Remain thou in thy ocean-depths,Delirious dream,That erst so many a nightMy heart with false joy hast tormented,And now, an ocean-spectre,E’en in bright daylight threaten’st me—Remain below, eternally,And I’ll throw down to thee thereAll my sins and my sorrows,And folly’s cap and bellsThat round my head so long have rattled,And the cold and glistening serpent-skinOf hypocrisy,Which so long hath twined round my spirit,My sickly spirit,My God-denying, angel-denyingUnhappy spirit—Hoiho! hoiho! Here comes the wind!Over the plain so destructive when smoothHastens the ship,And my rescued spirit rejoices.
Remain thou in thy ocean-depths,Delirious dream,That erst so many a nightMy heart with false joy hast tormented,And now, an ocean-spectre,E’en in bright daylight threaten’st me—Remain below, eternally,And I’ll throw down to thee thereAll my sins and my sorrows,And folly’s cap and bellsThat round my head so long have rattled,And the cold and glistening serpent-skinOf hypocrisy,Which so long hath twined round my spirit,My sickly spirit,My God-denying, angel-denyingUnhappy spirit—Hoiho! hoiho! Here comes the wind!Over the plain so destructive when smoothHastens the ship,And my rescued spirit rejoices.
Remain thou in thy ocean-depths,Delirious dream,That erst so many a nightMy heart with false joy hast tormented,And now, an ocean-spectre,E’en in bright daylight threaten’st me—Remain below, eternally,And I’ll throw down to thee thereAll my sins and my sorrows,And folly’s cap and bellsThat round my head so long have rattled,And the cold and glistening serpent-skinOf hypocrisy,Which so long hath twined round my spirit,My sickly spirit,My God-denying, angel-denyingUnhappy spirit—Hoiho! hoiho! Here comes the wind!Over the plain so destructive when smoothHastens the ship,And my rescued spirit rejoices.
High in the heavens there stood the sunCradled in snowy clouds,The sea was still,And musing I lay at the helm of the ship,Dreamily musing,—and half in wakingAnd half in slumber, I gazed upon Christ,The Saviour of man.In streaming and snowy garmentHe wander’d, giant-great,Over land and sea;His head reach’d high to the heavens,His hands he stretch’d out in blessingOver land and sea;And as a heart in his bosomBore he the sun,The sun all ruddy and flaming,And the ruddy and flaming sunny-heartShed its beams of mercyAnd its beauteous, bliss-giving light,Lighting and warmingOver land and sea.Sounds of bells were solemnly drawingHere and there, like swans were drawingBy rosy bands the gliding ship,And drew it sportively tow’rd the green shore,Where men were dwelling, in high and turretedO’erhanging town.O blessings of peace! how still the town!Hush’d was the hollow soundOf busy and sweltering trade,And through the clean and echoing streetsWere passing men in white attire,Palm-branches bearing,And when two chanced to meet,They view’d each other with inward intelligence,And trembling, in love and sweet denial,Kiss’d on the forehead each other,And gazed up on highAt the Saviour’s sunny-heart,Which, glad and atoninglyBeam’d down its ruddy blood,And three times blest, thus spake they:“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”* * *Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,What wouldst thou not give for it,My dearest friend!Thou who in head and loins art so weak,And so strong in thy faith,And the Trinity worship’st in Unity,And the dog and the cross and the pawOf thy lofty patroness daily kissest,And hast work’d thy way upward by cantingAs an Aulic Counsellor, Magistrate,And at last as a Government CounsellorIn the pious town[25]Where flourish both sand and religion,And the patient water of sacred SpreeWashes souls and dilutes the tea—Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,My dearest friend!Thou hadst borne it up high, to the market-place,Thy countenance pallid and blinkingHad been dissolved in devotion and lowliness,And her Serene Highness,Enchanted and trembling with rapture,Had with thee sunk in prayer on the knee,And her eyes, beaming brightly,Had promised, by way of increase of salary,A hundred Prussian dollars sterling,And thou, with folded hands, wouldst have stammer’d:“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”
High in the heavens there stood the sunCradled in snowy clouds,The sea was still,And musing I lay at the helm of the ship,Dreamily musing,—and half in wakingAnd half in slumber, I gazed upon Christ,The Saviour of man.In streaming and snowy garmentHe wander’d, giant-great,Over land and sea;His head reach’d high to the heavens,His hands he stretch’d out in blessingOver land and sea;And as a heart in his bosomBore he the sun,The sun all ruddy and flaming,And the ruddy and flaming sunny-heartShed its beams of mercyAnd its beauteous, bliss-giving light,Lighting and warmingOver land and sea.Sounds of bells were solemnly drawingHere and there, like swans were drawingBy rosy bands the gliding ship,And drew it sportively tow’rd the green shore,Where men were dwelling, in high and turretedO’erhanging town.O blessings of peace! how still the town!Hush’d was the hollow soundOf busy and sweltering trade,And through the clean and echoing streetsWere passing men in white attire,Palm-branches bearing,And when two chanced to meet,They view’d each other with inward intelligence,And trembling, in love and sweet denial,Kiss’d on the forehead each other,And gazed up on highAt the Saviour’s sunny-heart,Which, glad and atoninglyBeam’d down its ruddy blood,And three times blest, thus spake they:“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”* * *Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,What wouldst thou not give for it,My dearest friend!Thou who in head and loins art so weak,And so strong in thy faith,And the Trinity worship’st in Unity,And the dog and the cross and the pawOf thy lofty patroness daily kissest,And hast work’d thy way upward by cantingAs an Aulic Counsellor, Magistrate,And at last as a Government CounsellorIn the pious town[25]Where flourish both sand and religion,And the patient water of sacred SpreeWashes souls and dilutes the tea—Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,My dearest friend!Thou hadst borne it up high, to the market-place,Thy countenance pallid and blinkingHad been dissolved in devotion and lowliness,And her Serene Highness,Enchanted and trembling with rapture,Had with thee sunk in prayer on the knee,And her eyes, beaming brightly,Had promised, by way of increase of salary,A hundred Prussian dollars sterling,And thou, with folded hands, wouldst have stammer’d:“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”
High in the heavens there stood the sunCradled in snowy clouds,The sea was still,And musing I lay at the helm of the ship,Dreamily musing,—and half in wakingAnd half in slumber, I gazed upon Christ,The Saviour of man.In streaming and snowy garmentHe wander’d, giant-great,Over land and sea;His head reach’d high to the heavens,His hands he stretch’d out in blessingOver land and sea;And as a heart in his bosomBore he the sun,The sun all ruddy and flaming,And the ruddy and flaming sunny-heartShed its beams of mercyAnd its beauteous, bliss-giving light,Lighting and warmingOver land and sea.
Sounds of bells were solemnly drawingHere and there, like swans were drawingBy rosy bands the gliding ship,And drew it sportively tow’rd the green shore,Where men were dwelling, in high and turretedO’erhanging town.O blessings of peace! how still the town!Hush’d was the hollow soundOf busy and sweltering trade,And through the clean and echoing streetsWere passing men in white attire,Palm-branches bearing,And when two chanced to meet,They view’d each other with inward intelligence,And trembling, in love and sweet denial,Kiss’d on the forehead each other,And gazed up on highAt the Saviour’s sunny-heart,Which, glad and atoninglyBeam’d down its ruddy blood,And three times blest, thus spake they:“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”* * *Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,What wouldst thou not give for it,My dearest friend!Thou who in head and loins art so weak,And so strong in thy faith,And the Trinity worship’st in Unity,And the dog and the cross and the pawOf thy lofty patroness daily kissest,And hast work’d thy way upward by cantingAs an Aulic Counsellor, Magistrate,And at last as a Government CounsellorIn the pious town[25]Where flourish both sand and religion,And the patient water of sacred SpreeWashes souls and dilutes the tea—Couldst thou this vision have only imagined,My dearest friend!Thou hadst borne it up high, to the market-place,Thy countenance pallid and blinkingHad been dissolved in devotion and lowliness,And her Serene Highness,Enchanted and trembling with rapture,Had with thee sunk in prayer on the knee,And her eyes, beaming brightly,Had promised, by way of increase of salary,A hundred Prussian dollars sterling,And thou, with folded hands, wouldst have stammer’d:“Praisèd be Jesus Christ!”
