While at work had slumber stolen o'er her;For her knitting and her needle found IResting in her folded bands so tender;And I placed myself beside her softly,And held counsel, whether I should wake her.
Then I looked upon the beauteous quietThat on her sweet eyelids was reposingOn her lips was silent truth depicted,On her cheeks had loveliness its dwelling,And the pureness of a heart unsulliedIn her bosom evermore was heaving.All her limbs were gracefully reclining,Set at rest by sweet and godlike balsam.Gladly sat I, and the contemplationHeld the strong desire I felt to wake herFirmer and firmer down, with mystic fetters.
"Oh, thou love," methought, "I see that slumber,Slumber that betrayeth each false feature,Cannot injure thee, can nought discoverThat could serve to harm thy friend's soft feelings.
"Now thy beauteous eyes are firmly closed,That, when open, form mine only rapture.And thy sweet lips are devoid of motion,Motionless for speaking or for kissing;Loosen'd are the soft and magic fettersOf thine arms, so wont to twine around me,And the hand, the ravishing companionOf thy sweet caresses, lies unmoving.Were my thoughts of thee but based on error,Were the love I bear thee self-deception,I must now have found it out, since AmorIs, without his bandage, placed beside me."
Long I sat thus, full of heartfelt pleasureAt my love, and at her matchless merit;She had so delighted me while slumbering,That I could not venture to awake her.
Then I on the little table near herSoftly placed two oranges, two roses;Gently, gently stole I from her chamber.When her eyes the darling one shall open,She will straightway spy these colourd presents,And the friendly gift will view with wonder,For the door will still remain unopen'd.
If perchance I see to-night the angel,How will she rejoice,—reward me doublyFor this sacrifice of fond affection!
1765. ——- THE MAGIC NET.
Do I see a contest yonder?See I miracles or pastimes?Beauteous urchins, five in number,'Gainst five sisters fair contending,—Measured is the time they're beating—At a bright enchantress' bidding.Glitt'ring spears by some are wielded,Threads are others nimbly twining,
So that in their snares, the weaponsOne would think, must needs be captured,Soon, in truth, the spears are prison'd;Yet they, in the gentle war-dance,One by one escape their fettersIn the row of loops so tender,That make haste to seize a free oneSoon as they release a captive.
So with contests, strivings, triumphs,Flying now, and now returning,Is an artful net soon woven,In its whiteness like the snow-flakes,That, from light amid the darkness,Draw their streaky lines so varied,As e'en colours scarce can draw them.
Who shall now receive that garmentFar beyond all others wish'd-for?Whom our much-loved mistress favourAs her own acknowledged servant?I am blest by kindly Fortune'sTokens true, in silence pray'd for!And I feel myself held captive,To her service now devoted.
Yet, e'en while I, thus enraptured,Thus adorn'd, am proudly wand'ring,See! yon wantons are entwining,Void of strife, with secret ardour,Other nets, each fine and finer,Threads of twilight interweaving,Moonbeams sweet, night-violets' balsam.
Ere the net is noticed by us,Is a happier one imprison'd,Whom we, one and all, togetherGreet with envy and with blessings.
1803. ——- THE GOBLET.
ONCE I held a well-carved brimming goblet,—In my two hands tightly clasp'd I held it,Eagerly the sweet wine sipp'd I from it,Seeking there to drown all care and sorrow.
Amor enter'd in, and found me sitting,And he gently smiled in modest fashion,Smiled as though the foolish one he pitied.
"Friend, I know a far more beauteous vessel,One wherein to sink thy spirit wholly;Say, what wilt thou give me, if I grant it,And with other nectar fill it for thee?"
Oh, how kindly hath he kept his promise!For to me, who long had yearn'd, he grantedThee, my Lida, fill'd with soft affection.
When I clasp mine arms around thee fondly, When I drink in love's long-hoarded balsam From thy darling lips so true, so faithful, Fill'd with bliss thus speak I to my spirit "No! a vessel such as this, save Amor Never god hath fashion'd or been lord of! Such a form was ne'er produced by Vulcan With his cunning, reason-gifted hammers! On the leaf-crown'd mountains may Lyaeus Bid his Fauns, the oldest and the wisest, Pass the choicest clusters through the winepress, And himself watch o'er the fermentation: Such a draught no toil can e'er procure him!"
1781. ——- TO THE GRASSHOPPER.
[The strong resemblance of this fine poem to Cowley's Ode bearing the same name, and beginning "Happy insect! what can be," will be at once seen.]
HAPPY art thou, darling insect,Who, upon the trees' tall branches,By a modest draught inspired,Singing, like a monarch livest!Thou possessest as thy portionAll that on the plains thou seest,All that by the hours is brought thee'Mongst the husbandmen thou livest,As a friend, uninjured by them,Thou whom mortals love to honour,Herald sweet of sweet Spring's advent!Yes, thou'rt loved by all the Muses,
Phoebus' self, too, needs must love thee;They their silver voices gave thee,Age can never steal upon thee.Wise and gentle friend of poets,Born a creature fleshless, bloodless,Though Earth's daughter, free from suff'ring,To the gods e'en almost equal.
1781. ——- FROM 'THE SORROWS OF YOUNG WERTHER.'
[Prefixed to the second edition.]
