To his surprise: "I entreat thee to prayThat grace to me and my friends may be given,That we may be able to mount to Heaven,For great is our thirst for heav'nly bliss."The holy man made answer to this:"Much danger is lurking in thy petition,Nor will it be easy to gain admission;Thou dost not come with an angel's salute;For I see thou wearest a cloven foot."The wild man paused, and then answer'd he:"What doth my goat's foot matter to thee?Full many I've known into heaven to passStraight and with ease, with the head of an ass!"
1815.* ——- AUTHORS.
OVER the meadows, and down the stream,
And through the garden-walks straying,He plucks the flowers that fairest seem;
His throbbing heart brooks no delaying.His maiden then comes—oh, what ecstasy!Thy flowers thou giv'st for one glance of her eye!
The gard'ner next door o'er the hedge sees the youth:"I'm not such a fool as that, in good truth;My pleasure is ever to cherish each flower,And see that no birds my fruit e'er devour.But when 'tis ripe, your money, good neighbour!'Twas not for nothing I took all this labour!"And such, methinks, are the author-tribe.
The one his pleasures around him strews,
That his friends, the public, may reap, if they choose;The other would fain make them all subscribe,
1776.* ——- THE CRITIC.
I HAD a fellow as my guest,Not knowing he was such a pest,And gave him just my usual fare;He ate his fill of what was there,
And for desert my best things swallow'd,Soon as his meal was o'er, what follow'd?Led by the Deuce, to a neighbour he went,And talk'd of my food to his heart's content:"The soup might surely have had more spice,The meat was ill-brown'd, and the wine wasn't nice."A thousand curses alight on his head!'Tis a critic, I vow! Let the dog be struck dead!
1776.* ——- THE DILETTANTE AND THE CRITIC.
A BOY a pigeon once possess'd,In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd;He loved it well, and in boyish sportIts food to take from his mouth he taught,And in his pigeon he took such pride,That his joy to others he needs must confide.
An aged fox near the place chanc'd to dwell,Talkative, clever, and learned as well;The boy his society used to prize,Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies.
"My friend the fox my pigeon must seeHe ran, and stretch'd 'mongst the bushes lay he"Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair!His equal I'm sure thou hast look'd upon ne'er!"
"Let's see!"—The boy gave it.—"'Tis really not bad;And yet, it is far from complete, I must add.The feathers, for, instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!"So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird.
The boy screamed.—"Thou must now stronger pinions supply,Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly."—Soon 'twas stripp'd—oh, the villain!—and torn all to pieces.The boy was heart-broken,—and so my tale ceases.
* * * *
He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case,Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.
1776.* ——- THE WRANGLER.
ONE day a shameless and impudent wightWent into a shop full of steel wares bright,Arranged with art upon ev'ry shelf.He fancied they were all meant for himself;And so, while the patient owner stood by,The shining goods needs must handle and try,And valued,—for how should a fool better know?—The bad things high, and the good ones low,And all with an easy self-satisfied face;Then, having bought nothing, he left the place.
The tradesman now felt sorely vex'd,So when the fellow went there next,A lock of steel made quite red hot.The other cried upon the spot:"Such wares as these, who'd ever buy?the steel is tarnish'd shamefully,"—Then pull'd it, like a fool about,But soon set up a piteous shout."Pray what's the matter?" the shopman spoke;The other scream'd: "Faith, a very cool joke!"
1815.* ——- THE YELPERS.
OUR rides in all directions bend,
For business or for pleasure,Yet yelpings on our steps attend,
And barkings without measure.The dog that in our stable dwells,
After our heels is striding,And all the while his noisy yells
But show that we are riding.
1815.* ——- THE STORK'S VOCATION.
THE stork who worms and frogs devours
That in our ponds reside,Why should he dwell on high church-towers,
With which he's not allied?
Incessantly he chatters there,
And gives our ears no rest;But neither old nor young can dare
To drive him from his nest.
I humbly ask it,—how can he
Give of his title proof,Save by his happy tendency
To soil the church's roof?——-CELEBRITY.
[A satire on his own Sorrows of Werther.]
ON bridges small and bridges greatStands Nepomucks in ev'ry state,Of bronze, wood, painted, or of stone,Some small as dolls, some giants grown;Each passer must worship before Nepomuck,Who to die on a bridge chanced to have the ill luck,When once a man with head and earsA saint in people's eyes appears,Or has been sentenced piteouslyBeneath the hangman's hand to die,He's as a noted person prized,In portrait is immortalized.Engravings, woodcuts, are supplied,And through the world spread far and wide.Upon them all is seen his name,And ev'ry one admits his claim;Even the image of the LordIs not with greater zeal ador'd.Strange fancy of the human race!Half sinner frail, half child of graceWe see HERR WERTHER of the storyIn all the pomp of woodcut glory.His worth is first made duly known,By having his sad features shownAt ev'ry fair the country round;In ev'ry alehouse too they're found.His stick is pointed by each dunce"The ball would reach his brain at once!"And each says, o'er his beer and bread:"Thank Heav'n that 'tis not we are dead!"
1815.* ——- PLAYING AT PRIESTS.
