POEMS
OF
JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE
BOOK I
Book I | Book II | Book III | Book IV
IN A WORD.
1 Thus to be chain'd for ever, can I bear?
2 A very torment that, in truth, would be.
3 This very day my new resolve shall see.-- I'll not go near the lately-worshipp'd Fair.
4 Yet what excuse, my heart, can I prepare
5 In such a case, for not consulting thee?
6 But courage! while our sorrows utter we In tones where love, grief, gladness have a share.
7 But see! the minstrel's bidding to obey,
8 Its melody pours forth the sounding lyre,
9 Yearning a sacrifice of love to bring.
10 Scarce wouldst thou think it--ready is the lay;
11 Well, but what then? Methought in the first fire
12 We to her presence flew, that lay to sing.
THE MAIDEN SPEAKS.
13 How grave thou loookest, loved one! wherefore so?
14 Thy marble image seems a type of thee;
15 Like it, no sign of life thou giv'st to me; Compared with thee, the stone appears to glow.
16 Behind his shield in ambush lurks the foe,
17 The friend's brow all-unruffled we should see.
18 I seek thee, but thou seek'st away to flee; Fix'd as this sculptured figure, learn to grow!
19 Tell me, to which should I the preference pay?
20 Must I from both with coldness meet alone?
21 The one is lifeless, thou with life art blest.
22 In short, no longer to throw words away,
23 I'll fondy kiss and kiss and kiss this stone,
24 Till thou dost tear me hence with envious breast.
GROWTH.
25 O'er field and plain, in childhood's artless days,
26 Thou sprang'st with me, on many a spring-morn fair.
27 "For such a daughter, with what pleasing care, Would I, as father, happy dwellings raise!"
28 And when thou on the world didst cast thy gaze,
29 Thy joy was then in household toils to share.
30 "Why did I trust her, why she trust me e'er? For such a sister, how I Heaven should praise!"
31 Nothing can now the beauteous growth retard;
32 Love's glowing flame within my breast is fann'd.
33 Shall I embrace her form, my grief to end?
34 Thee as a queen must I, alas, regard:
35 So high above me placed thou seem'st to stand;
36 Before a passing look I meekly bend.
FOOD IN TRAVEL.
37 If to her eyes' bright lustre I were blind,
38 No longer would they serve my life to gild.
39 The will of destiny must be fulfilid,-- This knowing, I withdrew with sadden'd mind.
40 No further happiness I now could find:
41 The former longings of my heart were still'd;
42 I sought her looks alone, whereon to build My joy in life,--all else was left behind.
43 Wine's genial glow, the festal banquet gay,
44 Ease, sleep, and friends, all wonted pleasures glad
45 I spurn'd, till little there remain'd to prove.
46 Now calmly through the world I wend my way:
47 That which I crave may everywhere be had,
48 With me I bring the one thing needful--love.
DEPARTURE.
49 With many a thousand kiss not yet content,
50 At length with One kiss I was forced to go;
51 After that bitter parting's depth of woe, I deem'd the shore from which my steps I bent,
52 Its hills, streams, dwellings, mountains, as I went,
53 A pledge of joy, till daylight ceased to glow;
54 Then on my sight did blissful visions grow In the dim-lighted, distant firmament,
55 And when at length the sea confined my gaze,
56 My ardent longing fill'd my heart once more;
57 What I had lost, unwillingly I sought.
58 Then Heaven appear'd to shed its kindly rays:
59 Methought that all I had possess'd of yore
60 Remain'd still mine--that I was reft of nought.
THE LOVING ONE WRITES.
61 The look that thy sweet eyes on mine impress
62 The pledge thy lips to mine convey,--the kiss,--
63 He who, like me, hath knowledge sure of this, Can he in aught beside find happiness?
64 Removed from thee, friend-sever'd, in distress,
65 These thoughts I vainly struggle to dismiss:
66 They still return to that one hour of bliss, The only one; then tears my grief confess.
67 But unawares the tear makes haste to dry:
68 He loves, methinks, e'en to these glades so still,--
69 And shalt not thou to distant lands extend?
70 Receive the murmurs of his loving sigh;
71 My only joy on earth is in thy will,
72 Thy kindly will tow'rd me; a token send!
THE LOVING ONE ONCE MORE.
73 Why do I o'er my paper once more bend?
74 Ask not too closely, dearest one, I pray
75 For, to speak truth, I've nothing now to say; Yet to thy hands at length 'twill come, dear friend.
76 Since I can come not with it, what I send
77 My undivided heart shall now convey,
78 With all its joys, hopes, pleasures, pains, to-day: All this hath no beginning, hath no end.
79 Henceforward I may ne'er to thee confide
80 How, far as thought, wish, fancy, will, can reach,
81 My faithful heart with thine is surely blended.
82 Thus stood I once enraptured by thy side,
83 Gazed on thee, and said nought. What need of speech?
84 My very being in itself was ended.
SHE CANNOT END.
85 When unto thee I sent the page all white,
86 Instead of first thereon inscribing aught,
87 The space thou doubtless filledst up in sport. And sent it me, to make my joy grow bright.
88 As soon as the blue cover met my sight,
89 As well becomes a woman, quick as thought
90 I tore it open, leaving hidden nought, And read the well-known words of pure delight:
MY ONLY BEING! DEAREST HEART! SWEET CHILD!
91 How kindly thou my yearning then didst still
92 With gentle words, enthralling me to thee.
93 In truth methought I read thy whispers mild
94 Wherewith thou lovingly my soul didst fill,
95 E'en to myself for aye ennobling me.
NEMESIS.
96 When through the nations stalks contagion wild,
97 We from them cautiously should steal away.
98 E'en I have oft with ling'ring and delay Shunn'd many an influence, not to be defil'd.
99 And e'en though Amor oft my hours beguil'd,
100 At length with him preferr'd I not to play,
101 And so, too, with the wretched sons of clay, When four and three-lined verses they compil'd.
102 But punishment pursues the scoffer straight,
103 As if by serpent-torch of furies led
104 From bill to vale, from land to sea to fly.
105 I hear the genie's laughter at my fate;
106 Yet do I find all power of thinking fled
107 In sonnet-rage and love's fierce ecstasy.
THE CHRISTMAS-BOX.
108 This box, mine own sweet darling, thou wilt find
109 With many a varied sweetmeat's form supplied;
110 The fruits are they of holy Christmas tide, But baked indeed, for children's use design'd.
111 I'd fain, in speeches sweet with skill combin'd,
112 Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;
113 But why in such frivolities confide? Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!
114 One sweet thing there is still, that from within,
115 Within us speaks,--that may be felt afar;
116 This may be wafted o'er to thee alone.
117 If thou a recollection fond canst win,
118 As if with pleasure gleam'd each well-known star,
119 The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.
THE WARNING.
120 When sounds the trumpet at the Judgment Day,
121 And when forever all things earthly die,
122 We must a full and true account supply Of ev'ry useless word we dropp'd in play.
123 But what effect will all the words convey
124 Wherein with eager zeal and lovingly,
125 That I might win thy favour, labour'd I, If on thine ear alone they die away?
126 Therefore, sweet love, thy conscience bear in mind,
127 Remember well how long thou hast delay'd,
128 So that the world such sufferings may not know.
129 If I must reckon, and excuses find
130 For all things useless I to thee have said,
131 To a full year the Judgment Day will grow
THE EPOCHS.
132 On Petrarch's heart, all other days before,
133 In flaming letters written, was impress d
134 GOOD FRIDAY. And on mine, be it confess'd, Is this year's ADVENT, as it passeth o'er.
135 I do not now begin,--I still adore
136 Her whom I early cherish'd in my breast;,
137 Then once again with prudence dispossess'd, And to whose heart I'm driven back once more.
138 The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love,
139 Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad;
140 One long Good Friday 'twas, one heartache drear
141 But may my mistress' Advent ever prove,
142 With its palm-jubilee, so sweet and glad,
143 One endless Mayday, through the livelong year!
THE DOUBTERS AND THE LOVERS.
THE DOUBTERS.
144 Ye love, and sonnets write! Fate's strange behest!
145 The heart, its hidden meaning to declare,
146 Must seek for rhymes, uniting pair with pair: Learn, children, that the will is weak, at best.
147 Scarcely with freedom the o'erflowing breast
148 As yet can speak, and well may it beware;
149 Tempestuous passions sweep each chord that's there, Then once more sink to night and gentle rest.
150 Why vex yourselves and us, the heavy stone
151 Up the steep path but step by step to roll?
152 It falls again, and ye ne'er cease to strive.
153 THE LOVERS.
154 but we are on the proper road alone!
155 If gladly is to thaw the frozen soul,
156 The fire of love must aye be kept alive.
CHARADE.
157 Two words there 'are, both short, of beauty rare,
158 Whose sounds our lips so often love to frame,
159 But which with clearness never can proclaim The things whose own peculiar stamp they bear.
160 'Tis well in days of age and youth so fair,
161 One on the other boldly to inflame;
162 And if those words together link'd we name, A blissful rapture we discover there.
163 But now to give them pleasure do I seek,
164 And in myself my happiness would find;
165 I hope in silence, but I hope for this:
166 Gently, as loved one's names, those words to speak
167 To see them both within one image shrin'd,
168 Both in one being to embrace with bliss.
EPIGRAMS.
169 ----- In these numbers be express'd Meaning deep, 'neath merry jest. -----
TO ORIGINALS.
170 A fellow says: "I own no school or college; No master lives whom I acknowledge; And pray don't entertain the thought That from the dead I e'er learnt aught." This, if I rightly understand, Means: "I'm a blockhead at first hand."
171 1815. ----- THE SOLDIER'S CONSOLATION.
172 No! in truth there's here no lack: White the bread, the maidens black! To another town, next night: Black the bread, the maidens white!
173 1815.* ----- GENIAL IMPULSE.
174 Thus roll I, never taking ease, My tub, like Saint Diogenes, Now serious am, now seek to please; Now love and hate in turn one sees; The motives now are those, now these; Now nothings, now realities. Thus roll I, never taking ease, My tub, like Saint Diogenes.
175 1810. ----- NEITHER THIS NOR THAT.
176 If thou to be a slave shouldst will, Thou'lt get no pity, but fare ill; And if a master thou wouldst be, The world will view it angrily; And if in statu quo thou stay, That thou art but a fool, they'll say.