EV'RY youth for love's sweet portion sighs,
Ev'ry maiden sighs to win man's love;Why, alas! should bitter pain arise
From the noblest passion that we prove?
Thou, kind soul, bewailest, lov'st him well,
From disgrace his memory's saved by thee;Lo, his spirit signs from out its cell:
1775. ——- TRILOGY OF PASSION.
[This poem, written at the age of seventy-five, was appended to an edition of 'Werther,' published at that time.]
ONCE more, then, much-wept shadow, thou dost dare
Boldly to face the day's clear light,To meet me on fresh blooming meadows fair,
And dost not tremble at my sight.Those happy times appear return'd once more.
When on one field we quaff'd refreshing dew,And, when the day's unwelcome toils were o'er,
The farewell sunbeams bless'd our ravish'd view;Fate bade thee go,—to linger here was mine,—Going the first, the smaller loss was thine.
The life of man appears a glorious fate:The day how lovely, and the night how great!And we 'mid Paradise-like raptures plac'd,The sun's bright glory scarce have learn'd to taste.
When strange contending feelings dimly cover,Now us, and now the forms that round us hover;One's feelings by no other are supplied,'Tis dark without, if all is bright inside;An outward brightness veils my sadden'd mood,When Fortune smiles,—how seldom understood!Now think we that we know her, and with mightA woman's beauteous form instils delight;The youth, as glad as in his infancy,The spring-time treads, as though the spring were heRavish'd, amazed, he asks, how this is done?He looks around, the world appears his own.With careless speed he wanders on through space,Nor walls, nor palaces can check his race;As some gay flight of birds round tree-tops plays,So 'tis with him who round his mistress strays;He seeks from AEther, which he'd leave behind him,The faithful look that fondly serves to bind him.
Yet first too early warn'd, and then too late,He feels his flight restrain'd, is captur'd straightTo meet again is sweet, to part is sad,Again to meet again is still more glad,And years in one short moment are enshrin'd;But, oh, the harsh farewell is hid behind!
Thou smilest, friend, with fitting thoughts inspired;By a dread parting was thy fame acquired,Thy mournful destiny we sorrow'd o'er,For weal and woe thou left'st us evermore,And then again the passions' wavering forceDrew us along in labyrinthine course;And we, consumed by constant misery,At length must part—and parting is to die!How moving is it, when the minstrel sings,To 'scape the death that separation brings!Oh grant, some god, to one who suffers so,To tell, half-guilty, his sad tale of woe
1824
When man had ceased to utter his lament,
A god then let me tell my tale of sorrow.
WHAT hope of once more meeting is there nowIn the still-closed blossoms of this day?Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou;What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom playNo longer doubt! Descending from the sky,She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high.
And thus thou into Paradise wert brought,
As worthy of a pure and endless life;Nothing was left, no wish, no hope, no thought,
Here was the boundary of thine inmost strife:And seeing one so fair, so glorified,The fount of yearning tears was straightway dried.
No motion stirr'd the day's revolving wheel,
In their own front the minutes seem'd to go;The evening kiss, a true and binding seal,
Ne'er changing till the morrow's sunlight glow.The hours resembled sisters as they went.Yet each one from another different.
The last hour's kiss, so sadly sweet, effac'd
A beauteous network of entwining love.Now on the threshold pause the feet, now haste.
As though a flaming cherub bade them move;The unwilling eye the dark road wanders o'er,Backward it looks, but closed it sees the door.
And now within itself is closed this breast,
As though it ne'er were open, and as though,Vying with ev'ry star, no moments blest
Had, in its presence, felt a kindling glow;Sadness, reproach, repentance, weight of care,Hang heavy on it in the sultry air.
Is not the world still left? The rocky steeps,
Are they with holy shades no longer crown'd?Grows not the harvest ripe? No longer creeps
The espalier by the stream,—the copse around?Doth not the wondrous arch of heaven still rise,Now rich in shape, now shapeless to the eyes?
As, seraph-like, from out the dark clouds' chorus,
With softness woven, graceful, light, and fair,Resembling Her, in the blue aether o'er us,
A slender figure hovers in the air,—Thus didst thou see her joyously advance,The fairest of the fairest in the dance.
Yet but a moment dost thou boldly dare
To clasp an airy form instead of hers;Back to thine heart! thou'lt find it better there,
For there in changeful guise her image stirsWhat erst was one, to many turneth fast,In thousand forms, each dearer than the last.
As at the door, on meeting lingerd she,
And step by step my faithful ardour bless'd,For the last kiss herself entreated me,
And on my lips the last last kiss impress'd,—Thus clearly traced, the lov'd one's form we view,With flames engraven on a heart so true,—
A heart that, firm as some embattled tower,
Itself for her, her in itself reveres,For her rejoices in its lasting power,
Conscious alone, when she herself appears;Feels itself freer in so sweet a thrall,And only beats to give her thanks in all.
The power of loving, and all yearning sighs
For love responsive were effaced and drown'd;While longing hope for joyous enterprise
Was form'd, and rapid action straightway found;If love can e'er a loving one inspire,Most lovingly it gave me now its fire;
And 'twas through her!—an inward sorrow lay
On soul and body, heavily oppress'd;To mournful phantoms was my sight a prey,
In the drear void of a sad tortured breast;Now on the well-known threshold Hope hath smil'd,Herself appeareth in the sunlight mild.