WITHIN a town where parityAccording to old form we see,—That is to say, where CatholicAnd Protestant no quarrels pick,And where, as in his father's day,Each worships God in his own way,We Luth'ran children used to dwell,By songs and sermons taught as well.The Catholic clingclang in truthSounded more pleasing to our youth,For all that we encounter'd there,To us seem'd varied, joyous, fair.As children, monkeys, and mankindTo ape each other are inclin'd,We soon, the time to while away,A game at priests resolved to play.Their aprons all our sisters lentFor copes, which gave us great content;And handkerchiefs, embroider'd o'er,Instead of stoles we also wore;Gold paper, whereon beasts were traced,The bishop's brow as mitre graced.
Through house and garden thus in stateWe strutted early, strutted late,Repeating with all proper unction,Incessantly each holy function.The best was wanting to the game;
We knew that a sonorous ring
Was here a most important thing;But Fortune to our rescue came,For on the ground a halter lay;
We were delighted, and at once
Made it a bellrope for the nonce,And kept it moving all the day;
In turns each sister and each brother
Acted as sexton to another;All help'd to swell the joyous throng;
The whole proceeded swimmingly,
And since no actual bell had we,We all in chorus sang, Ding dong!
* * * * *
Our guileless child's-sport long was hush'd
In memory's tomb, like some old lay;And yet across my mind it rush'd
With pristine force the other day.The New-Poetic CatholicsIn ev'ry point its aptness fix!
1815.* ——- SONGS.
SONGS are like painted window-panes!In darkness wrapp'd the church remains,If from the market-place we view it;Thus sees the ignoramus through it.No wonder that he deems it tame,—And all his life 'twill be the same.
But let us now inside repair,And greet the holy Chapel there!At once the whole seems clear and bright,Each ornament is bathed in light,And fraught with meaning to the sight.God's children! thus your fortune prize,Be edified, and feast your eyes!
1827.* ——- POETRY.
GOD to his untaught children sent
Law, order, knowledge, art, from high,And ev'ry heav'nly favour lent,
The world's hard lot to qualify.They knew not how they should behave,
For all from Heav'n stark-naked came;But Poetry their garments gave,
And then not one had cause for shame.
1816. ——- A PARABLE.
I PICKED a rustic nosegay lately,And bore it homewards, musing greatly;When, heated by my hand, I foundThe heads all drooping tow'rd the ground.I plac'd them in a well-cool'd glass,And what a wonder came to passThe heads soon raised themselves once more.The stalks were blooming as before,And all were in as good a caseAs when they left their native place.
* * * *
So felt I, when I wond'ring heardMy song to foreign tongues transferr'd.
1828. ——- SHOULD E'ER THE LOVELESS DAY.
SHOULD e'er the loveless day remainObscured by storms of hail and rain,
Thy charms thou showest never;I tap at window, tap at door:Come, lov'd one, come! appear once more!
Thou art as fair as ever!
1827.* ——- A PLAN THE MUSES ENTERTAINED.
A PLAN the Muses entertain'd
Methodically to impart
To Psyche the poetic art;Prosaic-pure her soul remain'd.No wondrous sounds escaped her lyre
E'en in the fairest Summer night;But Amor came with glance of fire,—
The lesson soon was learn'd aright.
1827.* ——- THE DEATH OF THE FLY.
WITH eagerness he drinks the treach'rous potion,
Nor stops to rest, by the first taste misled;Sweet is the draught, but soon all power of motion
He finds has from his tender members fled;No longer has he strength to plume his wing,No longer strength to raise his head, poor thing!E'en in enjoyment's hour his life he loses,His little foot to bear his weight refuses;So on he sips, and ere his draught is o'er,Death veils his thousand eyes for evermore.
1810. ——- BY THE RIVER.
WHEN by the broad stream thou dost dwell,
Oft shallow is its sluggish flood;Then, when thy fields thou tendest well,
It o'er them spreads its slime and mud.
The ships descend ere daylight wanes,
The prudent fisher upward goes;Round reef and rock ice casts its chains,
And boys at will the pathway close.
To this attend, then, carefully,
And what thou wouldst, that execute!Ne'er linger, ne'er o'erhasty be,
For time moves on with measured foot.
1821.* ——- THE FOX AND CRANE.
ONCE two persons uninvited
Came to join my dinner table;For the nonce they lived united,
Fox and crane yclept in fable.
Civil greetings pass'd between us
Then I pluck'd some pigeons tenderFor the fox of jackal-genius,
Adding grapes in full-grown splendour.
Long-neck'd flasks I put as dishes
For the crane, without delaying,Fill'd with gold and silver fishes,
In the limpid water playing.
Had ye witness'd Reynard planted
At his flat plate, all demurely,Ye with envy must have granted:
"Ne'er was such a gourmand, surely!"
While the bird with circumspection
On one foot, as usual, cradled,From the flasks his fish-refection
With his bill and long neck ladled.
One the pigeons praised,—the other,
As they went, extoll'd the fishes,Each one scoffing at his brother
For preferring vulgar dishes.
* * *
If thou wouldst preserve thy credit,
When thou askest folks to guzzleAt thy hoard, take care to spread it
Suited both for bill and muzzle.
1819. ——- THE FOX AND HUNTSMAN.
HARD 'tis on a fox's traces
To arrive, midst forest-glades;Hopeless utterly the chase is,
If his flight the huntsman aids.
And so 'tis with many a wonder,
(Why A B make Ab in fact,)Over which we gape and blunder,
And our head and brains distract.