177 1815.* ----- THE WAY TO BEHAVE.
178 Though tempers are bad and peevish folks swear, Remember to ruffle thy brows, friend, ne'er; And let not the fancies of women so fair E'er serve thy pleasure in life to impair.
179 1815.* ----- THE BEST.
180 When head and heart are busy, say,
181 What better can be found? Who neither loves nor goes astray,
182 Were better under ground.
183 1815.* ----- AS BROAD AS IT'S LONG.
184 MODEST men must needs endure,
185 And the bold must humbly bow; Thus thy fate's the same, be sure,
186 Whether bold or modest thou.
187 1815.* ----- THE RULE OF LIFE.
188 If thou wouldst live unruffled by care, Let not the past torment thee e'er; As little as possible be thou annoy'd, And let the present be ever enjoy'd; Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied, And to God the future confide.
THE SAME, EXPANDED.
189 If thou wouldst live unruffled by care, Let not the past torment thee e'er; If any loss thou hast to rue, Act as though thou wert born anew; Inquire the meaning of each day, What each day means itself will say; In thine own actions take thy pleasure, What others do, thou'lt duly treasure; Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied, And to God the future confide.
190 If wealth is gone--then something is gone!
191 Quick, make up thy mind,
192 And fresh wealth find. If honour is gone--then much is gone!
193 Seek glory to find,
194 And people then will alter their mind. If courage is gone--then all is gone! 'Twere better that thou hadst never been born.
194 He who with life makes sport,
195 Can prosper never; Who rules himself in nought,
196 Is a slave ever.
197 May each honest effort be
198 Crown'd with lasting constancy.
199 Each road to the proper end Runs straight on, without a bend.
CALM AT SEA.
200 Silence deep rules o'er the waters,
201 Calmly slumb'ring lies the main, While the sailor views with trouble
202 Nought but one vast level plain.
203 Not a zephyr is in motion!
204 Silence fearful as the grave! In the mighty waste of ocean
205 Sunk to rest is ev'ry wave.
206 1795. ----- THE PROSPEROUS VOYAGE.
207 The mist is fast clearing. And radiant is heaven, Whilst AEolus loosens Our anguish-fraught bond. The zephyrs are sighing, Alert is the sailor. Quick! nimbly be plying! The billows are riven, The distance approaches; I see land beyond!
208 1795. ----- COURAGE.
209 CARELESSLY over the plain away, Where by the boldest man no path Cut before thee thou canst discern, Make for thyself a path!
210 Silence, loved one, my heart! Cracking, let it not break! Breaking, break not with thee!
211 1776.* ----- MY ONLY PROPERTY.
212 I FEEL that I'm possess'd of nought, Saving the free unfetterd thought
213 Which from my bosom seeks to flow, And each propitious passing hour That suffers me in all its power
214 A loving fate with truth to know.
215 1814. ----- ADMONITION.
216 Wherefore ever ramble on?
217 For the Good is lying near, Fortune learn to seize alone,
218 For that Fortune's ever here.
219 1789. ----- OLD AGE.
220 Old age is courteous--no one more: For time after time he knocks at the door, But nobody says, "Walk in, sir, pray!" Yet turns he not from the door away, But lifts the latch, and enters with speed. And then they cry "A cool one, indeed!"
221 1814. ----- EPITAPH.
222 As a boy, reserved and naughty; As a youth, a coxcomb and haughty; As a man, for action inclined; As a greybeard, fickle in mind.-- Upon thy grave will people read: This was a very man, indeed!
223 1815.* ----- RULES FOR MONARCHS.
224 IF men are never their thoughts to employ, Take care to provide them a life full of joy; But if to some profit and use thou wouldst bend them, Take care to shear them, and then defend them.
PAULO POST FUTURI.
225 Weep ye not, ye children dear,
226 That as yet ye are unborn: For each sorrow and each tear
227 Makes the father's heart to mourn.
228 Patient be a short time to it,
229 Unproduced, and known to none; If your father cannot do it,
230 By your mother 'twill be done.
THE FOOL'S EPILOGUE.
231 Many good works I've done and ended, Ye take the praise--I'm not offended; For in the world, I've always thought Each thing its true position hath sought. When praised for foolish deeds am I, I set off laughing heartily; When blamed for doing something good, I take it in an easy mood. If some one stronger gives me hard blows, That it's a jest, I feign to suppose: But if 'tis one that's but my own like, I know the way such folks to strike. When Fortune smiles, I merry grow, And sing in dulci jubilo; When sinks her wheel, and tumbles me o'er, I think 'tis sure to rise once more.
232 In the sunshine of summer I ne'er lament, Because the winter it cannot prevent; And when the white snow-flakes fall around, I don my skates, and am off with a bound. Though I dissemble as I will, The sun for me will ne'er stand still; The old and wonted course is run, Until the whole of life is done; Each day the servant like the lord, In turns comes home, and goes abroad; If proud or humble the line they take, They all must eat, drink, sleep, and wake. So nothing ever vexes me; Act like the fool, and wise ye'll be.
PARABLES.
234 ----- Joy from that in type we borrow, Which in life gives only sorrow. ----- JOY.
235 A Dragon-fly with beauteous wing Is hov'ring o'er a silv'ry spring; I watch its motions with delight,-- Now dark its colours seem, now bright; Chameleon-like appear, now blue, Now red, and now of greenish hue. Would it would come still nearer me, That I its tints might better see
236 It hovers, flutters, resting ne'er!
237 But hush! it settles on the mead. I have it safe now, I declare!
238 And when its form I closely view,
239 'Tis of a sad and dingy blue-- Such, Joy-Dissector, is thy case indeed
EXPLANATION OF AN ANTIQUE GEM,
240 A Young fig-tree its form lifts high
241 Within a beauteous garden; And see, a goat is sitting by.
242 As if he were its warden.
243 But oh, Quirites, how one errs!
244 The tree is guarded badly; For round the other side there whirrs
245 And hums a beetle madly.
246 The hero with his well-mail'd coat
247 Nibbles the branches tall so; A mighty longing feels the goat
248 Gently to climb up also.
249 And so, my friends, ere long ye see
250 The tree all leafless standing; It looks a type of misery,
251 Help of the gods demanding.
252 Then listen, ye ingenuous youth,
253 Who hold wise saws respected: From he-goat and from beetles-tooth
254 A tree should be protected!
CAT-PIE.
255 While he is mark'd by vision clear
256 Who fathoms Nature's treasures, The man may follow, void of fear,
257 Who her proportions measures.
258 Though for one mortal, it is true,
259 These trades may both be fitted, Yet, that the things themselves are two
260 Must always be admitted.
261 Once on a time there lived a cook
262 Whose skill was past disputing, Who in his head a fancy took
263 To try his luck at shooting.
264 So, gun in hand, he sought a spot
265 Where stores of game were breeding, And there ere long a cat he shot
266 That on young birds was feeding.
267 This cat he fancied was a hare,
268 Forming a judgment hasty, So served it up for people's fare,
269 Well-spiced and in a pasty.
270 Yet many a guest with wrath was fill'd
271 (All who had noses tender): The cat that's by the sportsman kill'd
272 No cook a hare can render.
LEGEND.
273 There lived in the desert a holy man
274 ----------To whom a goat-footed Faun one day Paid a visit, and thus began
275 To his surprise: "I entreat thee to pray That 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 pass Straight and with ease, with the head of an ass!"
AUTHORS.
276 Over the meadows, and down the stream,
277 And through the garden-walks straying, He plucks the flowers that fairest seem;
278 His throbbing heart brooks no delaying. His maiden then comes--oh, what ecstasy! Thy flowers thou giv'st for one glance of her eye!
279 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.
280 The one his pleasures around him strews,
281 That his friends, the public, may reap, if they choose; The other would fain make them all subscribe,
THE CRITIC.
282 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,
283 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!
THE DILETTANTE AND THE CRITIC.
284 A boy a pigeon once possess'd, In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd; He loved it well, and in boyish sport Its 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.
285 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.
286 "My friend the fox my pigeon must see He 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!"
287 "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.
288 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.
289 He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case, Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.
THE WRANGLER.
290 One day a shameless and impudent wight Went 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.
291 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!"
THE YELPERS.
292 Our rides in all directions bend,
293 For business or for pleasure, Yet yelpings on our steps attend,
294 And barkings without measure. The dog that in our stable dwells,
295 After our heels is striding, And all the while his noisy yells
296 But show that we are riding.
THE STORK'S VOCATION.
297 The stork who worms and frogs devours
298 That in our ponds reside, Why should he dwell on high church-towers,
299 With which he's not allied?
300 Incessantly he chatters there,
301 And gives our ears no rest; But neither old nor young can dare
302 To drive him from his nest.
303 I humbly ask it,--how can he
304 Give of his title proof, Save by his happy tendency
305 To soil the church's roof? ----- CELEBRITY.
306 [A satire on his own Sorrows of Werther.]
307 On bridges small and bridges great Stands 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 ears A saint in people's eyes appears, Or has been sentenced piteously Beneath 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 Lord Is not with greater zeal ador'd. Strange fancy of the human race! Half sinner frail, half child of grace We see HERR WERTHER of the story In all the pomp of woodcut glory. His worth is first made duly known, By having his sad features shown At 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!"
PLAYING AT PRIESTS.
308 Within a town where parity According to old form we see,-- That is to say, where Catholic And 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 truth Sounded more pleasing to our youth, For all that we encounter'd there, To us seem'd varied, joyous, fair. As children, monkeys, and mankind To 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 lent For 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.
309 Through house and garden thus in state We strutted early, strutted late, Repeating with all proper unction, Incessantly each holy function. The best was wanting to the game;
310 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;
311 We were delighted, and at once
312 Made it a bellrope for the nonce, And kept it moving all the day;
313 In turns each sister and each brother
314 Acted as sexton to another; All help'd to swell the joyous throng;
315 The whole proceeded swimmingly,
316 And since no actual bell had we, We all in chorus sang, Ding dong!
317 Our guileless child's-sport long was hush'd
318 In memory's tomb, like some old lay; And yet across my mind it rush'd
319 With pristine force the other day. The New-Poetic Catholics In ev'ry point its aptness fix!
SONGS.
320 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.
321 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!
POETRY.
322 God to his untaught children sent
323 Law, order, knowledge, art, from high, And ev'ry heav'nly favour lent,
324 The world's hard lot to qualify. They knew not how they should behave,
325 For all from Heav'n stark-naked came; But Poetry their garments gave,
326 And then not one had cause for shame.
A PARABLE.