Unto the peace of God, which, as we read,
Blesseth us more than reason e'er bath done,Love's happy peace would I compare indeed,
When in the presence of the dearest one.There rests the heart, and there that sweetest thought,The thought of being hers, is check'd by nought.
In the pure bosom doth a yearning float,
Unto a holier, purer, unknown BeingIts grateful aspiration to devote,
The Ever-Nameless then unriddled seeing;We call it: piety!—such blest delightI feel a share in, when before her sight.
Before her sight, as 'neath the sun's hot ray,
Before her breath, as 'neath the spring's soft wind,In its deep wintry cavern melts away
Self-love, so long in icy chains confin'd;No selfishness and no self-will are nigh,For at her advent they were forced to fly.
It seems as though she said: "As hours pass by
They spread before us life with kindly plan;Small knowledge did the yesterday supply,
To know the morrow is conceal'd from man;And if the thought of evening made me start,The sun at setting gladden'd straight my heart.
"Act, then, as I, and look, with joyous mind,
The moment in the face; nor linger thou!Meet it with speed, so fraught with life, so kind
In action, and in love so radiant now;Let all things be where thou art, childlike ever,Thus thoult be all, thus, thou'lt be vanquish'd never."
Thou speakest well, methought, for as thy guide
The moment's favour did a god assign,And each one feels himself when by thy side,
Fate's fav'rite in a moment so divine;I tremble at thy look that bids me go,Why should I care such wisdom vast to know?
Now am I far! And what would best befit
The present minute? I could scarcely tell;Full many a rich possession offers it,
These but offend, and I would fain repel.Yearnings unquenchable still drive me on,All counsel, save unbounded tears, is gone.
Flow on, flow on in never-ceasing course,
Yet may ye never quench my inward fire!Within my bosom heaves a mighty force,
Where death and life contend in combat dire.Medicines may serve the body's pangs to still;Nought but the spirit fails in strength of will,—
Fails in conception; wherefore fails it so?
A thousand times her image it portrays;Enchanting now, and now compell'd to go,
Now indistinct, now clothed in purest rays!How could the smallest comfort here be flowing?The ebb and flood, the coming and the going!
* * * * * *
Leave me here now, my life's companions true!
Leave me alone on rock, in moor and heath;But courage! open lies the world to you,
The glorious heavens above, the earth beneath;Observe, investigate, with searching eyes,And nature will disclose her mysteries.
To me is all, I to myself am lost,
Who the immortals' fav'rite erst was thought;They, tempting, sent Pandoras to my cost,
So rich in wealth, with danger far more fraught;They urged me to those lips, with rapture crown'd,Deserted me, and hurl'd me to the ground.
1823.
[Composed, when 74 years old, for a Polish lady, who excelled in playing on the pianoforte.]
PASSION brings reason—who can pacify
An anguish'd heart whose loss hath been so great?Where are the hours that fled so swiftly by?
In vain the fairest thou didst gain from fate;Sad is the soul, confused the enterprise;
The glorious world, how on the sense it dies!
In million tones entwined for evermore,
Music with angel-pinions hovers there,To pierce man's being to its inmost core,
Eternal beauty has its fruit to bear;The eye grows moist, in yearnings blest reveresThe godlike worth of music as of tears.
And so the lighten'd heart soon learns to see
That it still lives, and beats, and ought to beat,Off'ring itself with joy and willingly,
In grateful payment for a gift so sweet.And then was felt,—oh may it constant prove!—The twofold bliss of music and of love.
1823.——-
THE remembrance of the GoodKeep us ever glad in mood.
The remembrance of the FairMakes a mortal rapture share.
The remembrance of one's LoveBlest Is, if it constant prove.
The remembrance of the OneIs the greatest joy that's known.
1828. ——- [Written at the age of 77.]
WHEN I was still a youthful wight,
So full of enjoyment and merry,The painters used to assert, in spite,
That my features were small—yes, very;Yet then full many a beauteous childWith true affection upon me smil'd.
Now as a greybeard I sit here in state,
By street and by lane held in awe, sirs;And may be seen, like old Frederick the Great,
On pipebowls, on cups, and on saucers.Yet the beauteous maidens, they keep afar;Oh vision of youth! Oh golden star!
1826. ——- FOR EVER.
THE happiness that man, whilst prison'd here,
Is wont with heavenly rapture to compare,—The harmony of Truth, from wavering clear,—
Of Friendship that is free from doubting care,—The light which in stray thoughts alone can cheer
The wise,—the bard alone in visions fair,—In my best hours I found in her all this,And made mine own, to mine exceeding bliss.
1820.* ——- FROM AN ALBUM OF 1604.
HOPE provides wings to thought, and love to hope.Rise up to Cynthia, love, when night is clearest,And say, that as on high her figure changeth,So, upon earth, my joy decays and grows.And whisper in her ear with modest softness,How doubt oft hung its head, and truth oft wept.And oh ye thoughts, distrustfully inclined,If ye are therefore by the loved one chided,Answer: 'tis true ye change, but alter not,As she remains the same, yet changeth ever.Doubt may invade the heart, but poisons not,For love is sweeter, by suspicion flavour'd.If it with anger overcasts the eye,And heaven's bright purity perversely blackens,Then zephyr-sighs straight scare the clouds away,And, changed to tears, dissolve them into rain.Thought, hope, and love remain there as before,Till Cynthia gleams upon me as of old.