Thalatta! Thalatta!Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!Hail to thee ten thousand timesFrom hearts all exulting,As formerly hail’d theeTen thousand Grecian hearts,Misfortune-contending, homeward-aspiring,World-renown’d Grecian hearts.The billows were heaving,They heaved and they bluster’d,The sun shed hastily downwardsHis light so sportive and rosy-hued;The sudden-startled flocks of sea-mewsFlutter’d along, loud screaming,The horses were stamping, the bucklers were ringing,And afar there resounded triumphantly:Thalatta! Thalatta!Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!Like voices of home thy waters are rushing,Like visions of childhood saw I a glimmeringOver thy heaving billowy-realm,And olden remembrance again tells me storiesOf all the darling, beautiful playthings,Of all the glittering Christmas presents,Of all the ruddy coral branches,The gold fish, pearls and colour’d shellsWhich thou mysteriously dost keepDown yonder in bright crystal house.O how have I languish’d in drear foreign lands!Like to a wither’d flowerIn the tin case of a botanist,Lay in my bosom my heart;Methought whole winters long I satAn invalid, in darksome sick-room,And now I suddenly leave it,And with dazzling rays am I greetedBy emerald springtime, the sunny-awaken’d,And the snowy blossoming trees are all rustling,And the youthful flowers upon me gazeWith eyes all chequer’d and fragrant;There’s a perfume and humming and breathing and laughing,And the birds in the azure heavens are singing—Thalatta! Thalatta!Thou valiant retreating heart!How oft, how bitter-oft, wast thouHard press’d by the Northern barbarian womenFrom large victorious eyesShot they their burning arrows;With words both crooked and polish’dThey threatened to cleave my breast,With cuniform billets-doux harass’d theyMy poor distracted brain—In vain I held my shield to resist them,The arrows whizz’d and the blows crash’d heavily,And by the Northern barbarian womenBack to the sea was I driven,And freely breathing I hailèd the sea,The darling life-saving sea,Thalatta! Thalatta!
Thalatta! Thalatta!Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!Hail to thee ten thousand timesFrom hearts all exulting,As formerly hail’d theeTen thousand Grecian hearts,Misfortune-contending, homeward-aspiring,World-renown’d Grecian hearts.The billows were heaving,They heaved and they bluster’d,The sun shed hastily downwardsHis light so sportive and rosy-hued;The sudden-startled flocks of sea-mewsFlutter’d along, loud screaming,The horses were stamping, the bucklers were ringing,And afar there resounded triumphantly:Thalatta! Thalatta!Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!Like voices of home thy waters are rushing,Like visions of childhood saw I a glimmeringOver thy heaving billowy-realm,And olden remembrance again tells me storiesOf all the darling, beautiful playthings,Of all the glittering Christmas presents,Of all the ruddy coral branches,The gold fish, pearls and colour’d shellsWhich thou mysteriously dost keepDown yonder in bright crystal house.O how have I languish’d in drear foreign lands!Like to a wither’d flowerIn the tin case of a botanist,Lay in my bosom my heart;Methought whole winters long I satAn invalid, in darksome sick-room,And now I suddenly leave it,And with dazzling rays am I greetedBy emerald springtime, the sunny-awaken’d,And the snowy blossoming trees are all rustling,And the youthful flowers upon me gazeWith eyes all chequer’d and fragrant;There’s a perfume and humming and breathing and laughing,And the birds in the azure heavens are singing—Thalatta! Thalatta!Thou valiant retreating heart!How oft, how bitter-oft, wast thouHard press’d by the Northern barbarian womenFrom large victorious eyesShot they their burning arrows;With words both crooked and polish’dThey threatened to cleave my breast,With cuniform billets-doux harass’d theyMy poor distracted brain—In vain I held my shield to resist them,The arrows whizz’d and the blows crash’d heavily,And by the Northern barbarian womenBack to the sea was I driven,And freely breathing I hailèd the sea,The darling life-saving sea,Thalatta! Thalatta!
Thalatta! Thalatta!Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!Hail to thee ten thousand timesFrom hearts all exulting,As formerly hail’d theeTen thousand Grecian hearts,Misfortune-contending, homeward-aspiring,World-renown’d Grecian hearts.
The billows were heaving,They heaved and they bluster’d,The sun shed hastily downwardsHis light so sportive and rosy-hued;The sudden-startled flocks of sea-mewsFlutter’d along, loud screaming,The horses were stamping, the bucklers were ringing,And afar there resounded triumphantly:Thalatta! Thalatta!Hail to thee, O thou Ocean eterne!Like voices of home thy waters are rushing,Like visions of childhood saw I a glimmeringOver thy heaving billowy-realm,And olden remembrance again tells me storiesOf all the darling, beautiful playthings,Of all the glittering Christmas presents,Of all the ruddy coral branches,The gold fish, pearls and colour’d shellsWhich thou mysteriously dost keepDown yonder in bright crystal house.
O how have I languish’d in drear foreign lands!Like to a wither’d flowerIn the tin case of a botanist,Lay in my bosom my heart;Methought whole winters long I satAn invalid, in darksome sick-room,And now I suddenly leave it,And with dazzling rays am I greetedBy emerald springtime, the sunny-awaken’d,And the snowy blossoming trees are all rustling,And the youthful flowers upon me gazeWith eyes all chequer’d and fragrant;There’s a perfume and humming and breathing and laughing,And the birds in the azure heavens are singing—Thalatta! Thalatta!
Thou valiant retreating heart!How oft, how bitter-oft, wast thouHard press’d by the Northern barbarian womenFrom large victorious eyesShot they their burning arrows;With words both crooked and polish’dThey threatened to cleave my breast,With cuniform billets-doux harass’d theyMy poor distracted brain—In vain I held my shield to resist them,The arrows whizz’d and the blows crash’d heavily,And by the Northern barbarian womenBack to the sea was I driven,And freely breathing I hailèd the sea,The darling life-saving sea,Thalatta! Thalatta!
Heavily lies on the ocean the storm,And through the darksome wall of cloudsQuivers the forkèd lightning flash,Suddenly gleaming and suddenly vanishing,Like a thought from the head of Cronion.Over the desert, far-heaving waterAfar the thunders are rolling,The snowy billowy horses are springing,Which Boreas’ self did engenderOut of the beautiful mares of Erichton,And the seafowl are mournfully fluttering,Like shadowy corpses by Styx,By Charon repulsed from his desolate bark.Poor, but merry little ship,Yonder dancing the strangest dance!Æolus sends it his briskest attendants,Who wildly strike up for the frolicsome dance;The one is piping, another is blowing,The third is beating the hollow double-bass—And the staggering sailor stands at the rudder,And on the compass is steadily looking,That trembling soul of the vessel,And raises his hands in entreaty to heaven;“O rescue me, Castor, thou hero gigantic,And thou, knight of the ring, Polydeuces!”
Heavily lies on the ocean the storm,And through the darksome wall of cloudsQuivers the forkèd lightning flash,Suddenly gleaming and suddenly vanishing,Like a thought from the head of Cronion.Over the desert, far-heaving waterAfar the thunders are rolling,The snowy billowy horses are springing,Which Boreas’ self did engenderOut of the beautiful mares of Erichton,And the seafowl are mournfully fluttering,Like shadowy corpses by Styx,By Charon repulsed from his desolate bark.Poor, but merry little ship,Yonder dancing the strangest dance!Æolus sends it his briskest attendants,Who wildly strike up for the frolicsome dance;The one is piping, another is blowing,The third is beating the hollow double-bass—And the staggering sailor stands at the rudder,And on the compass is steadily looking,That trembling soul of the vessel,And raises his hands in entreaty to heaven;“O rescue me, Castor, thou hero gigantic,And thou, knight of the ring, Polydeuces!”
Heavily lies on the ocean the storm,And through the darksome wall of cloudsQuivers the forkèd lightning flash,Suddenly gleaming and suddenly vanishing,Like a thought from the head of Cronion.Over the desert, far-heaving waterAfar the thunders are rolling,The snowy billowy horses are springing,Which Boreas’ self did engenderOut of the beautiful mares of Erichton,And the seafowl are mournfully fluttering,Like shadowy corpses by Styx,By Charon repulsed from his desolate bark.
Poor, but merry little ship,Yonder dancing the strangest dance!Æolus sends it his briskest attendants,Who wildly strike up for the frolicsome dance;The one is piping, another is blowing,The third is beating the hollow double-bass—And the staggering sailor stands at the rudder,And on the compass is steadily looking,That trembling soul of the vessel,And raises his hands in entreaty to heaven;“O rescue me, Castor, thou hero gigantic,And thou, knight of the ring, Polydeuces!”
