwe 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 fondnessPress'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 comingUp and down the stairs, and doors were creakingBackwards now, now forwards,—footsteps clatter'dYet, 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.