1820.* ——- LINES ON SEEING SCHILLER'S SKULL.
[This curious imitation of the ternary metre of Dante was written at the age of 77.]
WITHIN a gloomy charnel-house one day
I view'd the countless skulls, so strangely mated,And of old times I thought, that now were grey.
Close pack'd they stand, that once so fiercely hated,And hardy bones, that to the death contended,
Are lying cross'd,—to lie for ever, fated.What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended?
No one now asks; and limbs with vigour fired,The hand, the foot—their use in life is ended.
Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired;Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye're driven
Back into daylight by a force inspired;But none can love the wither'd husk, though even
A glorious noble kernel it contained.To me, an adept, was the writing given
Which not to all its holy sense explained,When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging,
I saw a form, that glorious still remained.And even there, where mould and damp were clinging,
Gave me a blest, a rapture-fraught emotion,As though from death a living fount were springing.
What mystic joy I felt! What rapt devotion!That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace!
A look, how did it whirl me tow'rd that oceanWhose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace!
Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear!Even to grasp thee is my hand too base,
Except to steal thee from thy prison hereWith pious purpose, and devoutly go
Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear.What greater gain in life can man e'er know
Than when God-Nature will to him explainHow into Spirit steadfastness may flow,
How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.
1826. ——- ROYAL PRAYER.
HA, I am the lord of earth! The noble,
Who're in my service, love me.Ha, I am the lord of earth! The noble,
O'er whom my sway extendeth, love I.Oh, grant me, God in Heaven, that I may ne'er
Dispense with loftiness and love!
1815.* ——- HUMAN FEELINGS.
AH, ye gods! ye great immortalsIn the spacious heavens above us!Would ye on this earth but give usSteadfast minds and dauntless courageWe, oh kindly ones, would leave youAll your spacious heavens above us!
1815.* ——- ON THE DIVAN.
HE who knows himself and others
Here will also see,That the East and West, like brothers,
Parted ne'er shall be.
Thoughtfully to float for ever
'Tween two worlds, be man's endeavour!So between the East and West
To revolve, be my behest!
1833.*——-EXPLANATION OF AN ANCIENT WOODCUT, REPRESENTINGHANS SACHS' POETICAL MISSION.
[I feel considerable hesitation in venturing to offer this version of a poem which Carlyle describes to be 'a beautiful piece (a very Hans Sacks beatified, both in character and style), which we wish there was any possibility of translating.' The reader will be aware that Hans Sachs was the celebrated Minstrel- Cobbler of Nuremberg, who Wrote 208 plays, 1700 comic tales, and between 4000 and 5000 lyric poems. He flourished throughout almost the whole of the 16th century.]
EARLY within his workshop here,On Sundays stands our master dear;His dirty apron he puts away,And wears a cleanly doublet to-day;Lets wax'd thread, hammer, and pincers rest,And lays his awl within his chest;The seventh day he takes reposeFrom many pulls and many blows.
Soon as the spring-sun meets his view,Repose begets him labour anew;He feels that he holds within his brainA little world, that broods there amain,And that begins to act and to live,Which he to others would gladly give.
He had a skilful eye and true,And was full kind and loving too.For contemplation, clear and pure,—For making all his own again, sure;He had a tongue that charm'd when 'twas heard,And graceful and light flow'd ev'ry word;Which made the Muses in him rejoice,The Master-singer of their choice.
And now a maiden enter'd there,With swelling breast, and body fair;With footing firm she took her place,And moved with stately, noble grace;She did not walk in wanton mood,Nor look around with glances lewd.
She held a measure in her hand,Her girdle was a golden band,A wreath of corn was on her head,Her eye the day's bright lustre shed;Her name is honest Industry,Else, Justice, Magnanimity.
She enter'd with a kindly greeting;He felt no wonder at the meeting,For, kind and fair as she might be,He long had known her, fancied he.
"I have selected thee," she said,"From all who earth's wild mazes tread,That thou shouldst have clear-sighted sense,And nought that's wrong shouldst e'er commence.When others run in strange confusion,Thy gaze shall see through each illusionWhen others dolefully complain,Thy cause with jesting thou shalt gain,Honour and right shalt value duly,In everything act simply, truly,—Virtue and godliness proclaim,And call all evil by its name,Nought soften down, attempt no quibble,Nought polish up, nought vainly scribble.The world shall stand before thee, then,As seen by Albert Durer's ken,In manliness and changeless life,In inward strength, with firmness rife.Fair Nature's Genius by the handShall lead thee on through every land,Teach thee each different life to scan,Show thee the wondrous ways of man,His shifts, confusions, thrustings, and drubbings,Pushings, tearings, pressings, and rubbings;The varying madness of the crew,The anthill's ravings bring to view;But thou shalt see all this express'd,As though 'twere in a magic chest.Write these things down for folks on earth,In hopes they may to wit give birth."—Then she a window open'd wide,And show'd a motley crowd outside,All kinds of beings 'neath the sky,As in his writings one may spy.