Hope and love! All crumbled to atoms,And I myself, like to a corpseThrown up by the growling sea,Lie on the strand,The dreary, naked strand.Before me, the watery waste is heavingBehind me lie but sorrow and misery,And over me high are passing the clouds,The formless grey-hued daughters of air,Who out of the sea, in misty buckets,Draw up the water,And wearily drag it and drag it,Then spill it again in the sea,A mournful and tedious business,And useless as e’en my own life.The billows murmur, the sea-mews are screaming,Olden remembrances over me drift,Dreams long forgotten and images perish’d,Painfully sweet come to light.In the North a woman is living,A beauteous woman, royally fair.Her slender figure, like a tall cypress,By an alluring white robe is embraced;Her dark and flowing tresses,Like to a blissful night, are streamingDown from her lofty, braid-crownèd head,And dreamily-sweetly form ringletsOver her sweet pale face;And out of her sweet pale face,Large and o’erpowering, beams an eyeLike a black sun in radiance.O thou black sun, how often,Enchantingly often, I drank from theeWild flames of inspiration,And stood and reel’d, all drunk with fire,—Then hover’d a mild and dovelike smileRound the high-contracted haughty lips,And the high-contracted haughty lipsBreath’d forth words as sweet as moonlight,And tender as the rose’s fragrance—And then my spirit ascended,And flew, like an eagle, straight up into heaven!Peace, ye billows and sea-mews!All is now over, happiness, hope,Hope, ay, and love! I lie on the shore,A lonely and shipwreckèd man,And press my countenance glowingDeep in the humid sand.
Hope and love! All crumbled to atoms,And I myself, like to a corpseThrown up by the growling sea,Lie on the strand,The dreary, naked strand.Before me, the watery waste is heavingBehind me lie but sorrow and misery,And over me high are passing the clouds,The formless grey-hued daughters of air,Who out of the sea, in misty buckets,Draw up the water,And wearily drag it and drag it,Then spill it again in the sea,A mournful and tedious business,And useless as e’en my own life.The billows murmur, the sea-mews are screaming,Olden remembrances over me drift,Dreams long forgotten and images perish’d,Painfully sweet come to light.In the North a woman is living,A beauteous woman, royally fair.Her slender figure, like a tall cypress,By an alluring white robe is embraced;Her dark and flowing tresses,Like to a blissful night, are streamingDown from her lofty, braid-crownèd head,And dreamily-sweetly form ringletsOver her sweet pale face;And out of her sweet pale face,Large and o’erpowering, beams an eyeLike a black sun in radiance.O thou black sun, how often,Enchantingly often, I drank from theeWild flames of inspiration,And stood and reel’d, all drunk with fire,—Then hover’d a mild and dovelike smileRound the high-contracted haughty lips,And the high-contracted haughty lipsBreath’d forth words as sweet as moonlight,And tender as the rose’s fragrance—And then my spirit ascended,And flew, like an eagle, straight up into heaven!Peace, ye billows and sea-mews!All is now over, happiness, hope,Hope, ay, and love! I lie on the shore,A lonely and shipwreckèd man,And press my countenance glowingDeep in the humid sand.
Hope and love! All crumbled to atoms,And I myself, like to a corpseThrown up by the growling sea,Lie on the strand,The dreary, naked strand.Before me, the watery waste is heavingBehind me lie but sorrow and misery,And over me high are passing the clouds,The formless grey-hued daughters of air,Who out of the sea, in misty buckets,Draw up the water,And wearily drag it and drag it,Then spill it again in the sea,A mournful and tedious business,And useless as e’en my own life.The billows murmur, the sea-mews are screaming,Olden remembrances over me drift,Dreams long forgotten and images perish’d,Painfully sweet come to light.
In the North a woman is living,A beauteous woman, royally fair.Her slender figure, like a tall cypress,By an alluring white robe is embraced;Her dark and flowing tresses,Like to a blissful night, are streamingDown from her lofty, braid-crownèd head,And dreamily-sweetly form ringletsOver her sweet pale face;And out of her sweet pale face,Large and o’erpowering, beams an eyeLike a black sun in radiance.
O thou black sun, how often,Enchantingly often, I drank from theeWild flames of inspiration,And stood and reel’d, all drunk with fire,—Then hover’d a mild and dovelike smileRound the high-contracted haughty lips,And the high-contracted haughty lipsBreath’d forth words as sweet as moonlight,And tender as the rose’s fragrance—And then my spirit ascended,And flew, like an eagle, straight up into heaven!
Peace, ye billows and sea-mews!All is now over, happiness, hope,Hope, ay, and love! I lie on the shore,A lonely and shipwreckèd man,And press my countenance glowingDeep in the humid sand.
The beauteous sunHath calmly descended down to the sea;The heaving waters already are dyedBy dusky night;Nought but the evening’s redWith golden light still spreadeth o’er them,And the rushing force of the flood’Gainst the shore presseth the snowy billowsWhich merrily, hastily skip,Like wool-cover’d flocks of lambkinsWhom the singing sheep-boy at evenHomeward doth drive.“How fair is the sun!”—So spake, after long silence, my friend,Who with me wander’d along the strand,And half in sport and half in sad earnestAssured he me that the sun was onlyA lovely woman,[26]whom the old sea-godOut of convenience married;All the day long she joyously wander’dIn the high heavens, deck’d out with purple,And glitt’ring with diamonds,And all-beloved and all-admiredBy every mortal creature,And every mortal creature rejoicingWith her sweet glances’ light and warmth;But in the evening, impell’d all-disconsolate.Once more returneth she homeTo the moist house and desert armsOf her grey-headed spouse.“Believe me”—here added my friend,With laughter and sighing and laughter again:“They’re living below in the tenderest union!“Either they’re sleeping or quarrelling fiercely,“So that up here e’en the ocean is roaring,“And the fisherman hears in the rush of the waves“How the old man’s abusing his wife:“‘Thou round wench of the universe!“Beaming coquettish one!“‘All the day long thou art glowing for others,“‘At night for me thou art frosty and tired.’“After this curtain lecture“As a matter of course the proud sun“Bursts into tears, lamenting her misery,“And cries so sadly and long, that the sea-god“Suddenly springs from his bed all distracted,“And hastily swims to the surface of ocean,“To recover his breath and his senses.“I saw him myself, in the night just past,“Rising out of the sea as high as his bosom;“A jacket of yellow flannel he wore,“And a lily-white nightcap,“And a face all wither’d and dry.”
The beauteous sunHath calmly descended down to the sea;The heaving waters already are dyedBy dusky night;Nought but the evening’s redWith golden light still spreadeth o’er them,And the rushing force of the flood’Gainst the shore presseth the snowy billowsWhich merrily, hastily skip,Like wool-cover’d flocks of lambkinsWhom the singing sheep-boy at evenHomeward doth drive.“How fair is the sun!”—So spake, after long silence, my friend,Who with me wander’d along the strand,And half in sport and half in sad earnestAssured he me that the sun was onlyA lovely woman,[26]whom the old sea-godOut of convenience married;All the day long she joyously wander’dIn the high heavens, deck’d out with purple,And glitt’ring with diamonds,And all-beloved and all-admiredBy every mortal creature,And every mortal creature rejoicingWith her sweet glances’ light and warmth;But in the evening, impell’d all-disconsolate.Once more returneth she homeTo the moist house and desert armsOf her grey-headed spouse.“Believe me”—here added my friend,With laughter and sighing and laughter again:“They’re living below in the tenderest union!“Either they’re sleeping or quarrelling fiercely,“So that up here e’en the ocean is roaring,“And the fisherman hears in the rush of the waves“How the old man’s abusing his wife:“‘Thou round wench of the universe!“Beaming coquettish one!“‘All the day long thou art glowing for others,“‘At night for me thou art frosty and tired.’“After this curtain lecture“As a matter of course the proud sun“Bursts into tears, lamenting her misery,“And cries so sadly and long, that the sea-god“Suddenly springs from his bed all distracted,“And hastily swims to the surface of ocean,“To recover his breath and his senses.“I saw him myself, in the night just past,“Rising out of the sea as high as his bosom;“A jacket of yellow flannel he wore,“And a lily-white nightcap,“And a face all wither’d and dry.”
The beauteous sunHath calmly descended down to the sea;The heaving waters already are dyedBy dusky night;Nought but the evening’s redWith golden light still spreadeth o’er them,And the rushing force of the flood’Gainst the shore presseth the snowy billowsWhich merrily, hastily skip,Like wool-cover’d flocks of lambkinsWhom the singing sheep-boy at evenHomeward doth drive.