327 I picked a rustic nosegay lately, And bore it homewards, musing greatly; When, heated by my hand, I found The heads all drooping tow'rd the ground. I plac'd them in a well-cool'd glass, And what a wonder came to pass The heads soon raised themselves once more. The stalks were blooming as before, And all were in as good a case As when they left their native place.
328 So felt I, when I wond'ring heard My song to foreign tongues transferr'd.
SHOULD E'ER THE LOVELESS DAY.
329 Should e'er the loveless day remain Obscured by storms of hail and rain,
330 Thy charms thou showest never; I tap at window, tap at door: Come, lov'd one, come! appear once more!
331 Thou art as fair as ever!
A PLAN THE MUSES ENTERTAINED.
332 A PLAN the Muses entertain'd
333 Methodically to impart
334 To Psyche the poetic art; Prosaic-pure her soul remain'd. No wondrous sounds escaped her lyre
335 E'en in the fairest Summer night; But Amor came with glance of fire,--
336 The lesson soon was learn'd aright.
THE DEATH OF THE FLY.
337 With eagerness he drinks the treach'rous potion,
338 Nor stops to rest, by the first taste misled; Sweet is the draught, but soon all power of motion
339 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.
BY THE RIVER
340 WHEN by the broad stream thou dost dwell,
341 Oft shallow is its sluggish flood; Then, when thy fields thou tendest well,
342 It o'er them spreads its slime and mud.
343 The ships descend ere daylight wanes,
344 The prudent fisher upward goes; Round reef and rock ice casts its chains,
345 And boys at will the pathway close.
346 To this attend, then, carefully,
347 And what thou wouldst, that execute! Ne'er linger, ne'er o'erhasty be,
348 For time moves on with measured foot.
THE FOX AND CRANE.
349 Once two persons uninvited
350 Came to join my dinner table; For the nonce they lived united,
351 Fox and crane yclept in fable.
352 Civil greetings pass'd between us
353 Then I pluck'd some pigeons tender For the fox of jackal-genius,
354 Adding grapes in full-grown splendour.
355 Long-neck'd flasks I put as dishes
356 For the crane, without delaying, Fill'd with gold and silver fishes,
357 In the limpid water playing.
358 Had ye witness'd Reynard planted
359 At his flat plate, all demurely, Ye with envy must have granted:
360 "Ne'er was such a gourmand, surely!"
361 While the bird with circumspection
362 On one foot, as usual, cradled, From the flasks his fish-refection
363 With his bill and long neck ladled.
364 One the pigeons praised,--the other,
365 As they went, extoll'd the fishes, Each one scoffing at his brother
366 For preferring vulgar dishes.
367 If thou wouldst preserve thy credit,
368 When thou askest folks to guzzle At thy hoard, take care to spread it
369 Suited both for bill and muzzle.
THE FOX AND HUNTSMAN.
370 Hard 'tis on a fox's traces
371 To arrive, midst forest-glades; Hopeless utterly the chase is,
372 If his flight the huntsman aids.
373 And so 'tis with many a wonder,
374 (Why A B make Ab in fact,) Over which we gape and blunder,
375 And our head and brains distract.
THE FROGS.
376 A POOL was once congeal'd with frost; The frogs, in its deep waters lost,
377 No longer dared to croak or spring; But promised, being half asleep, If suffer'd to the air to creep,
378 As very nightingales to sing.
379 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.
THE WEDDING.
380 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!
381 We're only dancing in her honour; We now have danced three nights and days,
382 And not bestowed one thought upon her."
383 Whoe'er in life employs his eyes Such cases oft will recognise.
BURIAL.
384 To the grave one day from a house they bore
385 A maiden; To the window the citizens went to explore; In splendour they lived, and with wealth as of yore
386 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,
387 To our riches will be the successor,
388 For some one must be their possessor.
THREATENING SIGNS.
389 If Venus in the evening sky Is 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!"
390 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.
THE BUYERS.
391 To an apple-woman's stall
392 Once some children nimbly ran; Longing much to purchase all, They with joyous haste began Snatching up the piles there raised, While with eager eyes they gazed On 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.
393 The man who gratis will his goods supply Will never find a lack of folks to buy!
THE MOUNTAIN VILLAGE.
394 "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!"
395 Behold a wooden new erection, So that, if sparks and wind but choose, God's self at such a game must lose!
SYMBOLS.
396 Palm Sunday at the Vatican
397 They celebrate with palms; With reverence bows each holy man,
398 And chaunts the ancient psalms. Those very psalms are also sung
399 With olive boughs in hand, While holly, mountain wilds among,
400 In place of palms must stand: In fine, one seeks some twig that's green,
401 And takes a willow rod, So that the pious man may e'en
402 In small things praise his God.
403 And if ye have observed it well,
404 To gain what's fit ye're able, If ye in faith can but excel;
405 Such are the myths of fable.
THREE PALINODIAS.
I.
406 "Incense is hut a tribute for the gods,-- To mortals 'tis but poison."
407 The smoke that from thine altar blows,
408 Can it the gods offend? For I observe thou hold'st thy nose--
409 Pray what does this portend? Mankind deem incense to excel
410 Each other earthly thing, So he that cannot bear its smell,
411 No incense e'er should bring.
412 With unmoved face by thee at least
413 To dolls is homage given; If not obstructed by the priest,
414 The scent mounts up to heaven.
II
CONFLICT OF WIT AND BEAUTY.
415 Sir Wit, who is so much esteem'd,
416 And who is worthy of all honour, Saw Beauty his superior deem'd
417 By folks who loved to gaze upon her; At this he was most sorely vex'd.
418 Then came Sir Breath (long known as fit
419 To represent the cause of wit),
420 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?
421 If you are obstinate, good-bye! If wise, to love me you will try, For be assured the world can ne'er Give birth to a more handsome pair."
422 FAIR daughters were by Beauty rear'd,
423 Wit had but dull sons for his lot; So for a season it appear'd
424 Beauty was constant, Wit was not. But Wit's a native of the soil,
425 So he return'd, work'd, strove amain, And found--sweet guerdon for his toil!--
426 Beauty to quicken him again.
III.
RAIN AND RAINBOW.
427 During a heavy storm it chanced That from his room a cockney glanced At 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 spy Extending 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 me A type of better worlds to be To eyes that from life's sorrows rove In cheerful hope to Heav'n above, And, through the mists that hover here God and his precepts blest revere. Do thou, then, grovel like the swine, And to the ground thy snout confine, But suffer the enlighten'd eye To feast upon my majesty."
VALEDICTION.
428 I ONCE was fond of fools,
429 And bid them come each day; Then each one brought his tools
430 The carpenter to play; The roof to strip first choosing,
431 Another to supply, The wood as trestles using,
432 To move it by-and-by, While here and there they ran,
433 And knock'd against each other; To fret I soon began,
434 My anger could not smother, So cried, "Get out, ye fools!"
435 At this they were offended Then each one took his tools,
436 And so our friendship ended.
437 Since that, I've wiser been,
438 And sit beside my door; When one of them is seen,
439 I cry, "Appear no more!" "Hence, stupid knave!" I bellow:
440 At this he's angry too: "You impudent old fellow!
441 And pray, sir, who are you? Along the streets we riot,
442 And revel at the fair; But yet we're pretty quiet,
443 And folks revile us ne'er. Don't call us names, then, please!"-- At length I meet with ease,
444 For now they leave my door-- 'Tis better than before!
THE COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER.
I.
445 A master of a country school Jump'd up one day from off his stool, Inspired with firm resolve to try To 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 now A very low and graceful bow, But quite forgot to bear in mind That people also stood behind; His left-hand neighbor's paunch he struck A 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.
446 May many, pond'ring on their crimes, A moral draw from this betimes!
II.
447 As he proceeded on his way He 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.
448 "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!"
449 A SYMBOL.
THE LEGEND OF THE HORSESHOE.
450 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 meet To hold His court in open street, As under heaven's broad canopy One speaks with greater liberty. The teachings of His blessed word From out His holy mouth were heard; Each market to a fane turn'd He With parable and simile.
451 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 way Respecting 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 mean Had it a crown and sceptre been! But, surely, 'twasn't worth the trouble For half a horseshoe to bend double! And so he turn'd away his head, As if he heard not what was said,
452 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 many As could be purchased for a penny, And then, as oft His wont had been, Placed them within His sleeve unseen.
453 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 cherry Once more let fall upon the plain; St. Peter forthwith stoop'd again. The Lord kept making him thus bend To 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."
454 A SYMBOL.
455 (This fine poem is given by Goethe amongst a small collection of what he calls Loge (Lodge), meaning thereby Masonic pieces.)
456 The mason's trade Observe them well,
457 Resembles life, And watch them revealing
458 With all its strife,-- How solemn feeling Is like the stir made And wonderment swell
459 By man on earth's face. The hearts of the brave.
460 Though weal and woe The voice of the blest,
461 The future may hide, And of spirits on high
462 Unterrified Seems loudly to cry: We onward go "To do what is best,
463 In ne'er changing race. Unceasing endeavour!
464 A veil of dread "In silence eterne
465 Hangs heavier still. Here chaplets are twin'd,
466 Deep slumbers fill That each noble mind The stars over-head, Its guerdon may earn.--
467 And the foot-trodden grave. Then hope ye for ever!"
ART.
----- Artist, fashion! talk not long! Be a breath thine only song! ----- THE DROPS OF NECTAR.
468 When Minerva, to give pleasure To Prometheus, her well-loved one, Brought a brimming bowl of nectar From the glorious realms of heaven As a blessing for his creatures, And to pour into their bosoms Impulses 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 it On the verdant plain beneath her. Then the busy bees flew thither Straightway, eagerly to drink them, And the butterfly came quickly That he, too, might find a drop there; Even the misshapen spider Thither crawl'd and suck'd with vigour.
469 To a happy end they tasted, They, and other gentle insects! For with mortals now divide they ArtÄthat noblest gift of all.
THE WANDERER.
470 [Published in the Gottingen Musen Almanach, having been written "to express his feelings and caprices" after his separation from Frederica.]
WANDERER.
471 YOUNG woman, may God bless thee, Thee, and the sucking infant Upon thy breast! Let me, 'gainst this rocky wall, Neath the elm-tree's shadow, Lay aside my burden, Near thee take my rest.