Our master dear was, after this,On Nature thinking, full of bliss,When tow'rd him, from the other sideHe saw an aged woman glide;The name she bears, Historia,Mythologia, Fabula;With footstep tottering and unstableShe dragg'd a large and wooden carved-table,Where, with wide sleeves and human mien,The Lord was catechizing seen;Adam, Eve, Eden, the Serpent's seduction,Gomorrah and Sodom's awful destruction,The twelve illustrious women, too,That mirror of honour brought to view;All kinds of bloodthirstiness, murder, and sin,The twelve wicked tyrants also were in,And all kinds of goodly doctrine and law;Saint Peter with his scourge you saw,With the world's ways dissatisfied,And by our Lord with power supplied.Her train and dress, behind and before,And e'en the seams, were painted o'erWith tales of worldly virtue and crime.—Our master view'd all this for a time;The sight right gladly he survey'd,So useful for him in his trade,Whence he was able to procureExample good and precept sure,Recounting all with truthful care,As though he had been present there.His spirit seem'd from earth to fly,He ne'er had turned away his eye,Did he not just behind him hearA rattle of bells approaching near.And now a fool doth catch his eye,With goat and ape's leap drawing nighA merry interlude preparingWith fooleries and jests unsparing.Behind him, in a line drawn out,He dragg'd all fools, the lean and stout,The great and little, the empty and full,All too witty, and all too dull,A lash he flourish'd overhead,As though a dance of apes he led,Abusing them with bitterness,As though his wrath would ne'er grow less.
While on this sight our master gazed,His head was growing well-nigh crazed:What words for all could he e'er find,Could such a medley be combined?Could he continue with delightFor evermore to sing and write?When lo, from out a cloud's dark bedIn at the upper window spedThe Muse, in all her majesty,As fair as our loved maids we see.With clearness she around him threwHer truth, that ever stronger grew.
"I, to ordain thee come," she spake:"So prosper, and my blessing take!The holy fire that slumb'ring liesWithin thee, in bright flames shall rise;Yet that thine ever-restless lifeMay still with kindly strength be rife,I, for thine inward spirit's calm.Have granted nourishment and balm,That rapture may thy soul imbue,Like some fair blossom bathed in dew."—Behind his house then secretlyOutside the doorway pointed she,Where, in a shady garden-nook,A beauteous maid with downcast lookWas sitting where a stream was flowing,With elder bushes near it growing,She sat beneath an apple tree,And nought around her seem'd to see.Her lap was full of roses fair,Which in a wreath she twined with care.And, with them, leaves and blossoms blended:For whom was that sweet wreath intended?Thus sat she, modest and retired,Her bosom throbb'd, with hope inspired;Such deep forebodings fill'd her mind,No room for wishing could she find,And with the thoughts that o'er it flew,Perchance a sigh was mingled too.
"But why should sorrow cloud thy brow?That, dearest love, which fills thee nowIs fraught with joy and ecstasy.Prepared in one alone for thee,That he within thine eye may findSolace when fortune proves unkind,And be newborn through many a kiss,That he receives with inward bliss;When'er he clasps thee to his breast.May he from all his toils find restWhen he in thy dear arms shall sink,May he new life and vigour drink:Fresh joys of youth shalt thou obtain,In merry jest rejoice again.With raillery and roguish spite,Thou now shalt tease him, now delight.Thus Love will nevermore grow old,Thus will the minstrel ne'er be cold!"
While he thus lives, in secret bless'd,Above him in the clouds doth restAn oak-wreath, verdant and sublime,Placed on his brow in after-time;While they are banish'd to the slough,Who their great master disavow.
1776. ——-
——-Lovingly I'll sing of love;Ever comes she from above.——-THE FRIENDLY MEETING.
IN spreading mantle to my chin conceald,
I trod the rocky path, so steep and grey,
Then to the wintry plain I bent my wayUneasily, to flight my bosom steel'd.
But sudden was the newborn day reveal'd:
A maiden came, in heavenly bright array,
Like the fair creatures of the poet's layIn realms of song. My yearning heart was heal'd.
Yet turn'd I thence, till she had onward pass'd,
While closer still the folds to draw I tried,
As though with heat self-kindled to grow warm;
But follow'd her. She stood. The die was cast!
No more within my mantle could I hide;
I threw it off,—she lay within mine arm.
1807-8. ——- IN A WORD.
THUS to be chain'd for ever, can I bear?
A very torment that, in truth, would be.
This very day my new resolve shall see.—I'll not go near the lately-worshipp'd Fair.
Yet what excuse, my heart, can I prepare
In such a case, for not consulting thee?
But courage! while our sorrows utter weIn tones where love, grief, gladness have a share.
But see! the minstrel's bidding to obey,
Its melody pours forth the sounding lyre,
Yearning a sacrifice of love to bring.
Scarce wouldst thou think it—ready is the lay;
Well, but what then? Methought in the first fire
We to her presence flew, that lay to sing.
1807─8. ——- THE MAIDEN SPEAKS.
How grave thou loookest, loved one! wherefore so?
Thy marble image seems a type of thee;
Like it, no sign of life thou giv'st to me;Compared with thee, the stone appears to glow.
Behind his shield in ambush lurks the foe,
The friend's brow all-unruffled we should see.