1821.* ——- THE FROGS.
A POOL was once congeal'd with frost;The frogs, in its deep waters lost,
No longer dared to croak or spring;But promised, being half asleep,If suffer'd to the air to creep,
As very nightingales to sing.
A thaw dissolved the ice so strong,—They proudly steer'd themselves along,When landed, squatted on the shore,And croak'd as loudly as before.
1821.* ——- THE WEDDING.
A FEAST was in a village spread,—It was a wedding-day, they said.The parlour of the inn I found,And saw the couples whirling round,Each lass attended by her lad,And all seem'd loving, blithe, and glad;But on my asking for the bride,A fellow with a stare, replied:"'Tis not the place that point to raise!
We're only dancing in her honour;We now have danced three nights and days,
And not bestowed one thought upon her."
* * * *
Whoe'er in life employs his eyesSuch cases oft will recognise.
1821.* ——- BURIAL.
To the grave one day from a house they bore
A maiden;To the window the citizens went to explore;In splendour they lived, and with wealth as of yore
Their banquets were laden.Then thought they: "The maid to the tomb is now borne;We too from our dwellings ere long must be torn,And he that is left our departure to mourn,
To our riches will be the successor,
For some one must be their possessor.
1827.* ——- THREATENING SIGNS.
IF Venus in the evening skyIs seen in radiant majesty,If rod-like comets, red as blood,Are 'mongst the constellations view'd,Out springs the Ignoramus, yelling:"The star's exactly o'er my dwelling!What woeful prospect, ah, for me!Then calls his neighbour mournfully:"Behold that awful sign of evil,Portending woe to me, poor devil!My mother's asthma ne'er will leave her,My child is sick with wind and fever;I dread the illness of my wife,A week has pass'd, devoid of strife,—And other things have reach'd my ear;The Judgment Day has come, I fear!"
His neighbour answered: "Friend, you're right!Matters look very had to-night.Let's go a street or two, though, hence,And gaze upon the stars from thence."—No change appears in either case.Let each remain then in his place,And wisely do the best he can,Patient as any other man.
1821.* ——- THE BUYERS.
To an apple-woman's stall
Once some children nimbly ran;Longing much to purchase all,They with joyous haste beganSnatching up the piles there raised,While with eager eyes they gazedOn the rosy fruit so nice;But when they found out the price,Down they threw the whole they'd got,Just as if they were red hot.
* * * * *
The man who gratis will his goods supplyWill never find a lack of folks to buy!
1820. ——- THE MOUNTAIN VILLAGE.
"THE mountain village was destroy'd;But see how soon is fill'd the void!Shingles and boards, as by magic arise,The babe in his cradle and swaddling-clothes lies;How blest to trust to God's protection!"
Behold a wooden new erection,So that, if sparks and wind but choose,God's self at such a game must lose!
1821.* ——- SYMBOLS.
PALM Sunday at the Vatican
They celebrate with palms;With reverence bows each holy man,
And chaunts the ancient psalms.Those very psalms are also sung
With olive boughs in hand,While holly, mountain wilds among,
In place of palms must stand:In fine, one seeks some twig that's green,
And takes a willow rod,So that the pious man may e'en
In small things praise his God.
And if ye have observed it well,
To gain what's fit ye're able,If ye in faith can but excel;
Such are the myths of fable.
1827.* ——- THREE PALINODIAS.
"Incense is hut a tribute for the gods,—To mortals 'tis but poison."
THE smoke that from thine altar blows,
Can it the gods offend?For I observe thou hold'st thy nose—
Pray what does this portend?Mankind deem incense to excel
Each other earthly thing,So he that cannot bear its smell,
No incense e'er should bring.
With unmoved face by thee at least
To dolls is homage given;If not obstructed by the priest,
The scent mounts up to heaven.
1827.*
SIR Wit, who is so much esteem'd,
And who is worthy of all honour,Saw Beauty his superior deem'd
By folks who loved to gaze upon her;At this he was most sorely vex'd.
Then came Sir Breath (long known as fit
To represent the cause of wit),
Beginning, rudely, I admit,To treat the lady with a text.To this she hearken'd not at all,But hasten'd to his principal:"None are so wise, they say, as you,—Is not the world enough for two?
If you are obstinate, good-bye!If wise, to love me you will try,For be assured the world can ne'erGive birth to a more handsome pair."
1827.*
=====
FAIR daughters were by Beauty rear'd,
Wit had but dull sons for his lot;So for a season it appear'd
Beauty was constant, Wit was not.But Wit's a native of the soil,
So he return'd, work'd, strove amain,And found—sweet guerdon for his toil!—
Beauty to quicken him again.
1827.*
DURING a heavy storm it chancedThat from his room a cockney glancedAt the fierce tempest as it broke,While to his neighbour thus he spoke:"The thunder has our awe inspired,Our barns by lightning have been fired,—Our sins to punish, I suppose;But in return, to soothe our woes,See how the rain in torrents fell,Making the harvest promise well!But is't a rainbow that I spyExtending o'er the dark-grey sky?With it I'm sure we may dispense,The colour'd cheat! The vain pretence!"Dame Iris straightway thus replied:"Dost dare my beauty to deride?In realms of space God station'd meA type of better worlds to beTo eyes that from life's sorrows roveIn cheerful hope to Heav'n above,And, through the mists that hover hereGod and his precepts blest revere.Do thou, then, grovel like the swine,And to the ground thy snout confine,But suffer the enlighten'd eyeTo feast upon my majesty."