“How fair is the sun!”—So spake, after long silence, my friend,Who with me wander’d along the strand,And half in sport and half in sad earnestAssured he me that the sun was onlyA lovely woman,[26]whom the old sea-godOut of convenience married;All the day long she joyously wander’dIn the high heavens, deck’d out with purple,And glitt’ring with diamonds,And all-beloved and all-admiredBy every mortal creature,And every mortal creature rejoicingWith her sweet glances’ light and warmth;But in the evening, impell’d all-disconsolate.Once more returneth she homeTo the moist house and desert armsOf her grey-headed spouse.
“Believe me”—here added my friend,With laughter and sighing and laughter again:“They’re living below in the tenderest union!“Either they’re sleeping or quarrelling fiercely,“So that up here e’en the ocean is roaring,“And the fisherman hears in the rush of the waves“How the old man’s abusing his wife:“‘Thou round wench of the universe!“Beaming coquettish one!“‘All the day long thou art glowing for others,“‘At night for me thou art frosty and tired.’“After this curtain lecture“As a matter of course the proud sun“Bursts into tears, lamenting her misery,“And cries so sadly and long, that the sea-god“Suddenly springs from his bed all distracted,“And hastily swims to the surface of ocean,“To recover his breath and his senses.“I saw him myself, in the night just past,“Rising out of the sea as high as his bosom;“A jacket of yellow flannel he wore,“And a lily-white nightcap,“And a face all wither’d and dry.”
Shadows of evening o’er ocean are falling,And lonely, with none but his lonely soul with him,Sits there a man on the dreary strand,And looks, with death-chilly look, up on highTow’rd the spacious, death-chilly vault of heaven,And looks on the spacious billowy main,And over the spacious billowy mainLike airy sailors, his signs are floating,Returning again despondingly,For they have found fast closèd the heartWherein they fain would anchor—And he groans so loud, that the snowy sea-mews,Startled away from their sandy nests,Flutter around him in flocks,And he speaks unto them these laughing words:“Ye black-leggèd birds,“With snowy pinions o’er the sea fluttering,“With crooked beaks the sea-water sucking up,“And train-oily seal’s flesh devouring,“Your life is bitter as is your food!“But I, the happy one, taste nought but sweetness!“I taste the rose’s sweet exhalation,“The moonlight-nourished bride of the nightingale;“I taste, too, the sweetness of all things:“Loving and being loved!“She loves me! she loves me! the beauteous maiden!“Now stands she at home in her house’s high balcony,“And looks in the twilight abroad, o’er the highway,“And darkens, and for me doth yearn—I assure you!“In vain she looketh around and she sigheth,“And sighing descends she down to the garden,“And wanders in fragrance and moonlight,“And speaks to the flowers and telleth them“How I, the beloved one, so precious am,“So worthy of love—I assure you!“And then in bed, in slumber, in dream,“My darling form around her sports blissfully,“And then at morning at breakfast“Upon her glistening bread and butter“Sees she my countenance smiling,“And she eats it for love—I assure you!”Thus is he boasting and boasting,And betweentimes the sea-mews are screaming,Like old ironical chuckling;The mists of twilight rise up on high;Out of the violet clouds, all-gloomily,Peepeth the grass-yellow moon;High are roaring the billows of ocean,And from the depths of the high-roaring sea,Mournful as whispering gales of wind,Soundeth the song of the Oceanides,The beauteous compassionate sea-nymphs,And loudest of all the voice so enthrallingOf Peleus’ spouse, the silvery-footed one,And they’re sighing and singing:“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!“Thou sorrow-tormented one!“Cruelly murder’d are all thy bright hopes,“Thy bosom’s frolicsome children,“And ah! thy heart, thy Niobe-heart“Through grief turn’d to stone!“Within thy head ’tis now night,“And through it are flashing the lightnings of frenzy“And thou boastest of sorrow!“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!“Headstrong art thou as thy forefather,“The lofty Titan, who heavenly fire“Stole from the gods and gave unto mortals,“And, vulture-tormented, chain’d to the rock,“Defied e’en Olympus, defied, groaning loudly,“So that in ocean’s far depths did we hear it,“And to him came with a comforting song.“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!“But thou art more powerless even than he,“And thou would’st do well to honour the deities,“And patiently bear the burden of sorrow,“And patiently bear with it, long, ay, full long,“Till Atlas himself his patience hath lost,“And the heavy world from his shoulders throws off“Into eternal night.”Thus sounded the song of the Oceanides,The beauteous compassionate water-nymphs,Till still louder billows at last overpower’d it—Then went the moon in the rear of the clouds,And night ’gan to yawn,And long I sat in the darkness, with weeping.
Shadows of evening o’er ocean are falling,And lonely, with none but his lonely soul with him,Sits there a man on the dreary strand,And looks, with death-chilly look, up on highTow’rd the spacious, death-chilly vault of heaven,And looks on the spacious billowy main,And over the spacious billowy mainLike airy sailors, his signs are floating,Returning again despondingly,For they have found fast closèd the heartWherein they fain would anchor—And he groans so loud, that the snowy sea-mews,Startled away from their sandy nests,Flutter around him in flocks,And he speaks unto them these laughing words:“Ye black-leggèd birds,“With snowy pinions o’er the sea fluttering,“With crooked beaks the sea-water sucking up,“And train-oily seal’s flesh devouring,“Your life is bitter as is your food!“But I, the happy one, taste nought but sweetness!“I taste the rose’s sweet exhalation,“The moonlight-nourished bride of the nightingale;“I taste, too, the sweetness of all things:“Loving and being loved!“She loves me! she loves me! the beauteous maiden!“Now stands she at home in her house’s high balcony,“And looks in the twilight abroad, o’er the highway,“And darkens, and for me doth yearn—I assure you!“In vain she looketh around and she sigheth,“And sighing descends she down to the garden,“And wanders in fragrance and moonlight,“And speaks to the flowers and telleth them“How I, the beloved one, so precious am,“So worthy of love—I assure you!“And then in bed, in slumber, in dream,“My darling form around her sports blissfully,“And then at morning at breakfast“Upon her glistening bread and butter“Sees she my countenance smiling,“And she eats it for love—I assure you!”Thus is he boasting and boasting,And betweentimes the sea-mews are screaming,Like old ironical chuckling;The mists of twilight rise up on high;Out of the violet clouds, all-gloomily,Peepeth the grass-yellow moon;High are roaring the billows of ocean,And from the depths of the high-roaring sea,Mournful as whispering gales of wind,Soundeth the song of the Oceanides,The beauteous compassionate sea-nymphs,And loudest of all the voice so enthrallingOf Peleus’ spouse, the silvery-footed one,And they’re sighing and singing:“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!“Thou sorrow-tormented one!“Cruelly murder’d are all thy bright hopes,“Thy bosom’s frolicsome children,“And ah! thy heart, thy Niobe-heart“Through grief turn’d to stone!“Within thy head ’tis now night,“And through it are flashing the lightnings of frenzy“And thou boastest of sorrow!“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!“Headstrong art thou as thy forefather,“The lofty Titan, who heavenly fire“Stole from the gods and gave unto mortals,“And, vulture-tormented, chain’d to the rock,“Defied e’en Olympus, defied, groaning loudly,“So that in ocean’s far depths did we hear it,“And to him came with a comforting song.“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!“But thou art more powerless even than he,“And thou would’st do well to honour the deities,“And patiently bear the burden of sorrow,“And patiently bear with it, long, ay, full long,“Till Atlas himself his patience hath lost,“And the heavy world from his shoulders throws off“Into eternal night.”Thus sounded the song of the Oceanides,The beauteous compassionate water-nymphs,Till still louder billows at last overpower’d it—Then went the moon in the rear of the clouds,And night ’gan to yawn,And long I sat in the darkness, with weeping.
Shadows of evening o’er ocean are falling,And lonely, with none but his lonely soul with him,Sits there a man on the dreary strand,And looks, with death-chilly look, up on highTow’rd the spacious, death-chilly vault of heaven,And looks on the spacious billowy main,And over the spacious billowy mainLike airy sailors, his signs are floating,Returning again despondingly,For they have found fast closèd the heartWherein they fain would anchor—And he groans so loud, that the snowy sea-mews,Startled away from their sandy nests,Flutter around him in flocks,And he speaks unto them these laughing words:
“Ye black-leggèd birds,“With snowy pinions o’er the sea fluttering,“With crooked beaks the sea-water sucking up,“And train-oily seal’s flesh devouring,“Your life is bitter as is your food!“But I, the happy one, taste nought but sweetness!“I taste the rose’s sweet exhalation,“The moonlight-nourished bride of the nightingale;“I taste, too, the sweetness of all things:“Loving and being loved!