I seek thee, but thou seek'st away to flee;Fix'd as this sculptured figure, learn to grow!
Tell me, to which should I the preference pay?
Must I from both with coldness meet alone?
The one is lifeless, thou with life art blest.
In short, no longer to throw words away,
I'll fondy kiss and kiss and kiss this stone,
Till thou dost tear me hence with envious breast.
1807. ——- GROWTH.
O'ER field and plain, in childhood's artless days,
Thou sprang'st with me, on many a spring-morn fair.
"For such a daughter, with what pleasing care,Would I, as father, happy dwellings raise!"
And when thou on the world didst cast thy gaze,
Thy joy was then in household toils to share.
"Why did I trust her, why she trust me e'er?For such a sister, how I Heaven should praise!"
Nothing can now the beauteous growth retard;
Love's glowing flame within my breast is fann'd.
Shall I embrace her form, my grief to end?
Thee as a queen must I, alas, regard:
So high above me placed thou seem'st to stand;
Before a passing look I meekly bend.
1807─8. ——- FOOD IN TRAVEL.
IF to her eyes' bright lustre I were blind,
No longer would they serve my life to gild.
The will of destiny must be fulfilid,—This knowing, I withdrew with sadden'd mind.
No further happiness I now could find:
The former longings of my heart were still'd;
I sought her looks alone, whereon to buildMy joy in life,—all else was left behind.
Wine's genial glow, the festal banquet gay,
Ease, sleep, and friends, all wonted pleasures glad
I spurn'd, till little there remain'd to prove.
Now calmly through the world I wend my way:
That which I crave may everywhere be had,
With me I bring the one thing needful—love.
1807─8. ——- DEPARTURE.
WITH many a thousand kiss not yet content,
At length with One kiss I was forced to go;
After that bitter parting's depth of woe,I deem'd the shore from which my steps I bent,
Its hills, streams, dwellings, mountains, as I went,
A pledge of joy, till daylight ceased to glow;
Then on my sight did blissful visions growIn the dim-lighted, distant firmament,
And when at length the sea confined my gaze,
My ardent longing fill'd my heart once more;
What I had lost, unwillingly I sought.
Then Heaven appear'd to shed its kindly rays:
Methought that all I had possess'd of yore
Remain'd still mine—that I was reft of nought.
1807─8. ——- THE LOVING ONE WRITES.
THE look that thy sweet eyes on mine impress
The pledge thy lips to mine convey,—the kiss,—
He who, like me, hath knowledge sure of this,Can he in aught beside find happiness?
Removed from thee, friend-sever'd, in distress,
These thoughts I vainly struggle to dismiss:
They still return to that one hour of bliss,The only one; then tears my grief confess.
But unawares the tear makes haste to dry:
He loves, methinks, e'en to these glades so still,—
And shalt not thou to distant lands extend?
Receive the murmurs of his loving sigh;
My only joy on earth is in thy will,
Thy kindly will tow'rd me; a token send!
1807─8. ——- THE LOVING ONE ONCE MORE.
WHY do I o'er my paper once more bend?
Ask not too closely, dearest one, I pray
For, to speak truth, I've nothing now to say;Yet to thy hands at length 'twill come, dear friend.
Since I can come not with it, what I send
My undivided heart shall now convey,
With all its joys, hopes, pleasures, pains, to-day:All this hath no beginning, hath no end.
Henceforward I may ne'er to thee confide
How, far as thought, wish, fancy, will, can reach,
My faithful heart with thine is surely blended.
Thus stood I once enraptured by thy side,
Gazed on thee, and said nought. What need of speech?
My very being in itself was ended.
1807─8. ——- SHE CANNOT END.
WHEN unto thee I sent the page all white,
Instead of first thereon inscribing aught,
The space thou doubtless filledst up in sport.And sent it me, to make my joy grow bright.
As soon as the blue cover met my sight,
As well becomes a woman, quick as thought
I tore it open, leaving hidden nought,And read the well-known words of pure delight:
How kindly thou my yearning then didst still
With gentle words, enthralling me to thee.
In truth methought I read thy whispers mild
Wherewith thou lovingly my soul didst fill,
E'en to myself for aye ennobling me.
1807─8. ——- NEMESIS.
WHEN through the nations stalks contagion wild,
We from them cautiously should steal away.
E'en I have oft with ling'ring and delayShunn'd many an influence, not to be defil'd.
And e'en though Amor oft my hours beguil'd,
At length with him preferr'd I not to play,
And so, too, with the wretched sons of clay,When four and three-lined verses they compil'd.
But punishment pursues the scoffer straight,
As if by serpent-torch of furies led
From bill to vale, from land to sea to fly.
I hear the genie's laughter at my fate;
Yet do I find all power of thinking fled
In sonnet-rage and love's fierce ecstasy.
1807-8. ——- THE CHRISTMAS-BOX.
THIS box, mine own sweet darling, thou wilt find
With many a varied sweetmeat's form supplied;
The fruits are they of holy Christmas tide,But baked indeed, for children's use design'd.
I'd fain, in speeches sweet with skill combin'd,
Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;
But why in such frivolities confide?Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!
One sweet thing there is still, that from within,
Within us speaks,—that may be felt afar;
This may be wafted o'er to thee alone.
If thou a recollection fond canst win,
As if with pleasure gleam'd each well-known star,
The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.