WOMAN.
472 What vocation leads thee, While the day is burning, Up this dusty path? Bring'st thou goods from out the town Round the country? Smil'st thou, stranger, At my question?
WANDERER.
473 From the town no goods I bring. Cool is now the evening; Show to me the fountain 'Whence thou drinkest, Woman young and kind!
WOMAN.
474 Up the rocky pathway mount; Go thou first! Across the thicket Leads the pathway tow'rd the cottage That I live in, To the fountain Whence I drink.
WANDERER.
475 Signs of man's arranging hand See I 'mid the trees! Not by thee these stones were join'd, Nature, who so freely scatterest!
WOMAN.
476 Up, still up!
WANDERER.
477 Lo, a mossy architrave is here! I discern thee, fashioning spirit! On the stone thou hast impress'd thy seal.
WOMAN.
478 Onward, stranger!
WANDERER.
479 Over an inscription am I treading! 'Tis effaced! Ye are seen no longer, Words so deeply graven, Who your master's true devotion Should have shown to thousand grandsons!
WOMAN.
480 At these stones, why Start'st thou, stranger? Many stones are lying yonder Round my cottage.
WANDERER.
481 Yonder?
WOMAN.
482 Through the thicket, Turning to the left, Here!
WANDERER.
483 Ye Muses and ye Graces!
WOMAN.
484 This, then, is my cottage.
WANDERER.
485 'Tis a ruin'd temple! *
WOMAN.
486 Just below it, see, Springs the fountain Whence I drink.
WANDERER.
487 Thou dost hover O'er thy grave, all glowing, Genius! while upon thee Hath thy master-piece Fallen crumbling, Thou Immortal One!
WOMAN.
488 Stay, a cup I'll fetch thee Whence to drink.
WANDERER.
489 Ivy circles thy slender Form so graceful and godlike. How ye rise on high From the ruins, Column-pair And thou, their lonely sister yonder,-- How thou, Dusky moss upon thy sacred head,-- Lookest down in mournful majesty On thy brethren's figures Lying scatter'd At thy feet! In the shadow of the bramble Earth and rubbish veil them, Lofty grass is waving o'er them Is it thus thou, Nature, prizest Thy great masterpiece's masterpiece? Carelessly destroyest thou Thine own sanctuary, Sowing thistles there?
WOMAN.
490 How the infant sleeps! Wilt thou rest thee in the cottage, Stranger? Wouldst thou rather In the open air still linger? Now 'tis cool! take thou the child While I go and draw some water. Sleep on, darling! sleep!
WANDERER.
491 Sweet is thy repose! How, with heaven-born health imbued, Peacefully he slumbers! Oh thou, born among the ruins Spread by great antiquity, On thee rest her spirit! He whom it encircles Will, in godlike consciousness, Ev'ry day enjoy. Full, of germ, unfold, As the smiling springtime's Fairest charm, Outshining all thy fellows! And when the blossom's husk is faded, May the full fruit shoot forth From out thy breast, And ripen in the sunshine!
WOMAN.
492 God bless him!--Is he sleeping still? To the fresh draught I nought can add, Saving a crust of bread for thee to eat.
WANDERER.
493 I thank thee well. How fair the verdure all around! How green!
WOMAN.
494 My husband soon Will home return From labour. Tarry, tarry, man, And with us eat our evening meal.
WANDERER.
495 Isn't here ye dwell?
WOMAN.
496 Yonder, within those walls we live. My father 'twas who built the cottage Of 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 heart How lively, and how full of play! Sweet rogue!
WANDERER.
497 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 home The swallow builds the cornice round, Unconscious of the beauties She plasters up. The caterpillar spins around the bough, To make her brood a winter house; And thou dost patch, between antiquity's Most glorious relics, For thy mean use, Oh man, a humble cot,-- Enjoyest e'en mid tombs!-- Farewell, thou happy woman!
WOMAN.
498 Thou wilt not stay, then?
WANDERER.
499 May God preserve thee, And bless thy boy!
WOMAN.
500 A happy journey!
WANDERER.
501 Whither conducts the path Across yon hill?
WOMAN.
502 To Cuma.
WANDERER.
503 How far from hence?
WOMAN.
504 'Tis full three miles.
WANDERER.
505 Farewell! Oh Nature, guide me on my way! The wandering stranger guide, Who o'er the tombs Of holy bygone times Is passing, To a kind sheltering place, From North winds safe, And where a poplar grove Shuts out the noontide ray! And when I come Home to my cot At evening, Illumined by the setting sun, Let me embrace a wife like this, Her infant in her arms!
506 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)
507 ".... With mournful majesiy A heap of solitary ruins lie, Half sepulchred in dust, the bankrupt heir To prodigal antiquity...." ----- LOVE AS A LANDSCAPE PAINTER.
508 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.
509 Suddenly a boy appear'd beside me, Saying "Friend, what meanest thou by gazing On the vacant pall with such composure? Hast thou lost for evermore all pleasure Both in painting cunningly, and forming?" On the child I gazed, and thought in secret: "Would the boy pretend to be a master?"
510 "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."
511 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.
512 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 summits Of the fresh and quicken'd trees, behind them One 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.
513 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!
514 Bright and clear he added then the heavens, And the blue-tinged mountains far and farther, So that I, as though newborn, enraptured Gazed on, now the painter, now the picture.
515 Then spake he: "Although I have convinced thee That this art I understand full surely, Yet the hardest still is left to show thee."
516 Thereupon he traced, with pointed finger, And with anxious care, upon the forest, At the utmost verge, where the strong sunbeams From the shining ground appear'd reflected,
517 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 colour As the finger that had served to paint them.
518 "Oh thou boy!" exclaim'd I then, "what master In his school received thee as his pupil, Teaching thee so truthfully and quickly Wisely to begin, and well to finish?"
519 Whilst I still was speaking, lo, a zephyr Softly 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 station Where still sat I with my arch instructor.
520 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?
GOD, SOUL, AND WORLD.
----- RHYMED DISTICHS.
[The Distichs, of which these are given as a specimen, are about forty in number.]
521 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.
PROCEMION.
522 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 discovers Onward 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.
523 1816. ----- WHAT God would outwardly alone control, And on his finger whirl the mighty Whole? He loves the inner world to move, to view Nature in Him, Himself in Nature too, So that what in Him works, and is, and lives, The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.
524 1816. ----- WITHIN us all a universe doth dwell; And hence each people's usage laudable, That ev'ry one the Best that meets his eyes As 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.
525 1816. ----- THE METAMORPHOSIS OF PLANTS.
526 Thou art confused, my beloved, at, seeing the thousandfold union
527 Shown in this flowery troop, over the garden dispers'd; any a name dost thou hear assign'd; one after another
528 Falls on thy list'ning ear, with a barbarian sound. None resembleth another, yet all their forms have a likeness;
529 Therefore, a mystical law is by the chorus proclaim'd; Yes, a sacred enigma! Oh, dearest friend, could I only
530 Happily teach thee the word, which may the mystery solve! Closely observe how the plant, by little and little progressing,
531 Step by step guided on, changeth to blossom and fruit! First from the seed it unravels itself, as soon as the silent
532 Fruit-bearing womb of the earth kindly allows Its escape, And to the charms of the light, the holy, the ever-in-motion,
533 Trusteth the delicate leaves, feebly beginning to shoot. Simply slumber'd the force in the seed; a germ of the future,
534 Peacefully lock'd in itself, 'neath the integument lay, Leaf and root, and bud, still void of colour, and shapeless;
535 Thus doth the kernel, while dry, cover that motionless life. Upward then strives it to swell, in gentle moisture confiding,
536 And, from the night where it dwelt, straightway ascendeth to light. Yet still simple remaineth its figure, when first it appeareth;
537 And 'tis a token like this, points out the child 'mid the plants. Soon a shoot, succeeding it, riseth on high, and reneweth,
538 Piling-up node upon node, ever the primitive form; Yet not ever alike: for the following leaf, as thou seest,
539 Ever produceth itself, fashioned in manifold ways. Longer, more indented, in points and in parts more divided,
540 Which. all-deform'd until now, slept in the organ below, So at length it attaineth the noble and destined perfection,
541 Which, in full many a tribe, fills thee with wondering awe. Many ribb'd and tooth'd, on a surface juicy and swelling,
542 Free and unending the shoot seemeth in fullness to be; Yet here Nature restraineth, with powerful hands, the formation,
543 And to a perfecter end, guideth with softness its growth, Less abundantly yielding the sap, contracting the vessels,
544 So that the figure ere long gentler effects doth disclose. Soon and in silence is check'd the growth of the vigorous branches,
545 And the rib of the stalk fuller becometh in form. Leafless, however, and quick the tenderer stem then up-springeth,
546 And a miraculous sight doth the observer enchant. Ranged in a circle, in numbers that now are small, and now countless,
547 Gather the smaller-sized leaves, close by the side of their like. Round the axis compress'd the sheltering calyx unfoldeth,
548 And, as the perfectest type, brilliant-hued coronals forms. Thus doth Nature bloom, in glory still nobler and fuller,
549 Showing, in order arranged, member on member uprear'd. Wonderment fresh dost thou feel, as soon as the stem rears the flower
550 Over the scaffolding frail of the alternating leaves. But this glory is only the new creation's foreteller,
551 Yes, the leaf with its hues feeleth the hand all divine, And on a sudden contracteth itself; the tenderest figures
552 Twofold as yet, hasten on, destined to blend into one. Lovingly now the beauteous pairs are standing together,
553 Gather'd in countless array, there where the altar is raised. Hymen hovereth o'er them, and scents delicious and mighty
554 Stream forth their fragrance so sweet, all things enliv'ning around. Presently, parcell'd out, unnumber'd germs are seen swelling,
555 Sweetly conceald in the womb, where is made perfect the fruit. Here doth Nature close the ring of her forces eternal;
556 Yet doth a new one, at once, cling to the one gone before, So that the chain be prolonged for ever through all generations,
557 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
558 Which, confusing no more, gladden the mind as they wave. Every plant unto thee proclaimeth the laws everlasting,
559 Every flowered speaks louder and louder to thee; But if thou here canst decipher the mystic words of the goddess,
560 Everywhere will they be seen, e'en though the features are changed. Creeping insects may linger, the eager butterfly hasten,--
561 Plastic and forming, may man change e'en the figure decreed! Oh, then, bethink thee, as well, how out of the germ of acquaintance,
562 Kindly intercourse sprang, slowly unfolding its leaves; Soon how friendship with might unveil'd itself in our bosoms,
563 And how Amor, at length, brought forth blossom and fruit Think of the manifold ways wherein Nature hath lent to our feelings,
564 Silently giving them birth, either the first or the last! Yes, and rejoice in the present day! For love that is holy
565 Seeketh the noblest of fruits,--that where the thoughts are the same, Where the opinions agree,--that the pair may, in rapt contemplation,
566 Lovingly blend into one,--find the more excellent world.
PROVERBS.