“She loves me! she loves me! the beauteous maiden!“Now stands she at home in her house’s high balcony,“And looks in the twilight abroad, o’er the highway,“And darkens, and for me doth yearn—I assure you!“In vain she looketh around and she sigheth,“And sighing descends she down to the garden,“And wanders in fragrance and moonlight,“And speaks to the flowers and telleth them“How I, the beloved one, so precious am,“So worthy of love—I assure you!“And then in bed, in slumber, in dream,“My darling form around her sports blissfully,“And then at morning at breakfast“Upon her glistening bread and butter“Sees she my countenance smiling,“And she eats it for love—I assure you!”
Thus is he boasting and boasting,And betweentimes the sea-mews are screaming,Like old ironical chuckling;The mists of twilight rise up on high;Out of the violet clouds, all-gloomily,Peepeth the grass-yellow moon;High are roaring the billows of ocean,And from the depths of the high-roaring sea,Mournful as whispering gales of wind,Soundeth the song of the Oceanides,The beauteous compassionate sea-nymphs,And loudest of all the voice so enthrallingOf Peleus’ spouse, the silvery-footed one,And they’re sighing and singing:
“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!“Thou sorrow-tormented one!“Cruelly murder’d are all thy bright hopes,“Thy bosom’s frolicsome children,“And ah! thy heart, thy Niobe-heart“Through grief turn’d to stone!“Within thy head ’tis now night,“And through it are flashing the lightnings of frenzy“And thou boastest of sorrow!“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!“Headstrong art thou as thy forefather,“The lofty Titan, who heavenly fire“Stole from the gods and gave unto mortals,“And, vulture-tormented, chain’d to the rock,“Defied e’en Olympus, defied, groaning loudly,“So that in ocean’s far depths did we hear it,“And to him came with a comforting song.“O fool, thou fool! thou hectoring fool!“But thou art more powerless even than he,“And thou would’st do well to honour the deities,“And patiently bear the burden of sorrow,“And patiently bear with it, long, ay, full long,“Till Atlas himself his patience hath lost,“And the heavy world from his shoulders throws off“Into eternal night.”
Thus sounded the song of the Oceanides,The beauteous compassionate water-nymphs,Till still louder billows at last overpower’d it—Then went the moon in the rear of the clouds,And night ’gan to yawn,And long I sat in the darkness, with weeping.
Full-blossoming moon! In thy fair lightLike liquid gold, the ocean gleams:Like daylight’s clearness, yet charm’d into twilight,Over the strand’s wide plain all is lying;In the starless clear azure heavensHover the snowy clouds,Like colossal figures of deitiesOf glittering marble.No, ’tis not so, no clouds can they be!’Tis they themselves, the Gods of old Hellas,Who once so joyously ruled o’er the world,But now, tormented and perish’d,Like monster spectres are moving alongOver the midnight heaven.Wond’ring and strangely blinded, observed IThe airy pantheon,The solemnly mute and fearfully movingFigures gigantic.He yonder’s Cronion, the monarch of heaven;Snow-white are the locks of his head,Locks so famous for shaking Olympus;He holds in his hand his extinguishèd bolt,And in his face lie misfortune and grief,And yet without change his olden pride.Those times indeed were better, O Zeus,When thou didst take pleasure divinelyIn youths and in nymphs and in hecatombs!But even the Gods can reign not for ever,The younger press hard on their elders,As thou didst once on thy grey-headed fatherAnd all thy Titan uncles hard press,Jupiter Parricida!Thee, too, I recognise, haughty Here!Spite of all thy jealous anxiety,Hath another thy sceptre obtain’d,And thou art no longer the queen of the heavens,And fixed is now thy beaming eye,And powerless lie thy lily-white arms,And never more thy vengeance can reachThe God-impregnated virgin,And the wonder-working son of the deity.Thee, too, I recognise, Pallas Athene!With shield and wisdom couldest thou notAvert the destruction of deities?Thee, too, I recognise, thee, Aphrodite!Erst the golden one! now the silver one!True thou’rt still deck’d with the charms of thy girdle,Yet I secretly tremble at thought of thy beauty,And would I enjoy thy bountiful charms,Like heroes before me, of fear I should die;To me thou appearest the goddess of corpses,Venus Libitina!No longer with love is tow’rd thee looking,Yonder, the terrible Ares;And sadly is looking Phœbus Apollo,The stripling. His lyre is silentThat sounded so joyous at feasts of the Gods.Still sadder appeareth Hephaestus,And truly, the lame one! no longerFills he the office of Hebe,And busily pours, in the Gods’ congregation,The nectar delicious—And long is extinguish’dThe inextinguishable laughter of deities.O ye Gods, I never could love you,For ever distasteful I’ve found the Grecians,And e’en the Romans I greatly hate.Yet holy compassion and shuddering pityStream through my heart,When I now behold you on high,Godheads deserted,Dead and night-wandering shadows,Misty and weak, scared by the very wind—And when I bethink me how airy and cowardlyThe godheads are, who overcame you,The new, now-ruling, mournful godheads.The mischievous ones in the sheepskin of meekness,Then over me steals a glorious resentment,And fain would I break the new-born temples,And fight on your side, ye ancient deities,For you, and your good ambrosial rights,And before your lofty altars,The once-more-restored, the sacrifice steaming,Fain would I kneel down and pray,And, praying, raise tow’rd you my arms.—For evermore, ye ancient deities,Have ye been wont, in the combats of mortals,To join yourselves to the side of the victor,And therefore is man more high-minded than ye,And in combats of deities deem I it rightTo take the part of the vanquish’d deities.* * *Thus did I speak, and visibly redden’dYon pale cloudy figures on high,And on me they gazed like dying ones,Sorrow-illumined, and suddenly vanish’d.The moon, too, hid herselfBehind the clouds that darkly came over her;High up roarèd the sea,And then triumphantly stood in the heavensThe stars all-eternal.
Full-blossoming moon! In thy fair lightLike liquid gold, the ocean gleams:Like daylight’s clearness, yet charm’d into twilight,Over the strand’s wide plain all is lying;In the starless clear azure heavensHover the snowy clouds,Like colossal figures of deitiesOf glittering marble.No, ’tis not so, no clouds can they be!’Tis they themselves, the Gods of old Hellas,Who once so joyously ruled o’er the world,But now, tormented and perish’d,Like monster spectres are moving alongOver the midnight heaven.Wond’ring and strangely blinded, observed IThe airy pantheon,The solemnly mute and fearfully movingFigures gigantic.He yonder’s Cronion, the monarch of heaven;Snow-white are the locks of his head,Locks so famous for shaking Olympus;He holds in his hand his extinguishèd bolt,And in his face lie misfortune and grief,And yet without change his olden pride.Those times indeed were better, O Zeus,When thou didst take pleasure divinelyIn youths and in nymphs and in hecatombs!But even the Gods can reign not for ever,The younger press hard on their elders,As thou didst once on thy grey-headed fatherAnd all thy Titan uncles hard press,Jupiter Parricida!Thee, too, I recognise, haughty Here!Spite of all thy jealous anxiety,Hath another thy sceptre obtain’d,And thou art no longer the queen of the heavens,And fixed is now thy beaming eye,And powerless lie thy lily-white arms,And never more thy vengeance can reachThe God-impregnated virgin,And the wonder-working son of the deity.Thee, too, I recognise, Pallas Athene!With shield and wisdom couldest thou notAvert the destruction of deities?Thee, too, I recognise, thee, Aphrodite!Erst the golden one! now the silver one!True thou’rt still deck’d with the charms of thy girdle,Yet I secretly tremble at thought of thy beauty,And would I enjoy thy bountiful charms,Like heroes before me, of fear I should die;To me thou appearest the goddess of corpses,Venus Libitina!No longer with love is tow’rd thee looking,Yonder, the terrible Ares;And sadly is looking Phœbus Apollo,The stripling. His lyre is silentThat sounded so joyous at feasts of the Gods.Still sadder appeareth Hephaestus,And truly, the lame one! no longerFills he the office of Hebe,And busily pours, in the Gods’ congregation,The nectar delicious—And long is extinguish’dThe inextinguishable laughter of deities.O ye Gods, I never could love you,For ever distasteful I’ve found the Grecians,And e’en the Romans I greatly hate.Yet holy compassion and shuddering pityStream through my heart,When I now behold you on high,Godheads deserted,Dead and night-wandering shadows,Misty and weak, scared by the very wind—And when I bethink me how airy and cowardlyThe godheads are, who overcame you,The new, now-ruling, mournful godheads.The mischievous ones in the sheepskin of meekness,Then over me steals a glorious resentment,And fain would I break the new-born temples,And fight on your side, ye ancient deities,For you, and your good ambrosial rights,And before your lofty altars,The once-more-restored, the sacrifice steaming,Fain would I kneel down and pray,And, praying, raise tow’rd you my arms.—For evermore, ye ancient deities,Have ye been wont, in the combats of mortals,To join yourselves to the side of the victor,And therefore is man more high-minded than ye,And in combats of deities deem I it rightTo take the part of the vanquish’d deities.* * *Thus did I speak, and visibly redden’dYon pale cloudy figures on high,And on me they gazed like dying ones,Sorrow-illumined, and suddenly vanish’d.The moon, too, hid herselfBehind the clouds that darkly came over her;High up roarèd the sea,And then triumphantly stood in the heavensThe stars all-eternal.