1807. ——- THE WARNING.
WHEN sounds the trumpet at the Judgment Day,
And when forever all things earthly die,
We must a full and true account supplyOf ev'ry useless word we dropp'd in play.
But what effect will all the words convey
Wherein with eager zeal and lovingly,
That I might win thy favour, labour'd I,If on thine ear alone they die away?
Therefore, sweet love, thy conscience bear in mind,
Remember well how long thou hast delay'd,
So that the world such sufferings may not know.
If I must reckon, and excuses find
For all things useless I to thee have said,
To a full year the Judgment Day will grow
1807─8. ——- THE EPOCHS.
ON Petrarch's heart, all other days before,
In flaming letters written, was impress d
GOOD FRIDAY. And on mine, be it confess'd,Is this year's ADVENT, as it passeth o'er.
I do not now begin,—I still adore
Her whom I early cherish'd in my breast;,
Then once again with prudence dispossess'd,And to whose heart I'm driven back once more.
The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love,
Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad;
One long Good Friday 'twas, one heartache drear
But may my mistress' Advent ever prove,
With its palm-jubilee, so sweet and glad,
One endless Mayday, through the livelong year!
1807. ——- THE DOUBTERS AND THE LOVERS.
YE love, and sonnets write! Fate's strange behest!
The heart, its hidden meaning to declare,
Must seek for rhymes, uniting pair with pair:Learn, children, that the will is weak, at best.
Scarcely with freedom the o'erflowing breast
As yet can speak, and well may it beware;
Tempestuous passions sweep each chord that's there,Then once more sink to night and gentle rest.
Why vex yourselves and us, the heavy stone
Up the steep path but step by step to roll?
It falls again, and ye ne'er cease to strive.
But we are on the proper road alone!
If gladly is to thaw the frozen soul,
The fire of love must aye be kept alive.
1807─8. ——- CHARADE.
Two words there 'are, both short, of beauty rare,
Whose sounds our lips so often love to frame,
But which with clearness never can proclaimThe things whose own peculiar stamp they bear.
'Tis well in days of age and youth so fair,
One on the other boldly to inflame;
And if those words together link'd we name,A blissful rapture we discover there.
But now to give them pleasure do I seek,
And in myself my happiness would find;
I hope in silence, but I hope for this:
Gently, as loved one's names, those words to speak
To see them both within one image shrin'd,
Both in one being to embrace with bliss.
1807. ——-
——-In these numbers be express'dMeaning deep, 'neath merry jest.——-
A FELLOW says: "I own no school or college;No master lives whom I acknowledge;And pray don't entertain the thoughtThat from the dead I e'er learnt aught."This, if I rightly understand,Means: "I'm a blockhead at first hand."
1815. ——- THE SOLDIER'S CONSOLATION.
No! in truth there's here no lack:White the bread, the maidens black!To another town, next night:Black the bread, the maidens white!
1815.* ——- GENIAL IMPULSE.
THUS roll I, never taking ease,My tub, like Saint Diogenes,Now serious am, now seek to please;Now love and hate in turn one sees;The motives now are those, now these;Now nothings, now realities.Thus roll I, never taking ease,My tub, like Saint Diogenes.
1810. ——- NEITHER THIS NOR THAT.
IF thou to be a slave shouldst will,Thou'lt get no pity, but fare ill;And if a master thou wouldst be,The world will view it angrily;And if in statu quo thou stay,That thou art but a fool, they'll say.
1815.* ——- THE WAY TO BEHAVE.
THOUGH tempers are bad and peevish folks swear,Remember to ruffle thy brows, friend, ne'er;And let not the fancies of women so fairE'er serve thy pleasure in life to impair.
1815.* ——- THE BEST.
WHEN head and heart are busy, say,
What better can be found?Who neither loves nor goes astray,
Were better under ground.
1815.* ——- AS BROAD AS IT'S LONG.
MODEST men must needs endure,
And the bold must humbly bow;Thus thy fate's the same, be sure,
Whether bold or modest thou.
1815.* ——- THE RULE OF LIFE.
IF thou wouldst live unruffled by care,Let not the past torment thee e'er;As little as possible be thou annoy'd,And let the present be ever enjoy'd;Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied,And to God the future confide.
1815.* ——- THE SAME, EXPANDED.
IF thou wouldst live unruffled by care,Let not the past torment thee e'er;If any loss thou hast to rue,Act as though thou wert born anew;Inquire the meaning of each day,What each day means itself will say;In thine own actions take thy pleasure,What others do, thou'lt duly treasure;Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied,And to God the future confide.
——-
IF wealth is gone—then something is gone!
Quick, make up thy mind,
And fresh wealth find.If honour is gone—then much is gone!
Seek glory to find,
And people then will alter their mind.If courage is gone—then all is gone!'Twere better that thou hadst never been born.
——-
HE who with life makes sport,
Can prosper never;Who rules himself in nought,
Is a slave ever.
MAY each honest effort be
Crown'd with lasting constancy.
——-
EACH road to the proper endRuns straight on, without a bend.
1825. ——- CALM AT SEA.
SILENCE deep rules o'er the waters,
Calmly slumb'ring lies the main,While the sailor views with trouble
Nought but one vast level plain.