1827.*
I ONCE was fond of fools,
And bid them come each day;Then each one brought his tools
The carpenter to play;The roof to strip first choosing,
Another to supply,The wood as trestles using,
To move it by-and-by,While here and there they ran,
And knock'd against each other;To fret I soon began,
My anger could not smother,So cried, "Get out, ye fools!"
At this they were offendedThen each one took his tools,
And so our friendship ended.
Since that, I've wiser been,
And sit beside my door;When one of them is seen,
I cry, "Appear no more!""Hence, stupid knave!" I bellow:
At this he's angry too:"You impudent old fellow!
And pray, sir, who are you?Along the streets we riot,
And revel at the fair;But yet we're pretty quiet,
And folks revile us ne'er.Don't call us names, then, please!"—At length I meet with ease,
For now they leave my door—'Tis better than before!
1827.* ——- THE COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER.
A MASTER of a country schoolJump'd up one day from off his stool,Inspired with firm resolve to tryTo gain the best society;So to the nearest baths he walk'd,And into the saloon he stalk'd.He felt quite. startled at the door,Ne'er having seen the like before.To the first stranger made he nowA very low and graceful bow,But quite forgot to bear in mindThat people also stood behind;His left-hand neighbor's paunch he struckA grievous blow, by great ill luck;Pardon for this he first entreated,And then in haste his bow repeated.His right hand neighbor next he hit,And begg'd him, too, to pardon it;But on his granting his petition,Another was in like condition;These compliments he paid to all,Behind, before, across the hall;At length one who could stand no more,Show'd him impatiently the door.
* * * *
May many, pond'ring on their crimes,A moral draw from this betimes!
As he proceeded on his wayHe thought, "I was too weak to-day;To bow I'll ne'er again be seen;For goats will swallow what is green."Across the fields he now must speed,Not over stumps and stones, indeed,But over meads and cornfields sweet,Trampling down all with clumsy feet.A farmer met him by-and-by,And didn't ask him: how? or why?But with his fist saluted him.
"I feel new life in every limb!"Our traveller cried in ecstasy."Who art thou who thus gladden'st me?May Heaven such blessings ever send!Ne'er may I want a jovial friend!"
1808.* ——- THE LEGEND OF THE HORSESHOE.
WHAT time our Lord still walk'd the earth,Unknown, despised, of humble birth,And on Him many a youth attended(His words they seldom comprehended),It ever seem'd to Him most meetTo hold His court in open street,As under heaven's broad canopyOne speaks with greater liberty.The teachings of His blessed wordFrom out His holy mouth were heard;Each market to a fane turn'd HeWith parable and simile.
One day, as tow'rd a town He roved,In peace of mind with those He loved,Upon the path a something gleam'd;A broken horseshoe 'twas, it seem'd.So to St. Peter thus He spake:"That piece of iron prythee take!"St. Peter's thoughts had gone astray,—He had been musing on his wayRespecting the world's government,A dream that always gives content,For in the head 'tis check'd by nought;This ever was his dearest thought,For him this prize was far too meanHad it a crown and sceptre been!But, surely, 'twasn't worth the troubleFor half a horseshoe to bend double!And so he turn'd away his head,As if he heard not what was said,
The Lord, forbearing tow'rd all men,Himself pick'd up the horseshoe then(He ne'er again like this stoop'd down).And when at length they reach'd the town,Before a smithy He remain'd,And there a penny for 't obtain'd.As they the market-place went by,Some beauteous cherries caught His eye:Accordingly He bought as manyAs could be purchased for a penny,And then, as oft His wont had been,Placed them within His sleeve unseen.
They went out by another gate,O'er plains and fields proceeding straight,No house or tree was near the spot,The sun was bright, the day was hot;In short, the weather being such,A draught of water was worth much.The Lord walk'd on before them all,And let, unseen, a cherry fall.St. Peter rush'd to seize it hold,As though an apple 'twere of gold;His palate much approv'd the berry;The Lord ere long another cherryOnce more let fall upon the plain;St. Peter forthwith stoop'd again.The Lord kept making him thus bendTo pick up cherries without end.For a long time the thing went on;The Lord then said, in cheerful tone:"Had'st thou but moved when thou wert bid,Thou of this trouble had'st been rid;The man who small things scorns, will next,By things still smaller be perplex'd."
1797. ——- A SYMBOL.
(This fine poem is given by Goethe amongst a small collection of what he calls Loge (Lodge), meaning thereby Masonic pieces.)
THE mason's trade Observe them well,
Resembles life, And watch them revealing
With all its strife,— How solemn feelingIs like the stir made And wonderment swell
By man on earth's face. The hearts of the brave.
Though weal and woe The voice of the blest,
The future may hide, And of spirits on high
Unterrified Seems loudly to cry:We onward go "To do what is best,
In ne'er changing race. Unceasing endeavour!
A veil of dread "In silence eterne
Hangs heavier still. Here chaplets are twin'd,
Deep slumbers fill That each noble mindThe stars over-head, Its guerdon may earn.—
And the foot-trodden grave. Then hope ye for ever!"