567 ----- '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,
568 By many a mortal storm'd; Let them fall in the gaps as they may,
569 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!
TAME XENIA.
570 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.
571 God gave to mortals birth,
572 In his own image too; Then came Himself to earth,
573 A mortal kind and true.
574 Barbarians oft endeavour
575 Gods for themselves to make But they're more hideous ever
576 Than dragon or than snake.
577 1821.* ----- WHAT shall I teach thee, the very first thing?-- Fain would I learn o'er my shadow to spring!
578 1827.* ----- "WHAT is science, rightly known? 'Tis the strength of life alone. Life canst thou engender never, Life must be life's parent ever.
579 1827.* ----- It matters not, I ween,
580 Where worms our friends consume, Beneath the turf so green,
581 Or 'neath a marble tomb. Remember, ye who live,
582 Though frowns the fleeting day, That to your friends ye give
583 What never will decay.
RELIGION AND CHURCH.
----- THOUGHTS ON JESUS CHRIST'S DESCENT INTO HELL.
584 [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.]
585 What wondrous noise is heard around! Through heaven exulting voices sound,
586 A mighty army marches on By thousand millions follow'd, lo, To yon dark place makes haste to go
587 God's Son, descending from His throne! He goes--the tempests round Him break,
588 As Judge and Hero cometh He; He goes--the constellations quake,
589 The sun, the world quake fearfully.
590 I see Him in His victor-car, On fiery axles borne afar,
591 Who on the cross for us expired. The triumph to yon realms He shows,-- Remote from earth, where star ne'er glows,
592 The triumph He for us acquired. He cometh, Hell to extirpate,
593 Whom He, by dying, wellnigh kill'd; He shall pronounce her fearful fate
594 Hark! now the curse is straight fulfill'd.
595 Hell sees the victor come at last, She feels that now her reign is past,
596 She quakes and fears to meet His sight; She knows His thunders' terrors dread, In vain she seeks to hide her head,
597 Attempts to fly, but vain is flight; Vainly she hastes to 'scape pursuit
598 And to avoid her Judge's eye; The Lord's fierce wrath restrains her foot
599 Like brazen chains,--she cannot fly.
600 Here lies the Dragon, trampled down, He lies, and feels God's angry frown,
601 He feels, and grinneth hideously; He feels Hell's speechless agonies, A thousand times he howls and sighs:
602 "Oh, burning flames! quick, swallow me!" There lies he in the fiery waves,
603 By torments rack'd and pangs infernal, Instant annihilation craves,
604 And hears, those pangs will be eternal.
605 Those mighty squadrons, too, are here, The partners of his cursed career,
606 Yet far less bad than he were they. Here lies the countless throng combined, In black and fearful crowds entwined,
607 While round him fiery tempests play; He sees how they the Judge avoid,
608 He sees the storm upon them feed, Yet is not at the sight o'erjoy'd,
609 Because his pangs e'en theirs exceed.
610 The Son of Man in triumph passes Down to Hell's wild and black morasses,
611 And there unfolds His majesty. Hell cannot bear the bright array, For, since her first created day.
612 Darkness alone e'er govern'd she. She lay remote from ev'ry light
613 With torments fill'd in Chaos here; God turn'd for ever from her sight
614 His radiant features' glory clear.
615 Within the realms she calls her own, She sees the splendour of the Son,
616 His dreaded glories shining forth; She sees Him clad in rolling thunder, She sees the rocks all quake with wonder,
617 When God before her stands in wrath. She sees He comes her Judge to be,
618 She feels the awful pangs inside her, Herself to slay endeavours she,
619 But e'en this comfort is denied her.
620 Now looks she back, with pains untold, Upon those happy times of old,
621 When those glories gave her joy; When yet her heart revered the truth, When her glad soul, in endless youth
622 And rapture dwelt, without alloy. She calls to mind with madden'd thought
623 How over man her wiles prevail'd; To take revenge on God she sought,
624 And feels the vengeance it entail'd.
625 God was made man, and came to earth. Then Satan cried with fearful mirth:
626 "E'en He my victim now shall be!" He sought to slay the Lord Most High, The world's Creator now must die;
627 But, Satan, endless woe to thee! Thou thought'st to overcome Him then,
628 Rejoicing in His suffering; But he in triumph comes again
629 To bind thee: Death! where is thy sting?
630 Speak, Hell! where is thy victory? Thy power destroy'd and scatter'd see!
631 Know'st thou not now the Highest's might? See, Satan, see thy rule o'erthrown!
632 By thousand-varying pangs weigh'd down, Thou dwell'st in dark and endless night.
633 As though by lightning struck thou liest, No gleam of rapture far or wide;
634 In vain! no hope thou there decriest,-- For me alone Messiah died!
635 A howling rises through the air, A trembling fills each dark vault there,
636 When Christ to Hell is seen to come. She snarls with rage, but needs must cower Before our mighty hero's power;
637 He signs--and Hell is straightway dumb. Before his voice the thunders break,
638 On high His victor-banner blows; E'en angels at His fury quake,
639 When Christ to the dread judgment goes.
640 Now speaks He, and His voice is thunder, He speaks, the rocks are rent in sunder,
641 His breath is like devouring flames. Thus speaks He: "Tremble, ye accurs'd! He who from Eden hurl'd you erst,
642 Your kingdom's overthrow proclaims. Look up! My children once were ye,
643 Your arms against Me then ye turn'd, Ye fell, that ye might sinners be,
644 Ye've now the wages that ye earn'd.
645 "My greatest foeman from that day, Ye led my dearest friends astray,--
646 As ye had fallen, man must fall. To kill him evermore ye sought, 'They all shall die the death,' ye thought;
647 But howl! for Me I won them all. For them alone did I descend,
648 For them pray'd, suffer'd, perish'd I. Ye ne'er shall gain your wicked end;
649 Who trusts in Me shall never die.
650 "In endless chains here lie ye now, Nothing can save you from the slough.
651 Not boldness, not regret for crime. Lie, then, and writhe in brimstone fire! 'Twas ye yourselves drew down Mine ire,
652 Lie and lament throughout all time! And also ye, whom I selected,
653 E'en ye forever I disown, For ye My saving grace rejected
654 Ye murmur? blame yourselves alone!
655 "Ye might have lived with Me in bliss, For I of yore had promis'd this;
656 Ye sinn'd, and all My precepts slighted Wrapp'd in the sleep of sin ye dwelt, Now is My fearful judgment felt,
657 By a just doom your guilt requited."-- Thus spake He, and a fearful storm
658 From Him proceeds, the lightnings glow, The thunders seize each wicked form,
659 And hurl them in the gulf below.
660 The God-man closeth Hell's sad doors, In all His majesty He soars
661 From those dark regions back to light. He sitteth at the Father's side; Oh, friends, what joy doth this betide!
662 For us, for us He still will fight! The angels sacred quire around
663 Rejoice before the mighty Lord, So that all creatures hear the sound:
664 "Zebaoth's God be aye ador'd!"
ANTIQUES.
----- LEOPOLD, DUKE OF BRUNSWICK.
[Written on the occasion of the death, by drowning, of the Prince.]
665 Thou wert forcibly seized by the hoary lord of the river,--
666 Holding thee, ever he shares with thee his streaming domain, Calmly sleepest thou near his urn as it silently trickles,
667 Till thou to action art roused, waked by the swift-rolling flood. Kindly be to the people, as when thou still wert a mortal,
668 Perfecting that as a god, which thou didst fail in, as man.
TO THE HUSBANDMAN.
669 Smoothly and lightly the golden seed by the furrow is cover'd;
670 Yet will a deeper one, friend, cover thy bones at the last. Joyously plough'd and sow'd! Here food all living is budding,
671 E'en from the side of the tomb Hope will not vanish away.
ANACREON'S GRAVE.
672 Here where the roses blossom, where vines round the laurels are twining,
673 Where the turtle-dove calls, where the blithe cricket is heard, Say, whose grave can this be, with life by all the Immortals
674 Beauteously planted and deck'd?--Here doth Anacreon sleep Spring and summer and autumn rejoiced the thrice-happy minstrel,
675 And from the winter this mound kindly hath screen'd him at last.
THE BRETHREN.
676 Slumber and Sleep, two brethren ordain'd by the gods to their service,
677 Were by Prometheus implored, comfort to give to his race; But though so light to the gods, too heavy for man was their burden,
678 We in their slumber find sleep, we in their sleep meet with death.
MEASURE OF TIME.
679 Eros, what mean'st thou by this? In each of thine hands is an hourglass!
680 What, oh thou frivolous god! twofold thy measure of time? "Slowly run from the one, the hours of lovers when parted;
681 While through the other they rush swiftly, as soon as they meet."
WARNING.
682 Waken not Amor from sleep! The beauteous urchin still slumbers;
683 Go, and complete thou the task, that to the day is assign'd! Thus doth the prudent mother with care turn time to her profit,
684 While her babe is asleep, for 'twill awake but too soon.
SOLITUDE.
685 Oh ye kindly nymphs, who dwell 'mongst the rocks and the thickets,
686 Grant unto each whatsoe'er he may in silence desire! Comfort impart to the mourner, and give to the doubter instruction,
687 And let the lover rejoice, finding the bliss that he craves. For from the gods ye received what they ever denied unto mortals,
688 Power to comfort and aid all who in you may confide.
THE CHOSEN CLIFF.
689 Here in silence the lover fondly mused on his loved one;
690 Gladly he spake to me thus: "Be thou my witness, thou stone! Yet thou must not be vainglorious, thou hast many companions;
691 Unto each rock on the plain, where I, the happy one, dwell, Unto each tree of the wood that I cling to, as onward I ramble,
692 'Be thou a sign of my bliss!' shout I, and then 'tis ordain'd. Yet to thee only I lend a voice, as a Muse from the people
693 Chooseth one for herself, kissing his lips as a friend."
THE CONSECRATED SPOT.