Full-blossoming moon! In thy fair lightLike liquid gold, the ocean gleams:Like daylight’s clearness, yet charm’d into twilight,Over the strand’s wide plain all is lying;In the starless clear azure heavensHover the snowy clouds,Like colossal figures of deitiesOf glittering marble.
No, ’tis not so, no clouds can they be!’Tis they themselves, the Gods of old Hellas,Who once so joyously ruled o’er the world,But now, tormented and perish’d,Like monster spectres are moving alongOver the midnight heaven.
Wond’ring and strangely blinded, observed IThe airy pantheon,The solemnly mute and fearfully movingFigures gigantic.
He yonder’s Cronion, the monarch of heaven;Snow-white are the locks of his head,Locks so famous for shaking Olympus;He holds in his hand his extinguishèd bolt,And in his face lie misfortune and grief,And yet without change his olden pride.Those times indeed were better, O Zeus,When thou didst take pleasure divinelyIn youths and in nymphs and in hecatombs!But even the Gods can reign not for ever,The younger press hard on their elders,As thou didst once on thy grey-headed fatherAnd all thy Titan uncles hard press,Jupiter Parricida!Thee, too, I recognise, haughty Here!Spite of all thy jealous anxiety,Hath another thy sceptre obtain’d,And thou art no longer the queen of the heavens,And fixed is now thy beaming eye,And powerless lie thy lily-white arms,And never more thy vengeance can reachThe God-impregnated virgin,And the wonder-working son of the deity.Thee, too, I recognise, Pallas Athene!With shield and wisdom couldest thou notAvert the destruction of deities?Thee, too, I recognise, thee, Aphrodite!Erst the golden one! now the silver one!True thou’rt still deck’d with the charms of thy girdle,Yet I secretly tremble at thought of thy beauty,And would I enjoy thy bountiful charms,Like heroes before me, of fear I should die;To me thou appearest the goddess of corpses,Venus Libitina!No longer with love is tow’rd thee looking,Yonder, the terrible Ares;And sadly is looking Phœbus Apollo,The stripling. His lyre is silentThat sounded so joyous at feasts of the Gods.Still sadder appeareth Hephaestus,And truly, the lame one! no longerFills he the office of Hebe,And busily pours, in the Gods’ congregation,The nectar delicious—And long is extinguish’dThe inextinguishable laughter of deities.
O ye Gods, I never could love you,For ever distasteful I’ve found the Grecians,And e’en the Romans I greatly hate.Yet holy compassion and shuddering pityStream through my heart,When I now behold you on high,Godheads deserted,Dead and night-wandering shadows,Misty and weak, scared by the very wind—And when I bethink me how airy and cowardlyThe godheads are, who overcame you,The new, now-ruling, mournful godheads.The mischievous ones in the sheepskin of meekness,Then over me steals a glorious resentment,And fain would I break the new-born temples,And fight on your side, ye ancient deities,For you, and your good ambrosial rights,And before your lofty altars,The once-more-restored, the sacrifice steaming,Fain would I kneel down and pray,And, praying, raise tow’rd you my arms.—
For evermore, ye ancient deities,Have ye been wont, in the combats of mortals,To join yourselves to the side of the victor,And therefore is man more high-minded than ye,And in combats of deities deem I it rightTo take the part of the vanquish’d deities.* * *Thus did I speak, and visibly redden’dYon pale cloudy figures on high,And on me they gazed like dying ones,Sorrow-illumined, and suddenly vanish’d.The moon, too, hid herselfBehind the clouds that darkly came over her;High up roarèd the sea,And then triumphantly stood in the heavensThe stars all-eternal.
By the sea, by the desert night-cover’d seaStandeth a youth,His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubtings,And with gloomy lips he asks of the billows:“O answer me life’s hidden riddle,“The riddle primeval and painful,“Over which many a head has been poring,“Heads in hieroglyphical nightcaps,“Heads in turbans and swarthy bonnets,“Heads in perukes, and a thousand other“Poor and perspiring heads of us mortals—“Tell me what signifies man?“From whence doth he come? And where doth he go?“Who dwelleth amongst the golden stars yonder?”The billows are murm’ring their murmur eternal,The wind is blowing, the clouds are flying,The stars are twinkling, all listless and cold,And a fool is awaiting an answer.
By the sea, by the desert night-cover’d seaStandeth a youth,His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubtings,And with gloomy lips he asks of the billows:“O answer me life’s hidden riddle,“The riddle primeval and painful,“Over which many a head has been poring,“Heads in hieroglyphical nightcaps,“Heads in turbans and swarthy bonnets,“Heads in perukes, and a thousand other“Poor and perspiring heads of us mortals—“Tell me what signifies man?“From whence doth he come? And where doth he go?“Who dwelleth amongst the golden stars yonder?”The billows are murm’ring their murmur eternal,The wind is blowing, the clouds are flying,The stars are twinkling, all listless and cold,And a fool is awaiting an answer.
By the sea, by the desert night-cover’d seaStandeth a youth,His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubtings,And with gloomy lips he asks of the billows:
“O answer me life’s hidden riddle,“The riddle primeval and painful,“Over which many a head has been poring,“Heads in hieroglyphical nightcaps,“Heads in turbans and swarthy bonnets,“Heads in perukes, and a thousand other“Poor and perspiring heads of us mortals—“Tell me what signifies man?“From whence doth he come? And where doth he go?“Who dwelleth amongst the golden stars yonder?”
The billows are murm’ring their murmur eternal,The wind is blowing, the clouds are flying,The stars are twinkling, all listless and cold,And a fool is awaiting an answer.
There comes a bird who hath flown from the westward,He flies tow’rd the east,Tow’rd the eastern garden-home,Where the spices so fragrant are growing,And palms are waving and wells are cooling—And, flying, the wondrous bird thus singethShe loves him, she loves him!His image she bears in her little bosom,And bears it sweetly and secretly hidden,Nor knows it herself!But in her vision, before her he stands,She prays, and she weeps, and she kisses his hands,And calls on his name,And calling awakes she and lieth all-startled,And rubbeth her beauteous eyes in amazement—She loves him! she loves him!
There comes a bird who hath flown from the westward,He flies tow’rd the east,Tow’rd the eastern garden-home,Where the spices so fragrant are growing,And palms are waving and wells are cooling—And, flying, the wondrous bird thus singethShe loves him, she loves him!His image she bears in her little bosom,And bears it sweetly and secretly hidden,Nor knows it herself!But in her vision, before her he stands,She prays, and she weeps, and she kisses his hands,And calls on his name,And calling awakes she and lieth all-startled,And rubbeth her beauteous eyes in amazement—She loves him! she loves him!
There comes a bird who hath flown from the westward,He flies tow’rd the east,Tow’rd the eastern garden-home,Where the spices so fragrant are growing,And palms are waving and wells are cooling—And, flying, the wondrous bird thus singethShe loves him, she loves him!His image she bears in her little bosom,And bears it sweetly and secretly hidden,Nor knows it herself!But in her vision, before her he stands,She prays, and she weeps, and she kisses his hands,And calls on his name,And calling awakes she and lieth all-startled,And rubbeth her beauteous eyes in amazement—She loves him! she loves him!
’Gainst the mast reclining, and high on the lofty deckStood I and heard I the song of the bird.Like black-green steeds, with silvery manes,The white and curling billows were springing;Like flocks of swans were sailing past us,With glittering sails, the men of Heligoland,The nomads bold of the Baltic.Over my head, in the azure eterne,Snowy clouds were fluttering on,While sparkled the sun everlasting,The rose of the heavens, the fiery-blooming one,Who joyfully mirror’d himself in the ocean;And heaven and ocean and with them my heartIn echo resounded:She loves him! She loves him!