1827.* ——-
——-Artist, fashion! talk not long!Be a breath thine only song!——-THE DROPS OF NECTAR.
WHEN Minerva, to give pleasureTo Prometheus, her well-loved one,Brought a brimming bowl of nectarFrom the glorious realms of heavenAs a blessing for his creatures,And to pour into their bosomsImpulses for arts ennobling,She with rapid footstep hasten'd,Fearing Jupiter might see her,And the golden goblet trembled,And there fell a few drops from itOn the verdant plain beneath her.Then the busy bees flew thitherStraightway, eagerly to drink them,And the butterfly came quicklyThat he, too, might find a drop there;Even the misshapen spiderThither crawl'd and suck'd with vigour.
To a happy end they tasted,They, and other gentle insects!For with mortals now divide theyArt─that noblest gift of all.
1789.* ——- THE WANDERER.
[Published in the Gottingen Musen Almanach, having been written "to express his feelings and caprices" after his separation from Frederica.]
YOUNG woman, may God bless thee,Thee, and the sucking infantUpon thy breast!Let me, 'gainst this rocky wall,Neath the elm-tree's shadow,Lay aside my burden,Near thee take my rest.
What vocation leads thee,While the day is burning,Up this dusty path?Bring'st thou goods from out the townRound the country?Smil'st thou, stranger,At my question?
From the town no goods I bring.Cool is now the evening;Show to me the fountain'Whence thou drinkest,Woman young and kind!
Up the rocky pathway mount;Go thou first! Across the thicketLeads the pathway tow'rd the cottageThat I live in,To the fountainWhence I drink.
Signs of man's arranging handSee I 'mid the trees!Not by thee these stones were join'd,Nature, who so freely scatterest!
Up, still up!
Lo, a mossy architrave is here!I discern thee, fashioning spirit!On the stone thou hast impress'd thy seal.
Onward, stranger!
Over an inscription am I treading!'Tis effaced!Ye are seen no longer,Words so deeply graven,Who your master's true devotionShould have shown to thousand grandsons!
At these stones, whyStart'st thou, stranger?Many stones are lying yonderRound my cottage.
Yonder?
Through the thicket,Turning to the left,Here!
Ye Muses and ye Graces!
This, then, is my cottage.
'Tis a ruin'd temple! *
Just below it, see,Springs the fountainWhence I drink.
Thou dost hoverO'er thy grave, all glowing,Genius! while upon theeHath thy master-pieceFallen crumbling,Thou Immortal One!
Stay, a cup I'll fetch theeWhence to drink.
Ivy circles thy slenderForm so graceful and godlike.How ye rise on highFrom the ruins,Column-pairAnd thou, their lonely sister yonder,—How thou,Dusky moss upon thy sacred head,—Lookest down in mournful majestyOn thy brethren's figuresLying scatter'dAt thy feet!In the shadow of the brambleEarth and rubbish veil them,Lofty grass is waving o'er themIs it thus thou, Nature, prizestThy great masterpiece's masterpiece?Carelessly destroyest thouThine own sanctuary,Sowing thistles there?
How the infant sleeps!Wilt thou rest thee in the cottage,Stranger? Wouldst thou ratherIn the open air still linger?Now 'tis cool! take thou the childWhile I go and draw some water.Sleep on, darling! sleep!
Sweet is thy repose!How, with heaven-born health imbued,Peacefully he slumbers!Oh thou, born among the ruinsSpread by great antiquity,On thee rest her spirit!He whom it encirclesWill, in godlike consciousness,Ev'ry day enjoy.Full, of germ, unfold,As the smiling springtime'sFairest charm,Outshining all thy fellows!And when the blossom's husk is faded,May the full fruit shoot forthFrom out thy breast,And ripen in the sunshine!
God bless him!—Is he sleeping still?To the fresh draught I nought can add,Saving a crust of bread for thee to eat.
I thank thee well.How fair the verdure all around!How green!
My husband soonWill home returnFrom labour. Tarry, tarry, man,And with us eat our evening meal.
Is't here ye dwell?
Yonder, within those walls we live.My father 'twas who built the cottageOf tiles and stones from out the ruins.'Tis here we dwell.He gave me to a husbandman,And in our arms expired.—Hast thou been sleeping, dearest heartHow lively, and how full of play!Sweet rogue!
Nature, thou ever budding one,Thou formest each for life's enjoyments,And, like a mother, all thy children dear,Blessest with that sweet heritage,—a homeThe swallow builds the cornice round,Unconscious of the beautiesShe plasters up.The caterpillar spins around the bough,To make her brood a winter house;And thou dost patch, between antiquity'sMost glorious relics,For thy mean use,Oh man, a humble cot,—Enjoyest e'en mid tombs!—Farewell, thou happy woman!
Thou wilt not stay, then?
May God preserve thee,And bless thy boy!
A happy journey!
Whither conducts the pathAcross yon hill?
To Cuma.
How far from hence?
'Tis full three miles.
Farewell!Oh Nature, guide me on my way!The wandering stranger guide,Who o'er the tombsOf holy bygone timesIs passing,To a kind sheltering place,From North winds safe,And where a poplar groveShuts out the noontide ray!And when I comeHome to my cotAt evening,Illumined by the setting sun,Let me embrace a wife like this,Her infant in her arms!