694 When in the dance of the Nymphs, in the moonlight so holy assembled,
695 Mingle the Graces, down from Olympus in secret descending, Here doth the minstrel hide, and list to their numbers enthralling,
696 Here doth he watch their silent dances' mysterious measure. All that is glorious in Heaven, and all that the earth in her beauty
697 Ever hath brought into life, the dreamer awake sees before him; All he repeats to the Muses, and lest the gods should be anger'd,
698 How to tell of secrets discreetly, the Muses instruct him.
THE INSTRUCTORS.
699 When Diogenes quietly sunn'd himself in his barrel,
700 When Calanus with joy leapt in the flame-breathing grave, Oh, what noble lessons were those for the rash son of Philip,
701 Were not the lord of the world e'en for instruction too great!
THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE,
702 Even this heavenly pair were unequally match'd when united:
703 Psyche grew older and wise, Amor remain'd still a child,
EXCUSE.
704 Thou dost complain of woman for changing from one to another?
705 Censure her not: for she seeks one who will constant remain.
SAKONTALA.
706 Wouldst thou the blossoms of spring, as well as the fruits of the autumn,
707 Wouldst thou what charms and delights, wouldst thou what plenteously, feeds, Would thou include both Heaven and earth in one designation, all that is needed is done, when I Sakontala name.
THE MUSE'S MIRROR.
708 Early one day, the Muse, when eagerly bent on adornment, Follow'd a swift-running streamlet, the quietest nook by it seeking. Quickly and noisily flowing, the changeful surface distorted Ever her moving form; the goddess departed in anger. Yet the stream call'd mockingly after her, saying: "What, truly! Wilt thou not view, then, the truth, in my mirror so clearly depicted?" But she already was far away, on the brink of the ocean, In her figure rejoicing, and duly arranging her garland.
PHOEBUS AND HERMES.
709 Delos' stately ruler, and Maia's son, the adroit one,
710 Warmly were striving, for both sought the great prize to obtain. Hermes the lyre demanded, the lyre was claim'd by Apollo,
711 Yet were the hearts of the foes fruitlessly nourish'd by hope. For on a sudden Ares burst in, with fury decisive,
712 Dashing in twain the gold toy, brandishing wildly his sword. Hermes, malicious one, laughed beyond measure; yet deep-seated sorrow
713 Seized upon Phoebus's heart, seized on the heart of each Muse.
THE NEW AMOR.
714 Amor, not the child, the youthful lover of Psyche, Look'd round Olympus one day, boldly, to triumph inured; There he espied a goddess, the fairest amongst the immortals,-- Venus Urania she,--straight was his passion inflamed. Even the holy one powerless proved, alas! 'gainst his wooing,-- Tightly embraced in his arm, held her the daring one fast. Then from their union arose a new, a more beauteous Amor, Who from his father his wit, grace from his mother derives. Ever thou'lt find him join'd in the kindly Muses' communion, And his charm-laden bolt foundeth the love of the arts.
THE GARLANDS.
715 Klopstock would lead us away from Pindus; no longer for laurel May we be eager--the homely acorn alone must content us; Yet he himself his more-than-epic crusade is conducting High on Golgotha's summit, that foreign gods he may honour! Yet, on what hill he prefers, let him gather the angels together, Suffer deserted disciples to weep o'er the grave of the just one: There where a hero and saint hath died, where a bard breath'd his numbers, Both for our life and our death an ensample of courage resplendent And of the loftiest human worth to bequeath,--ev'ry nation There will joyously kneel in devotion ecstatic, revering Thorn and laurel garland, and all its charms and its tortures.
THE SWISS ALPS.
716 Yesterday brown was still thy head, as the locks of my loved one,
717 Whose sweet image so dear silently beckons afar. Silver-grey is the early snow to-day on thy summit,
718 Through the tempestuous night streaming fast over thy brow. Youth, alas, throughout life as closely to age is united
719 As, in some changeable dream, yesterday blends with to-day.
720 Uri, October 7th, 1797. ----- DISTICHS.
721 CHORDS are touch'd by Apollo,--the death-laden bow, too, he bendeth;
722 While he the shepherdess charms, Python he lays in the dust. ----- WHAT is merciful censure? To make thy faults appear smaller?
723 May be to veil them? No, no! O'er them to raise thee on high! ----- DEMOCRATIC food soon cloys on the multitude's stomach; But I'll wager, ere long, other thou'lt give them instead. ----- WHAT in France has pass'd by, the Germans continue to practise,
724 For the proudest of men flatters the people and fawns. ----- WHO is the happiest of men? He who values the merits of others, And in their pleasure takes joy, even as though 'twere his own. ----- NOT in the morning alone, not only at mid-day he charmeth;
725 Even at setting, the sun is still the same glorious planet. -----
726 VENETIAN EPIGRAMS. (Written in 1790.) ----- URN and sarcophagus erst were with life adorn'd by the heathen
727 Fauns are dancing around, while with the Bacchanal troop Chequerd circles they trace; and the goat-footed, puffy-cheekd player
728 Wildly produceth hoarse tones out of the clamorous horn. Cymbals and drums resound; we see and we hear, too, the marble.
729 Fluttering bird! oh how sweet tastes the ripe fruit to thy bill! Noise there is none to disturb thee, still less to scare away Amor,
730 Who, in the midst of the throng, learns to delight in his torch. Thus doth fullness overcome death; and the ashes there cover'd
731 Seem, in that silent domain, still to be gladdend with life. Thus may the minstrel's sarcophagus be hereafter surrounded
732 With such a scroll, which himself richly with life has adorn'd. ----- CLASP'D in my arms for ever eagerly hold I my mistress,
733 Ever my panting heart throbs wildly against her dear breast, And on her knees forever is leaning my head, while I'm gazing
734 Now on her sweet-smiling mouth, now on her bright sparkling eyes. "Oh thou effeminate!" spake one, "and thus, then, thy days thou art spending?"
735 Ah, they in sorrow are spent. List while I tell thee my tale: Yes! I have left my only joy in life far behind me,
736 Twenty long days hath my car borne me away from her sight. Vettrini defy me, while crafty chamberlains flatter,
737 And the sly Valet de place thinks but of lies and deceit. If I attempt to escape, the Postmaster fastens upon me,
738 Postboys the upper hand get, custom-house duties enrage. "Truly, I can't understand thee! thou talkest enigmas! thou seemest
739 Wrapp'd in a blissful repose, glad as Rinaldo of yore: Ah, I myself understand full well; 'tis my body that travels,
740 And 'tis my spirit that rests still in my mistress's arms. ----- I WOULD liken this gondola unto the soft-rocking cradle,
741 And the chest on its deck seems a vast coffin to be. Yes! 'tween the cradle and coffin, we totter and waver for ever
742 On the mighty canal, careless our lifetime is spent. ----- WHY are the people thus busily moving? For food they are seeking,
743 Children they fain would beget, feeding them well as they can. Traveller, mark this well, and when thou art home, do thou likewise!
744 More can no mortal effect, work with what ardour he will. ----- I WOULD compare to the land this anvil, its lord to the hammer,
745 And to the people the plate, which in the middle is bent. Sad is the poor tin-plate's lot, when the blows are but given at random:
746 Ne'er will the kettle be made, while they uncertainly fall. ----- WHAT is the life of a man? Yet thousands are ever accustom'd Freely to talk about man,--what he has done, too, and how. Even less is a poem; yet thousands read and enjoy it, Thousands abuse it.--My friend, live and continue to rhyme! ----- MERRY'S the trade of a poet; but somewhat a dear one, I fear me
747 For, as my book grows apace, all of my sequins I lose. ----- Is' thou'rt in earnest, no longer delay, but render me happy; Art thou in jest? Ah, sweet love! time for all jesting is past. ----- ART thou, then, vex'd at my silence? What shall I speak of? Thou markest
748 Neither my sorrowful sigh, nor my soft eloquent look. Only one goddess is able the seal of my lips to unloosen,--
749 When by Aurora I'm found, slumbering calm on thy breast. Ah, then my hymn in the ears of the earliest gods shall be chaunted,
750 As the Memnonian form breath'd forth sweet secrets in song. ----- IN the twilight of morning to climb to the top of the mountain,--
751 Thee to salute, kindly star, earliest herald of day,-- And to await, with impatience, the gaze of the ruler of heaven,--
752 Youthful delight, oh oft lur'st thou me out in the night! Oh ye heralds of day, ye heavenly eyes of my mistress,
753 Now ye appear, and the sun evermore riseth too soon. ----- THOU art amazed, and dost point to the ocean. It seems to be burning, Flame-crested billows in play dart round our night-moving bark. Me it astonisheth not,--of the ocean was born Aphrodite,-- Did not a flame, too, proceed from her for us, in her son? ----- GLEAMING the ocean appear'd, the beauteous billows were smiling,
754 While a fresh, favouring wind, filling the sails, drove us on. Free was my bosom from yearning; yet soon my languishing glances
755 Turn'd themselves backward in haste, seeking the snow-cover'd hills. Treasures unnumber'd are southwards lying. Yet one to the northwards
756 Draws me resistlessly back, like the strong magnet in force. ----- SPACIOUS and fair is the world; yet oh! how I thank the kind heavens
757 That I a garden possess, small though it be, yet mine own. One which enticeth me homewards; why should a gardener wander?
758 Honour and pleasure he finds, when to his garden he looks. ----- AH, my maiden is going! she mounts the vessel! My monarch,
759 AEolus! potentate dread! keep ev'ry storm far away! "Oh, thou fool!" cried the god:"ne'er fear the blustering tempest;
760 When Love flutters his wings, then mayst thou dread the soft breeze." -----
ELEGIES. PART I.
ROMAN ELEGIES.
[The Roman Elegies were written in the same year as the Venetian Epigrams--viz. 1790.]