’Gainst the mast reclining, and high on the lofty deckStood I and heard I the song of the bird.Like black-green steeds, with silvery manes,The white and curling billows were springing;Like flocks of swans were sailing past us,With glittering sails, the men of Heligoland,The nomads bold of the Baltic.Over my head, in the azure eterne,Snowy clouds were fluttering on,While sparkled the sun everlasting,The rose of the heavens, the fiery-blooming one,Who joyfully mirror’d himself in the ocean;And heaven and ocean and with them my heartIn echo resounded:She loves him! She loves him!
’Gainst the mast reclining, and high on the lofty deckStood I and heard I the song of the bird.Like black-green steeds, with silvery manes,The white and curling billows were springing;Like flocks of swans were sailing past us,With glittering sails, the men of Heligoland,The nomads bold of the Baltic.Over my head, in the azure eterne,Snowy clouds were fluttering on,While sparkled the sun everlasting,The rose of the heavens, the fiery-blooming one,Who joyfully mirror’d himself in the ocean;And heaven and ocean and with them my heartIn echo resounded:She loves him! She loves him!
The dark-grey clouds of the afternoonDeeper are sinking fast over the sea,Which darkly seemeth to rise to meet them,And between them the ship drives on.Sea-sick sit I unmoved by the mast,And make observations respecting myself,Primeval, ash-grey observations,Which Father Lot of old did makeWhen he had drunk too much of the grape,And afterwards found himself amiss.At times I bethink me of olden stories:How cross-mark’d pilgrims of olden daysIn stormy journeys the comforting imageReligiously kiss’d of the Holy Virgin;How knights, when sick in such sea-misery,The darling glove of their worshipp’d mistressPress’d to their lips and then were comforted—But I am sitting, and chew with vexationAn ancient herring, the comforter saltyAfter hard drinking or indigestion!All this time the ship is fightingWith the furious, heaving flood;Now like a rearing battle-steed stands itOn its hinder part, so that the rudder cracks;Now it plunges headforward down againIn the howling abyss of the waters;Again, as though carelessly love-faint,Thinks it to lay itself downOn the black breast of the billow gigantic,Who mightily onward roars,And sudden, a desolate ocean-waterfall,In snowy curlings plunges down headlong,And covers me over with foam.All this swaying and hov’ring and tossingIs quite unendurable!In vain doth my eye keep watch and seek forThe German coast. But, alas, nought but water!Evermore water, fast-moving water!As the winter-wanderer at eveningLongs for a comforting warm cup of tea,So now doth long my heart for thee,My German Fatherland!For ever may thy sweet soil be cover’dWith whims and hussars and horrible verses,And lukewarm slender treatises;For ever may thy stately zebrasFeed upon roses instead of on thistles;For ever may thy noble baboonsIn idle adornment trick themselves out,And think themselves better than all the otherLowminded heavy and lumbering cattle;For ever may thy assemblage of snailsLook on themselves as immortal,Because they creep so slowly along,And may they daily collect men’s opinionsWhether the cheesemite belongs to the cheese?And hold for a long time grave consultationsHow the Egyptian sheep to improve,So that their wool may be better in quality,And the shepherd may shear them like all other sheep,Without a distinction—For evermore may folly and wrongCover thee, Germany, utterly!Still am I yearning for thee,For thou artterra firmaat least!
The dark-grey clouds of the afternoonDeeper are sinking fast over the sea,Which darkly seemeth to rise to meet them,And between them the ship drives on.Sea-sick sit I unmoved by the mast,And make observations respecting myself,Primeval, ash-grey observations,Which Father Lot of old did makeWhen he had drunk too much of the grape,And afterwards found himself amiss.At times I bethink me of olden stories:How cross-mark’d pilgrims of olden daysIn stormy journeys the comforting imageReligiously kiss’d of the Holy Virgin;How knights, when sick in such sea-misery,The darling glove of their worshipp’d mistressPress’d to their lips and then were comforted—But I am sitting, and chew with vexationAn ancient herring, the comforter saltyAfter hard drinking or indigestion!All this time the ship is fightingWith the furious, heaving flood;Now like a rearing battle-steed stands itOn its hinder part, so that the rudder cracks;Now it plunges headforward down againIn the howling abyss of the waters;Again, as though carelessly love-faint,Thinks it to lay itself downOn the black breast of the billow gigantic,Who mightily onward roars,And sudden, a desolate ocean-waterfall,In snowy curlings plunges down headlong,And covers me over with foam.All this swaying and hov’ring and tossingIs quite unendurable!In vain doth my eye keep watch and seek forThe German coast. But, alas, nought but water!Evermore water, fast-moving water!As the winter-wanderer at eveningLongs for a comforting warm cup of tea,So now doth long my heart for thee,My German Fatherland!For ever may thy sweet soil be cover’dWith whims and hussars and horrible verses,And lukewarm slender treatises;For ever may thy stately zebrasFeed upon roses instead of on thistles;For ever may thy noble baboonsIn idle adornment trick themselves out,And think themselves better than all the otherLowminded heavy and lumbering cattle;For ever may thy assemblage of snailsLook on themselves as immortal,Because they creep so slowly along,And may they daily collect men’s opinionsWhether the cheesemite belongs to the cheese?And hold for a long time grave consultationsHow the Egyptian sheep to improve,So that their wool may be better in quality,And the shepherd may shear them like all other sheep,Without a distinction—For evermore may folly and wrongCover thee, Germany, utterly!Still am I yearning for thee,For thou artterra firmaat least!
The dark-grey clouds of the afternoonDeeper are sinking fast over the sea,Which darkly seemeth to rise to meet them,And between them the ship drives on.
Sea-sick sit I unmoved by the mast,And make observations respecting myself,Primeval, ash-grey observations,Which Father Lot of old did makeWhen he had drunk too much of the grape,And afterwards found himself amiss.At times I bethink me of olden stories:How cross-mark’d pilgrims of olden daysIn stormy journeys the comforting imageReligiously kiss’d of the Holy Virgin;How knights, when sick in such sea-misery,The darling glove of their worshipp’d mistressPress’d to their lips and then were comforted—But I am sitting, and chew with vexationAn ancient herring, the comforter saltyAfter hard drinking or indigestion!
All this time the ship is fightingWith the furious, heaving flood;Now like a rearing battle-steed stands itOn its hinder part, so that the rudder cracks;Now it plunges headforward down againIn the howling abyss of the waters;Again, as though carelessly love-faint,Thinks it to lay itself downOn the black breast of the billow gigantic,Who mightily onward roars,And sudden, a desolate ocean-waterfall,In snowy curlings plunges down headlong,And covers me over with foam.
All this swaying and hov’ring and tossingIs quite unendurable!In vain doth my eye keep watch and seek forThe German coast. But, alas, nought but water!Evermore water, fast-moving water!
As the winter-wanderer at eveningLongs for a comforting warm cup of tea,So now doth long my heart for thee,My German Fatherland!For ever may thy sweet soil be cover’dWith whims and hussars and horrible verses,And lukewarm slender treatises;For ever may thy stately zebrasFeed upon roses instead of on thistles;For ever may thy noble baboonsIn idle adornment trick themselves out,And think themselves better than all the otherLowminded heavy and lumbering cattle;For ever may thy assemblage of snailsLook on themselves as immortal,Because they creep so slowly along,And may they daily collect men’s opinionsWhether the cheesemite belongs to the cheese?And hold for a long time grave consultationsHow the Egyptian sheep to improve,So that their wool may be better in quality,And the shepherd may shear them like all other sheep,Without a distinction—For evermore may folly and wrongCover thee, Germany, utterly!Still am I yearning for thee,For thou artterra firmaat least!