1772. * Compare with the beautiful description contained in the subsequent lines, an account of a ruined temple of Ceres, given by Chamberlayne in his Pharonnida (published in 1659)
"…. With mournful majesiyA heap of solitary ruins lie,Half sepulchred in dust, the bankrupt heirTo prodigal antiquity…."——-LOVE AS A LANDSCAPE PAINTER.
ON a rocky peak once sat I early,Gazing on the mist with eyes unmoving;Stretch'd out like a pall of greyish texture,All things round, and all above it cover'd.
Suddenly a boy appear'd beside me,Saying "Friend, what meanest thou by gazingOn the vacant pall with such composure?Hast thou lost for evermore all pleasureBoth in painting cunningly, and forming?"On the child I gazed, and thought in secret:"Would the boy pretend to be a master?"
"Wouldst thou be for ever dull and idle,"Said the boy, "no wisdom thou'lt attain to;See, I'll straightway paint for thee a figure,—How to paint a beauteous figure, show thee."
And he then extended his fore-finger,—(Ruddy was it as a youthful rosebud)Tow'rd the broad and far outstretching carpet,And began to draw there with his finger.
First on high a radiant sun he painted,Which upon mine eyes with splendour glisten'd,And he made the clouds with golden border,Through the clouds he let the sunbeams enter;Painted then the soft and feathery summitsOf the fresh and quicken'd trees, behind themOne by one with freedom drew the mountains;Underneath he left no lack of water,But the river painted so like Nature,That it seem'd to glitter in the sunbeams,That it seem'd against its banks to murmur.
Ah, there blossom'd flowers beside the river,And bright colours gleam'd upon the meadow,Gold, and green, and purple, and enamell'd,All like carbuncles and emeralds seeming!
Bright and clear he added then the heavens,And the blue-tinged mountains far and farther,So that I, as though newborn, enrapturedGazed on, now the painter, now the picture.
Then spake he: "Although I have convinced theeThat this art I understand full surely,Yet the hardest still is left to show thee."
Thereupon he traced, with pointed finger,And with anxious care, upon the forest,At the utmost verge, where the strong sunbeamsFrom the shining ground appear'd reflected,
Traced the figure of a lovely maiden,Fair in form, and clad in graceful fashion,Fresh the cheeks beneath her brown locks' ambush,And the cheeks possess'd the selfsame colourAs the finger that had served to paint them.
"Oh thou boy!" exclaim'd I then, "what masterIn his school received thee as his pupil,Teaching thee so truthfully and quicklyWisely to begin, and well to finish?"
Whilst I still was speaking, lo, a zephyrSoftly rose, and set the tree-tops moving,Curling all the wavelets on the river,And the perfect maiden's veil, too, fill'd it,And to make my wonderment still greater,Soon the maiden set her foot in motion.On she came, approaching tow'rd the stationWhere still sat I with my arch instructor.
As now all, yes, all thus moved together,—Flowers, river, trees, the veil,—all moving,—And the gentle foot of that most fair one,Can ye think that on my rock I linger'd,Like a rock, as though fast-chain'd and silent?
1788. ——-
——- RHYMED DISTICHS.
[The Distichs, of which these are given as a specimen, are about forty in number.]
WHO trusts in God,Fears not His rod.——-THIS truth may be by all believed:Whom God deceives, is well deceived.——-HOW? when? and where?—No answer comes from high;Thou wait'st for the Because, and yet thou ask'st not Why?——-IF the whole is ever to gladden thee,That whole in the smallest thing thou must see.——-WATER its living strength first shows,When obstacles its course oppose.——-TRANSPARENT appears the radiant air,Though steel and stone in its breast it may bear;At length they'll meet with fiery power,And metal and stones on the earth will shower.———WHATE'ER a living flame may surround,No longer is shapeless, or earthly bound.'Tis now invisible, flies from earth,And hastens on high to the place of its birth.
1815.* ——— PROCEMION.
IN His blest name, who was His own creation,Who from all time makes making his vocation;The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,Love, confidence, activity, and might;In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,Unknown is ever in Reality:As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,Thou findest but the known resembling Him;How high so'er thy fiery spirit hovers,Its simile and type it straight discoversOnward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay,Where'er thou goest, smiling is the way;No more thou numbrest, reckonest no time,Each step is infinite, each step sublime.
1816.——-WHAT God would outwardly alone control,And on his finger whirl the mighty Whole?He loves the inner world to move, to viewNature in Him, Himself in Nature too,So that what in Him works, and is, and lives,The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.
1816.——-WITHIN us all a universe doth dwell;And hence each people's usage laudable,That ev'ry one the Best that meets his eyesAs God, yea e'en his God, doth recognise;To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he,Fears Him, and loves Him too, if that may be.
1816. ——- THE METAMORPHOSIS OF PLANTS.