761 Speak, ye stones, I entreat! Oh speak, ye palaces lofty!
762 Utter a word, oh ye streets! Wilt thou not, Genius, awake? All that thy sacred walls, eternal Rome, hold within them
763 Teemeth with life; but to me, all is still silent and dead. Oh, who will whisper unto me,--when shall I see at the casement
764 That one beauteous form, which, while it scorcheth, revives? Can I as yet not discern the road, on which I for ever
765 To her and from her shall go, heeding not time as it flies? Still do I mark the churches, palaces, ruins, and columns,
766 As a wise traveller should, would he his journey improve. Soon all this will be past; and then will there be but one temple,
767 Amor's temple alone, where the Initiate may go. Thou art indeed a world, oh Rome; and yet, were Love absent,
768 Then would the world be no world, then would e'en Rome be no Rome. ----- Do not repent, mine own love, that thou so soon didst surrender
769 Trust me, I deem thee not bold! reverence only I feel. Manifold workings the darts of Amor possess; some but scratching,
770 Yet with insidious effect, poison the bosom for years. Others mightily feather'd, with fresh and newly-born sharpness
771 Pierce to the innermost bone, kindle the blood into flame. In the heroical times, when loved each god and each goddess,
772 Longing attended on sight; then with fruition was bless'd. Think'st thou the goddess had long been thinking of love and its pleasures
773 When she, in Ida's retreats, own'd to Anchises her flame? Had but Luna delayd to kiss the beautiful sleeper,
774 Oh, by Aurora, ere long, he had in envy been rous'd! Hero Leander espied at the noisy feast, and the lover
775 Hotly and nimbly, ere long, plunged in the night-cover'd flood. Rhea Silvia, virgin princess, roam'd near the Tiber,
776 Seeking there water to draw, when by the god she was seiz'd. Thus were the sons of Mars begotten! The twins did a she-wolf
777 Suckle and nurture,--and Rome call'd herself queen of the world, ----- ALEXANDER, and Caesar, and Henry, and Fred'rick, the mighty,
778 On me would gladly bestow half of the glory they earn'd, Could I but grant unto each one night on the couch where I'm lying;
779 But they, by Orcus's night, sternly, alas! are held down. Therefore rejoice, oh thou living one, blest in thy love-lighted homestead,
780 Ere the dark Lethe's sad wave wetteth thy fugitive foot. ----- THESE few leaves, oh ye Graces, a bard presents, in your honour,
781 On your altar so pure, adding sweet rosebuds as well, And he does it with hope. The artist is glad in his workshop,
782 When a Pantheon it seems round him for ever to bring. Jupiter knits his godlike brow,--her's, Juno up-lifteth;
783 Phoebus strides on before, shaking his curly-lock'd head Calmly and drily Minerva looks down, and Hermes the light one,
784 Turneth his glances aside, roguish and tender at once. But tow'rds Bacchus, the yielding, the dreaming, raiseth Cythere
785 Looks both longing and sweet, e'en in the marble yet moist. Of his embraces she thinks with delight, and seems to be asking
786 "Should not our glorious son take up his place by our side?" ----- AMOR is ever a rogue, and all who believe him are cheated!
787 To me the hypocrite came: "Trust me, I pray thee, this once. Honest is now my intent,--with grateful thanks I acknowledge
788 That thou thy life and thy works hast to my worship ordain'd. See, I have follow'd thee thither, to Rome, with kindly intention,
789 Hoping to give thee mine aid, e'en in the foreigner's land. Every trav'ller complains that the quarters he meets with are wretched
790 Happily lodged, though, is he, who is by Amor receiv'd. Thou dost observe the ruins of ancient buildings with wonder,
791 Thoughtfully wandering on, over each time-hallow'd spot. Thou dost honour still more the worthy relics created
792 By the few artists--whom I loved in their studios to seek. I 'twas fashion'd those forms! thy pardon,--I boast not at present;
793 Presently thou shalt confess, that what I tell thee is true. Now that thou serv'st me more idly, where are the beauteous figures,
794 Where are the colours, the light, which thy creations once fill'd? Hast thou a mind again to form? The school of the Grecians
795 Still remains open, my friend; years have not barr'd up its doors. I, the teacher, am ever young, and love all the youthful,
796 Love not the subtle and old; Mother, observe what I say! Still was new the Antique, when yonder blest ones were living;
797 Happily live,--and, in thee, ages long vanish'd will live! Food for song, where hop'st thou to find it? I only can give it,
798 And a more excellent style, love, and love only can teach." Thus did the Sophist discourse. What mortal, alas! could resist him?
799 And when a master commands, I have been train'd to obey. Now he deceitfully keeps his word, gives food for my numbers,
800 But, while he does so, alas! robs me of time, strength, and mind. Looks, and pressure of hands, and words of kindness, and kisses,
801 Syllables teeming with thought, by a fond pair are exchang'd. Then becomes whispering, talk,--and stamm'ring, a language enchanting;
802 Free from all prosody's rules, dies such a hymn on the ear. Thee, Aurora, I used to own as the friend of the Muses;
803 Hath, then, Amor the rogue cheated, Aurora, e'en thee? Thou dost appear to me now as his friend, and again dost awake me
804 Unto a day of delight, while at his altar I kneel. All her locks I find on my bosom, her head is reposing,
805 Pressing with softness the arm, which round her neck is entwin'd; Oh! what a joyous awak'ning, ye hours so peaceful, succeeded,
806 Monument sweet of the bliss which had first rock'd us to sleep In her slumber she moves, and sinks, while her face is averted,
807 Far on the breadth of the couch, leaving her hand still in mine Heartfelt love unites us for ever, and yearnings unsullied,
808 And our cravings alone claim for themselves the exchange. One faint touch of the hand, and her eyes so heavenly see I
809 Once more open. Ah, no! let me still look on that form! Closed still remain! Ye make me confused and drunken, ye rob me
810 Far too soon of the bliss pure contemplation affords. Mighty, indeed, are these figures! these limbs, how gracefully rounded!
811 Theseus, could'st thou e'er fly, whilst Ariadne thus slept? Only one single kiss on these lips! Oh, Theseus, now leave us!
812 Gaze on her eyes! she awakes--Firmly she holds thee embrac'd -----
ALEXIS AND DORA. PART II.
[This beautiful poem was first published in Schiller's Horen.]
813 FARTHER and farther away, alas! at each moment the vessel
814 Hastens, as onward it glides, cleaving the foam-cover'd flood! Long is the track plough'd up by the keel where dolphins are sporting,
815 Following fast in its rear, while it seems flying pursuit. All forebodes a prosperous voyage; the sailor with calmness
816 Leans 'gainst the sail, which alone all that is needed performs. Forward presses the heart of each seamen, like colours and streamers;
817 Backward one only is seen, mournfully fix'd near the mast, While on the blue tinged mountains, which fast are receding, he gazeth,
818 And as they sink in the sea, joy from his bosom departs. Vanish'd from thee, too, oh Dora, is now the vessel that robs thee
819 Of thine Alexis, thy friend,--ah, thy betrothed as well! Thou, too, art after me gazing in vain. Our hearts are still throbbing,
820 Though, for each other, yet ah! 'gainst one another no more. Oh, thou single moment, wherein I found life! thou outweighest
821 Every day which had else coldly from memory fled. 'Twas in that moment alone, the last, that upon me descended
822 Life, such as deities grant, though thou perceived'st it not. Phoebus, in vain with thy rays dost thou clothe the ether in glory:
823 Thine all-brightening day hateful alone is to me. Into myself I retreat for shelter, and there, in the silence,
824 Strive to recover the time when she appear'd with each day. Was it possible beauty like this to see, and not feel it?
825 Work'd not those heavenly charms e'en on a mind dull as thine? Blame not thyself, unhappy one! Oft doth the bard an enigma
826 Thus propose to the throng, skillfully hidden in words. Each one enjoys the strange commingling of images graceful,
827 Yet still is wanting the word which will discover the sense. When at length it is found, the heart of each hearer is gladden'd,
828 And in the poem he sees meaning of twofold delight. Wherefore so late didst thou remove the bandage, oh Amor,
829 Which thou hadst placed o'er mine eyes,--wherefore remove it so late? Long did the vessel, when laden, lie waiting for favouring breezes,
830 'Till in kindness the wind blew from the land o'er the sea. Vacant times of youth! and vacant dreams of the future!
831 Ye all vanish, and nought, saving the moment, remains. Yes! it remains,--my joy still remains! I hold thee; my Dora,
832 And thine image alone, Dora, by hope is disclos'd. Oft have I seen thee go, with modesty clad, to the temple,
833 While thy mother so dear solemnly went by thy side. Eager and nimble thou wert, in bearing thy fruit to the market,
834 Boldly the pail from the well didst thou sustain on thy head. Then was reveal'd thy neck, then seen thy shoulders so beauteous,
835 Then, before all things, the grace filling thy motions was seen. Oft have I fear'd that the pitcher perchance was in danger of falling,
836 Yet it ever remain'd firm on the circular cloth. Thus, fair neighbour, yes, thus I oft was wont to observe thee,
837 As on the stars I might gaze, as I might gaze on the moon, Glad indeed at the sight, yet feeling within my calm bosom
838 Not the remotest desire ever to call them mine own. Years thus fleeted away! Although our houses were only
839 Twenty paces apart, yet I thy threshold ne'er cross'd. Now by the fearful flood are we parted! Thou liest to Heaven,
840 Billow! thy beautiful blue seems to me dark as the night. All were now in movement; a boy to the house of my father
841 Ran at full speed and exclaim'd: "Hasten thee quick to the strand Hoisted the sail is already, e'en now in the wind it is flutt'ring,
842 While the anchor they weigh, heaving it up from the sand; Come, Alexis, oh come!"--My worthy stout-hearted father
843 Press'd, with a blessing, his hand down on my curly-lock'd head, While my mother carefully reach'd me a newly-made bundle,
844 "Happy mayst thou return!" cried they--" both happy and rich!" Then I sprang away, and under my arm held the bundle,
845 Running along by the wall. Standing I found thee hard by, At the door of thy garden. Thou smilingly saidst then "Alexis!