Happy the man who arrives safe in harbour,And behind him hath left the ocean and tempests,And now so warmly and quietly sits,In the townhall-cellar of Bremen!See how the world is truly and lovinglyIn the bumper fully depicted,And how the heaving microcosmSunnily flows to the thirsty heart!All I discern in the glass,Olden and new traditions of nations,Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans,[27]Citron forests and watch-parades,Berlin and Schilda and Tunis and Hamburg,But most of all the form of my loved one,That angel-head on the Rhenish wine’s gold ground.O, how fair, how fair art thou, loved one!Thou art a very rose,Not like the rose of fair Schiras,The nightingale’s bride, of whom Hafis once sang;Not like the rose of Sharon,The sacred and red one, the prophet-honour’d one;But thou’rt like the rose in the cellar at Bremen![28]That is the rose of all roses,The older she grows, the fairer she blossoms,And her heavenly fragrance hath gladden’d my bosom,Hath served to inspire me, served to enchant me.And did the head of the cellar of BremenNot hold me fast, yes fast by my hair,I surely had tumbled!The worthy man! we sat together,And drank like brethren,We spoke of lofty mysterious things,We sigh’d and sank in the arms of each other,And he did convert me to love’s religion,I drank to the health of my bitterest enemies,And every wretched poet I pardonedAs I myself for pardon would hope;I wept with devotion, and lastlyThe doors of the place were unto me open’dWhere the twelve apostles, the sacred tuns,Silently preach, though understood plainlyBy every nation.True men indeed!In wooden coats, from without all-invisible,Inwardly are they more radiant and fairerThan all the haughty priests of the temple,And Herod’s satellites cringing and courtiers,All glitt’ring in gold and clothèd in purple;Ever my wont is to sayNot amongst the mere common people,No, in the best and politest society,Constantly lived the monarch of heaven.Hallelujah! How sweetly wave round meThe palm-trees of Bethel!How fragrant the myrrh is of Hebron!How Jordan is roaring, and reeling with rapture,While my immortal soul also is reeling,And I reel with it, and whilst thus reeling,I’m brought up the stairs and into the daylightBy the worthy head of the cellar of Bremen.Thou worthy head of the cellar of Bremen!See where sit on the roofs of the housesThe angels, all well-drunken and singing;The glowing sun high up in the heavensIs nought but the red and drunken noseWhich the World-Spirit sticks out,And round the World-Spirit’s red noseWhirleth the whole of the drunken world.
Happy the man who arrives safe in harbour,And behind him hath left the ocean and tempests,And now so warmly and quietly sits,In the townhall-cellar of Bremen!See how the world is truly and lovinglyIn the bumper fully depicted,And how the heaving microcosmSunnily flows to the thirsty heart!All I discern in the glass,Olden and new traditions of nations,Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans,[27]Citron forests and watch-parades,Berlin and Schilda and Tunis and Hamburg,But most of all the form of my loved one,That angel-head on the Rhenish wine’s gold ground.O, how fair, how fair art thou, loved one!Thou art a very rose,Not like the rose of fair Schiras,The nightingale’s bride, of whom Hafis once sang;Not like the rose of Sharon,The sacred and red one, the prophet-honour’d one;But thou’rt like the rose in the cellar at Bremen![28]That is the rose of all roses,The older she grows, the fairer she blossoms,And her heavenly fragrance hath gladden’d my bosom,Hath served to inspire me, served to enchant me.And did the head of the cellar of BremenNot hold me fast, yes fast by my hair,I surely had tumbled!The worthy man! we sat together,And drank like brethren,We spoke of lofty mysterious things,We sigh’d and sank in the arms of each other,And he did convert me to love’s religion,I drank to the health of my bitterest enemies,And every wretched poet I pardonedAs I myself for pardon would hope;I wept with devotion, and lastlyThe doors of the place were unto me open’dWhere the twelve apostles, the sacred tuns,Silently preach, though understood plainlyBy every nation.True men indeed!In wooden coats, from without all-invisible,Inwardly are they more radiant and fairerThan all the haughty priests of the temple,And Herod’s satellites cringing and courtiers,All glitt’ring in gold and clothèd in purple;Ever my wont is to sayNot amongst the mere common people,No, in the best and politest society,Constantly lived the monarch of heaven.Hallelujah! How sweetly wave round meThe palm-trees of Bethel!How fragrant the myrrh is of Hebron!How Jordan is roaring, and reeling with rapture,While my immortal soul also is reeling,And I reel with it, and whilst thus reeling,I’m brought up the stairs and into the daylightBy the worthy head of the cellar of Bremen.Thou worthy head of the cellar of Bremen!See where sit on the roofs of the housesThe angels, all well-drunken and singing;The glowing sun high up in the heavensIs nought but the red and drunken noseWhich the World-Spirit sticks out,And round the World-Spirit’s red noseWhirleth the whole of the drunken world.
Happy the man who arrives safe in harbour,And behind him hath left the ocean and tempests,And now so warmly and quietly sits,In the townhall-cellar of Bremen!See how the world is truly and lovinglyIn the bumper fully depicted,And how the heaving microcosmSunnily flows to the thirsty heart!All I discern in the glass,Olden and new traditions of nations,Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans,[27]Citron forests and watch-parades,Berlin and Schilda and Tunis and Hamburg,But most of all the form of my loved one,That angel-head on the Rhenish wine’s gold ground.
O, how fair, how fair art thou, loved one!Thou art a very rose,Not like the rose of fair Schiras,The nightingale’s bride, of whom Hafis once sang;Not like the rose of Sharon,The sacred and red one, the prophet-honour’d one;But thou’rt like the rose in the cellar at Bremen![28]That is the rose of all roses,The older she grows, the fairer she blossoms,And her heavenly fragrance hath gladden’d my bosom,Hath served to inspire me, served to enchant me.And did the head of the cellar of BremenNot hold me fast, yes fast by my hair,I surely had tumbled!
The worthy man! we sat together,And drank like brethren,We spoke of lofty mysterious things,We sigh’d and sank in the arms of each other,And he did convert me to love’s religion,I drank to the health of my bitterest enemies,And every wretched poet I pardonedAs I myself for pardon would hope;I wept with devotion, and lastlyThe doors of the place were unto me open’dWhere the twelve apostles, the sacred tuns,Silently preach, though understood plainlyBy every nation.
True men indeed!In wooden coats, from without all-invisible,Inwardly are they more radiant and fairerThan all the haughty priests of the temple,And Herod’s satellites cringing and courtiers,All glitt’ring in gold and clothèd in purple;Ever my wont is to sayNot amongst the mere common people,No, in the best and politest society,Constantly lived the monarch of heaven.
Hallelujah! How sweetly wave round meThe palm-trees of Bethel!How fragrant the myrrh is of Hebron!How Jordan is roaring, and reeling with rapture,While my immortal soul also is reeling,And I reel with it, and whilst thus reeling,I’m brought up the stairs and into the daylightBy the worthy head of the cellar of Bremen.
Thou worthy head of the cellar of Bremen!See where sit on the roofs of the housesThe angels, all well-drunken and singing;The glowing sun high up in the heavensIs nought but the red and drunken noseWhich the World-Spirit sticks out,And round the World-Spirit’s red noseWhirleth the whole of the drunken world.
As on the plain shoot up the wheatstalksSo do the thoughts in the spirit of manGrow up and waver;But the gentle thoughts of the poetAre as the red and blue-colour’d flowersMerrily blooming between them.Red and blue-colour’d flowers!The surly reaper rejects you as useless,Wooden flails all-scornfully thresh you,Even the needy traveller,Whom your sight rejoices and quickens,Shaketh his head,And calleth you pretty weeds;But the rustic virgin,The twiner of garlands,Doth honour and pluck you,And with you decketh her beauteous locks,And thus adorn’d, makes haste to the dance,Where pipes and fiddles sweetly are sounding,Or to the silent beech-tree,Where the voice of the loved one still sweeter doth soundThan pipes or than fiddles.
As on the plain shoot up the wheatstalksSo do the thoughts in the spirit of manGrow up and waver;But the gentle thoughts of the poetAre as the red and blue-colour’d flowersMerrily blooming between them.Red and blue-colour’d flowers!The surly reaper rejects you as useless,Wooden flails all-scornfully thresh you,Even the needy traveller,Whom your sight rejoices and quickens,Shaketh his head,And calleth you pretty weeds;But the rustic virgin,The twiner of garlands,Doth honour and pluck you,And with you decketh her beauteous locks,And thus adorn’d, makes haste to the dance,Where pipes and fiddles sweetly are sounding,Or to the silent beech-tree,Where the voice of the loved one still sweeter doth soundThan pipes or than fiddles.
As on the plain shoot up the wheatstalksSo do the thoughts in the spirit of manGrow up and waver;But the gentle thoughts of the poetAre as the red and blue-colour’d flowersMerrily blooming between them.
Red and blue-colour’d flowers!The surly reaper rejects you as useless,Wooden flails all-scornfully thresh you,Even the needy traveller,Whom your sight rejoices and quickens,Shaketh his head,And calleth you pretty weeds;But the rustic virgin,The twiner of garlands,Doth honour and pluck you,And with you decketh her beauteous locks,And thus adorn’d, makes haste to the dance,Where pipes and fiddles sweetly are sounding,Or to the silent beech-tree,Where the voice of the loved one still sweeter doth soundThan pipes or than fiddles.