THOU art confused, my beloved, at, seeing the thousandfold union
Shown in this flowery troop, over the garden dispers'd; any a name dost thou hear assign'd; one after another
Falls on thy list'ning ear, with a barbarian sound.None resembleth another, yet all their forms have a likeness;
Therefore, a mystical law is by the chorus proclaim'd;Yes, a sacred enigma! Oh, dearest friend, could I only
Happily teach thee the word, which may the mystery solve!Closely observe how the plant, by little and little progressing,
Step by step guided on, changeth to blossom and fruit!First from the seed it unravels itself, as soon as the silent
Fruit-bearing womb of the earth kindly allows Its escape,And to the charms of the light, the holy, the ever-in-motion,
Trusteth the delicate leaves, feebly beginning to shoot.Simply slumber'd the force in the seed; a germ of the future,
Peacefully lock'd in itself, 'neath the integument lay,Leaf and root, and bud, still void of colour, and shapeless;
Thus doth the kernel, while dry, cover that motionless life.Upward then strives it to swell, in gentle moisture confiding,
And, from the night where it dwelt, straightway ascendeth to light.Yet still simple remaineth its figure, when first it appeareth;
And 'tis a token like this, points out the child 'mid the plants.Soon a shoot, succeeding it, riseth on high, and reneweth,
Piling-up node upon node, ever the primitive form;Yet not ever alike: for the following leaf, as thou seest,
Ever produceth itself, fashioned in manifold ways.Longer, more indented, in points and in parts more divided,
Which. all-deform'd until now, slept in the organ below,So at length it attaineth the noble and destined perfection,
Which, in full many a tribe, fills thee with wondering awe.Many ribb'd and tooth'd, on a surface juicy and swelling,
Free and unending the shoot seemeth in fullness to be;Yet here Nature restraineth, with powerful hands, the formation,
And to a perfecter end, guideth with softness its growth,Less abundantly yielding the sap, contracting the vessels,
So that the figure ere long gentler effects doth disclose.Soon and in silence is check'd the growth of the vigorous branches,
And the rib of the stalk fuller becometh in form.Leafless, however, and quick the tenderer stem then up-springeth,
And a miraculous sight doth the observer enchant.Ranged in a circle, in numbers that now are small, and now countless,
Gather the smaller-sized leaves, close by the side of their like.Round the axis compress'd the sheltering calyx unfoldeth,
And, as the perfectest type, brilliant-hued coronals forms.Thus doth Nature bloom, in glory still nobler and fuller,
Showing, in order arranged, member on member uprear'd.Wonderment fresh dost thou feel, as soon as the stem rears the flower
Over the scaffolding frail of the alternating leaves.But this glory is only the new creation's foreteller,
Yes, the leaf with its hues feeleth the hand all divine,And on a sudden contracteth itself; the tenderest figures
Twofold as yet, hasten on, destined to blend into one.Lovingly now the beauteous pairs are standing together,
Gather'd in countless array, there where the altar is raised.Hymen hovereth o'er them, and scents delicious and mighty
Stream forth their fragrance so sweet, all things enliv'ning around.Presently, parcell'd out, unnumber'd germs are seen swelling,
Sweetly conceald in the womb, where is made perfect the fruit.Here doth Nature close the ring of her forces eternal;
Yet doth a new one, at once, cling to the one gone before,So that the chain be prolonged for ever through all generations,
And that the whole may have life, e'en as enjoy'd by each part.Now, my beloved one, turn thy gaze on the many-hued thousands
Which, confusing no more, gladden the mind as they wave.Every plant unto thee proclaimeth the laws everlasting,
Every flowered speaks louder and louder to thee;But if thou here canst decipher the mystic words of the goddess,
Everywhere will they be seen, e'en though the features are changed.Creeping insects may linger, the eager butterfly hasten,—
Plastic and forming, may man change e'en the figure decreed!Oh, then, bethink thee, as well, how out of the germ of acquaintance,
Kindly intercourse sprang, slowly unfolding its leaves;Soon how friendship with might unveil'd itself in our bosoms,
And how Amor, at length, brought forth blossom and fruitThink of the manifold ways wherein Nature hath lent to our feelings,
Silently giving them birth, either the first or the last!Yes, and rejoice in the present day! For love that is holy
Seeketh the noblest of fruits,—that where the thoughts are the same,Where the opinions agree,—that the pair may, in rapt contemplation,
Lovingly blend into one,—find the more excellent world.
1797. ——-
——-'TIS easier far a wreath to bind,Than a good owner fort to find.——-I KILL'D a thousand flies overnight,Yet was waken'd by one, as soon as twas light.——-To the mother I give;For the daughter I live.——-A BREACH is every day,
By many a mortal storm'd;Let them fall in the gaps as they may,
Yet a heap of dead is ne'er form'd.——-WHAT harm has thy poor mirror done, alas?Look not so ugly, prythee, in the glass!
1815.* ——- TAME XENIA.
THE Epigrams bearing the title of XENIA were written by Goethe and Schiller together, having been first occasioned by some violent attacks made on them by some insignificant writers. They are extremely numerous, but scarcely any of them could be translated into English. Those here given are merely presented as a specimen.
GOD gave to mortals birth,
In his own image too;Then came Himself to earth,
A mortal kind and true.
1821.* ——- BARBARIANS oft endeavour
Gods for themselves to makeBut they're more hideous ever
Than dragon or than snake.
1821.*——-WHAT shall I teach thee, the very first thing?—Fain would I learn o'er my shadow to spring!
1827.*——-"WHAT is science, rightly known?'Tis the strength of life alone.Life canst thou engender never,Life must be life's parent ever.
1827.* ——- It matters not, I ween,
Where worms our friends consume,Beneath the turf so green,
Or 'neath a marble tomb.Remember, ye who live,
Though frowns the fleeting day,That to your friends ye give
What never will decay.