Not a zephyr is in motion!
Silence fearful as the grave!In the mighty waste of ocean
Sunk to rest is ev'ry wave.
1795. ——- THE PROSPEROUS VOYAGE.
THE mist is fast clearing.And radiant is heaven,Whilst AEolus loosensOur anguish-fraught bond.The zephyrs are sighing,Alert is the sailor.Quick! nimbly be plying!The billows are riven,The distance approaches;I see land beyond!
1795. ——- COURAGE.
CARELESSLY over the plain away,Where by the boldest man no pathCut before thee thou canst discern,Make for thyself a path!
Silence, loved one, my heart!Cracking, let it not break!Breaking, break not with thee!
1776.* ——- MY ONLY PROPERTY.
I FEEL that I'm possess'd of nought,Saving the free unfetterd thought
Which from my bosom seeks to flow,And each propitious passing hourThat suffers me in all its power
A loving fate with truth to know.
1814. ——- ADMONITION.
WHEREFORE ever ramble on?
For the Good is lying near,Fortune learn to seize alone,
For that Fortune's ever here.
1789. ——- OLD AGE.
OLD age is courteous—no one more:For time after time he knocks at the door,But nobody says, "Walk in, sir, pray!"Yet turns he not from the door away,But lifts the latch, and enters with speed.And then they cry "A cool one, indeed!"
1814. ——- EPITAPH.
As a boy, reserved and naughty;As a youth, a coxcomb and haughty;As a man, for action inclined;As a greybeard, fickle in mind.—Upon thy grave will people read:This was a very man, indeed!
1815.* ——- RULES FOR MONARCHS.
IF men are never their thoughts to employ,Take care to provide them a life full of joy;But if to some profit and use thou wouldst bend them,Take care to shear them, and then defend them.
1815.* ——- PAULO POST FUTURI.
WEEP ye not, ye children dear,
That as yet ye are unborn:For each sorrow and each tear
Makes the father's heart to mourn.
Patient be a short time to it,
Unproduced, and known to none;If your father cannot do it,
By your mother 'twill be done.
1784. ——- THE FOOL'S EPILOGUE.
MANY good works I've done and ended,Ye take the praise—I'm not offended;For in the world, I've always thoughtEach thing its true position hath sought.When praised for foolish deeds am I,I set off laughing heartily;When blamed for doing something good,I take it in an easy mood.If some one stronger gives me hard blows,That it's a jest, I feign to suppose:But if 'tis one that's but my own like,I know the way such folks to strike.When Fortune smiles, I merry grow,And sing in dulci jubilo;When sinks her wheel, and tumbles me o'er,I think 'tis sure to rise once more.
In the sunshine of summer I ne'er lament,Because the winter it cannot prevent;And when the white snow-flakes fall around,I don my skates, and am off with a bound.Though I dissemble as I will,The sun for me will ne'er stand still;The old and wonted course is run,Until the whole of life is done;Each day the servant like the lord,In turns comes home, and goes abroad;If proud or humble the line they take,They all must eat, drink, sleep, and wake.So nothing ever vexes me;Act like the fool, and wise ye'll be!
1804. ——-
——-Joy from that in type we borrow,Which in life gives only sorrow.——-JOY.
A DRAGON-FLY with beauteous wingIs hov'ring o'er a silv'ry spring;I watch its motions with delight,—Now dark its colours seem, now bright;Chameleon-like appear, now blue,Now red, and now of greenish hue.Would it would come still nearer me,That I its tints might better see
It hovers, flutters, resting ne'er!
But hush! it settles on the mead.I have it safe now, I declare!
And when its form I closely view,
'Tis of a sad and dingy blue—Such, Joy-Dissector, is thy case indeed
1767-9. ——- EXPLANATION OF AN ANTIQUE GEM,
A YOUNG fig-tree its form lifts high
Within a beauteous garden;And see, a goat is sitting by.
As if he were its warden.
But oh, Quirites, how one errs!
The tree is guarded badly;For round the other side there whirrs
And hums a beetle madly.
The hero with his well-mail'd coat
Nibbles the branches tall so;A mighty longing feels the goat
Gently to climb up also.
And so, my friends, ere long ye see
The tree all leafless standing;It looks a type of misery,
Help of the gods demanding.
Then listen, ye ingenuous youth,
Who hold wise saws respected:From he-goat and from beetles-tooth
A tree should be protected!
1815. ——- CAT-PIE.
WHILE he is mark'd by vision clear
Who fathoms Nature's treasures,The man may follow, void of fear,
Who her proportions measures.
Though for one mortal, it is true,
These trades may both be fitted,Yet, that the things themselves are two
Must always be admitted.
Once on a time there lived a cook
Whose skill was past disputing,Who in his head a fancy took
To try his luck at shooting.
So, gun in hand, he sought a spot
Where stores of game were breeding,And there ere long a cat he shot
That on young birds was feeding.
This cat he fancied was a hare,
Forming a judgment hasty,So served it up for people's fare,
Well-spiced and in a pasty.
Yet many a guest with wrath was fill'd
(All who had noses tender):The cat that's by the sportsman kill'd
No cook a hare can render.
1810. ——- LEGEND.
THERE lived in the desert a holy man
To whom a goat-footed Faun one dayPaid a visit, and thus began