1827.* ——-
——- THOUGHTS ON JESUS CHRIST'S DESCENT INTO HELL.
[THE remarkable Poem of which this is a literal but faint representation, was written when Goethe was only sixteen years old. It derives additional interest from the fact of its being the very earliest piece of his that is preserved. The few other pieces included by Goethe under the title of Religion and Church are polemical, and devoid of interest to the English reader.]
WHAT wondrous noise is heard around!Through heaven exulting voices sound,
A mighty army marches onBy thousand millions follow'd, lo,To yon dark place makes haste to go
God's Son, descending from His throne!He goes—the tempests round Him break,
As Judge and Hero cometh He;He goes—the constellations quake,
The sun, the world quake fearfully.
I see Him in His victor-car,On fiery axles borne afar,
Who on the cross for us expired.The triumph to yon realms He shows,—Remote from earth, where star ne'er glows,
The triumph He for us acquired.He cometh, Hell to extirpate,
Whom He, by dying, wellnigh kill'd;He shall pronounce her fearful fate
Hark! now the curse is straight fulfill'd.
Hell sees the victor come at last,She feels that now her reign is past,
She quakes and fears to meet His sight;She knows His thunders' terrors dread,In vain she seeks to hide her head,
Attempts to fly, but vain is flight;Vainly she hastes to 'scape pursuit
And to avoid her Judge's eye;The Lord's fierce wrath restrains her foot
Like brazen chains,—she cannot fly.
Here lies the Dragon, trampled down,He lies, and feels God's angry frown,
He feels, and grinneth hideously;He feels Hell's speechless agonies,A thousand times he howls and sighs:
"Oh, burning flames! quick, swallow me!"There lies he in the fiery waves,
By torments rack'd and pangs infernal,Instant annihilation craves,
And hears, those pangs will be eternal.
Those mighty squadrons, too, are here,The partners of his cursed career,
Yet far less bad than he were they.Here lies the countless throng combined,In black and fearful crowds entwined,
While round him fiery tempests play;He sees how they the Judge avoid,
He sees the storm upon them feed,Yet is not at the sight o'erjoy'd,
Because his pangs e'en theirs exceed.
The Son of Man in triumph passesDown to Hell's wild and black morasses,
And there unfolds His majesty.Hell cannot bear the bright array,For, since her first created day.
Darkness alone e'er govern'd she.She lay remote from ev'ry light
With torments fill'd in Chaos here;God turn'd for ever from her sight
His radiant features' glory clear.
Within the realms she calls her own,She sees the splendour of the Son,
His dreaded glories shining forth;She sees Him clad in rolling thunder,She sees the rocks all quake with wonder,
When God before her stands in wrath.She sees He comes her Judge to be,
She feels the awful pangs inside her,Herself to slay endeavours she,
But e'en this comfort is denied her.
Now looks she back, with pains untold,Upon those happy times of old,
When those glories gave her joy;When yet her heart revered the truth,When her glad soul, in endless youth
And rapture dwelt, without alloy.She calls to mind with madden'd thought
How over man her wiles prevail'd;To take revenge on God she sought,
And feels the vengeance it entail'd.
God was made man, and came to earth.Then Satan cried with fearful mirth:
"E'en He my victim now shall be!"He sought to slay the Lord Most High,The world's Creator now must die;
But, Satan, endless woe to thee!Thou thought'st to overcome Him then,
Rejoicing in His suffering;But he in triumph comes again
To bind thee: Death! where is thy sting?
Speak, Hell! where is thy victory?Thy power destroy'd and scatter'd see!
Know'st thou not now the Highest's might?See, Satan, see thy rule o'erthrown!
By thousand-varying pangs weigh'd down,Thou dwell'st in dark and endless night.
As though by lightning struck thou liest,No gleam of rapture far or wide;
In vain! no hope thou there decriest,—For me alone Messiah died!
A howling rises through the air,A trembling fills each dark vault there,
When Christ to Hell is seen to come.She snarls with rage, but needs must cowerBefore our mighty hero's power;
He signs—and Hell is straightway dumb.Before his voice the thunders break,
On high His victor-banner blows;E'en angels at His fury quake,
When Christ to the dread judgment goes.
Now speaks He, and His voice is thunder,He speaks, the rocks are rent in sunder,
His breath is like devouring flames.Thus speaks He: "Tremble, ye accurs'd!He who from Eden hurl'd you erst,
Your kingdom's overthrow proclaims.Look up! My children once were ye,
Your arms against Me then ye turn'd,Ye fell, that ye might sinners be,
Ye've now the wages that ye earn'd.
"My greatest foeman from that day,Ye led my dearest friends astray,—
As ye had fallen, man must fall.To kill him evermore ye sought,'They all shall die the death,' ye thought;
But howl! for Me I won them all.For them alone did I descend,
For them pray'd, suffer'd, perish'd I.Ye ne'er shall gain your wicked end;
Who trusts in Me shall never die.
"In endless chains here lie ye now,Nothing can save you from the slough.
Not boldness, not regret for crime.Lie, then, and writhe in brimstone fire!'Twas ye yourselves drew down Mine ire,
Lie and lament throughout all time!And also ye, whom I selected,
E'en ye forever I disown,For ye My saving grace rejected
Ye murmur? blame yourselves alone!
"Ye might have lived with Me in bliss,For I of yore had promis'd this;