846 Say, are yon boisterous crew going thy comrades to be? Foreign coasts will thou visit, and precious merchandise purchase,
847 Ornaments meet for the rich matrons who dwell in the town. Bring me, also, I praythee, a light chain; gladly I'll pay thee,
848 Oft have I wish'd to possess some stich a trinket as that." There I remain'd, and ask'd, as merchants are wont, with precision
849 After the form and the weight which thy commission should have. Modest, indeed, was the price thou didst name! I meanwhile was gazing
850 On thy neck which deserv'd ornaments worn but by queens. Loudly now rose the cry from the ship; then kindly thou spakest
851 "Take, I entreat thee, some fruit out of the garden, my friend Take the ripest oranges, figs of the whitest; the ocean
852 Beareth no fruit, and, in truth, 'tis not produced by each land." So I entered in. Thou pluckedst the fruit from the branches,
853 And the burden of gold was in thine apron upheld. Oft did I cry, Enough! But fairer fruits were still falling
854 Into the hand as I spake, ever obeying thy touch. Presently didst thou reached the arbour; there lay there a basket,
855 Sweet blooming myrtle trees wav'd, as we drew nigh, o'er our heads. Then thou began'st to arrange the fruit with skill and in silence:
856 First the orange, which lay heavy as though 'twere of gold, Then the yielding fig, by the slightest pressure disfigur'd,
857 And with myrtle the gift soon was both cover'd and grac'd. But I raised it not up. I stood. Our eyes met together,
858 And my eyesight grew dim, seeming obscured by a film, Soon I felt thy bosom on mine! Mine arm was soon twining
859 Round thy beautiful form; thousand times kiss'd I thy neck. On my shoulder sank thy head; thy fair arms, encircling,
860 Soon rendered perfect the ring knitting the rapturous pair. Amor's hands I felt: he press'd us together with ardour,
861 And, from the firmament clear, thrice did it thunder; then tears Stream'd from mine eyes in torrents, thou weptest, I wept, both were weeping,
862 And, 'mid our sorrow and bliss, even the world seem'd to die. Louder and louder they calI'd from the strand; my feet would no longer
863 Bear my weight, and I cried:--"Dora! and art thou not mine?" "Thine forever!" thou gently didst say. Then the tears we were shedding
864 Seem'd to be wiped from our eyes, as by the breath of a god. Nearer was heard the cry "Alexis!" The stripling who sought me
865 Suddenly peep'd through the door. How he the basket snatch'd up! How he urged me away! how press'd I thy hand! Wouldst thou ask me
866 How the vessel I reach'd? Drunken I seem'd, well I know. Drunken my shipmates believed me, and so had pity upon me;
867 And as the breeze drove us on, distance the town soon obscur'd. "Thine for ever!" thou, Dora, didst murmur; it fell on my senses
868 With the thunder of Zeus! while by the thunderer's throne Stood his daughter, the Goddess of Love; the Graces were standing
869 Close by her side! so the bond beareth an impress divine! Oh then hasten, thou ship, with every favouring zephyr!
870 Onward, thou powerful keel, cleaving the waves as they foam! Bring me unto the foreign harbour, so that the goldsmith
871 May in his workshop prepare straightway the heavenly pledge! Ay, of a truth, the chain shall indeed be a chain, oh my Dora!
872 Nine times encircling thy neck, loosely around it entwin'd Other and manifold trinkets I'll buy thee; gold-mounted bracelets,
873 Richly and skillfully wrought, also shall grace thy fair hand. There shall the ruby and emerald vie, the sapphire so lovely
874 Be to the jacinth oppos'd, seeming its foil; while the gold Holds all the jewels together, in beauteous union commingled.
875 Oh, how the bridegroom exults, when he adorns his betroth'd! Pearls if I see, of thee they remind me; each ring that is shown me
876 Brings to my mind thy fair hand's graceful and tapering form. I will barter and buy; the fairest of all shalt thou choose thee,
877 Joyously would I devote all of the cargo to thee. Yet not trinkets and jewels alone is thy loved one procuring;
878 With them he brings thee whate'er gives to a housewife delight. Fine and woollen coverlets, wrought with an edging of purple,
879 Fit for a couch where we both, lovingly, gently may rest; Costly pieces of linen. Thou sittest and sewest, and clothest
880 Me, and thyself, and, perchance, even a third with it too. Visions of hope, deceive ye my heart! Ye kindly Immortals,
881 Soften this fierce-raging flame, wildly pervading my breast! Yet how I long to feel them again, those rapturous torments.
882 When, in their stead, care draws nigh, coldly and fearfully calm. Neither the Furies' torch, nor the hounds of hell with their harking
883 Awe the delinquent so much, down in the plains of despair, As by the motionless spectre I'm awed, that shows me the fair one
884 Far away: of a truth, open the garden-door stands! And another one cometh! For him the fruit, too, is falling,
885 And for him, also, the fig strengthening honey doth yield! Doth she entice him as well to the arbour? He follows? Oh, make me
886 Blind, ye Immortals! efface visions like this from my mind! Yes, she is but a maiden! And she who to one doth so quickly
887 Yield, to another ere long, doubtless, Will turn herself round. Smile not, Zeus, for this once, at an oath so cruelly broken!
888 Thunder more fearfully! Strike!--Stay--thy fierce lightnings withhold! Hurl at me thy quivering bolt! In the darkness of midnight
889 Strike with thy lightning this mast, make it a pitiful wreck! Scatter the planks all around, and give to the boisterous billows
890 All these wares, and let me be to the dolphins a prey Now, ye Muses, enough! In vain would ye strive to depicture
891 How, in a love-laden breast, anguish alternates with bliss. Ye cannot heal the wounds, it is true, that love hath inflicted;
892 Yet from you only proceeds, kindly ones, comfort and balm.
HERMANN AND DOROTHEA.
893 IN NINE CANTOS. ----- I. KALLIOPE.
894 FATE AND SYMPATHY.
895 "NE'ER have I seen the market and streets so thoroughly empty! Still as the grave is the town, clear'd out! I verily fancy Fifty at most of all our inhabitants still may be found there. People are so inquisitive! All are running and racing Merely to see the sad train of poor fellows driven to exile. Down to the causeway now building, the distance nearly a league is, And they thitherward rush, in the heat and the dust of the noonday. As for me, I had rather not stir from my place just to stare at Worthy and sorrowful fugitives, who, with what goods they can carry, Leaving their own fair land on the further side of the Rhine-stream, Over to us are crossing, and wander through the delightful Nooks of this fruitful vale, with all its twistings and windings. Wife, you did right well to bid our son go and meet them, Taking with him old linen, and something to eat and to drink too, Just to give to the poor; the rich are bound to befriend them. How he is driving along! How well he holds in the horses! Then the new little carriage looks very handsome; inside it Four can easily sit, besides the one on the coachbox. This time he is alone; how easily-turns it the corner!" Thus to his wife the host of the Golden Lion discoursed, Sitting at ease in the porch of his house adjoining the market. Then replied as follows the shrewd and sensible hostess "Father, I don't like giving old linen away, for I find it Useful in so many ways, 'tis not to he purchased for money Just when it's wanted. And yet to-day I gladly have given Many excellent articles, shirts and covers and suchlike; For I have heard of old people and children walking half-naked. Will you forgive me, too, for having ransacked your presses? That grand dressing-gown, cover'd with Indian flowers all over, Made of the finest calico, lined with excellent flannel, I have despatch'd with the rest; 'tis thin, old, quite out of fashion."
896 But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then answer'd I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment, Genuine Indian stuff! They're not to be had any longer. Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or commonplace jacket, Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!"
897 "See," continued his wife, "a few are already returning Who have seen the procession, which long ago must have pass'd by. See how dusty their shoes are, and how their faces are glowing Each one carries a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead. I, for one, wouldn't hurry and worry myself in such weather Merely to see such a sight! I'm certain to hear all about it."
898 And the worthy father, speaking with emphasis, added "Such fine weather seldom lasts through the whole of the harvest And we're bringing the fruit home, just as the hay we brought lately, Perfectly dry; the sky is clear, no cloud's in the heavens, And the whole day long delicious breezes are blowing. Splendid weather I call it! The corn already too ripe is, And to-morrow begin we to gather the plentiful harvest."
899 Whilst he was thus discoursing, the number of men and of women Crossing the market and going towards home kept ever increasing; And there return'd amongst others, bringing with him his daughters, On the other side of the market, their prosperous neighbour, Going full speed to his newbuilt house, the principal merchant, Riding inside an open carriage (in Landau constructed). All the streets were alive; for the town, though small, was well peopled, Many a factory throve there, and many a business also.
900 Long sat the excellent couple under the doorway, exchanging Many a passing remark on the people who happen'd to pass them. Presently thus to her husband exclaim'd the good-natured hostess "See! Yon comes the minister; with him is walking the druggist: They'll be able to give an account of all that has happen'd, What they witness'd, and many a sight I fear which was painful."
901 Both of them came in a friendly manner, and greeted the couple, Taking their seats on the wooden benches under the doorway, Shaking the dust from their feet, their handkerchiefs using to fan them. Presently, after exchanging reciprocal greetings, the druggist Open'd his mouth, and almost peevishly vented his feelings "What strange creatures men are! They all resemble each other, All take pleasure in staring, when troubles fall on their neighbours. Ev'ry one runs to see the flames destroying a dwelling, Or a poor criminal led in terror and shame to the scaffold. All the town has been out to gaze at the sorrowing exiles, None of them bearing in mind that a like misfortune hereafter, Possibly almost directly, may happen to be their own portion. I can't pardon such levity; yet 'tis the nature of all men." Thereupon rejoin'd the noble and excellent pastor, He, the charm of the town, in age scarce more than a stripling:-- (He was acquainted with life, and knew the wants of his hearers, Fully convinced of the worth of the Holy Scriptures, whose mission Is to reveal man's fate, his inclinations to fathom; He was also well read in the best of secular writings.) "I don't like to find fault with any innocent impulse Which in the mind of man Dame Nature has ever implanted; For what reason and intellect ne'er could accomplish, is often Done by some fortunate, quite irresistible instinct within him. If mankind were never by curiosity driven, Say, could they e'er have found out for themselves the wonderful manner Things in the world range in order? For first they Novelty look for, Then with untiring industry seek to discover the Useful, Lastly they yearn for the Good, which makes them noble and worthy. All through their youth frivolity serves as their joyous companion, Hiding the presence of danger, and. swiftly effacing the traces Caused by misfortune and grief, as soon as their onslaught is over. Truly the man's to be praised who, as years roll onward, develops Out of such glad disposition an intellect settled and steady,-- Who, in good fortune as well as misfortune, strives zealously, nobly; For what is Good he brings forth, replacing whatever is injured." Then in a friendly voice impatiently spoke thus the hostess:-- "Tell us what have you seen; I am eagerly longing to hear it."
902 Then with emphasis answer'd the druggist:--" The terrible stories Told me to-day will serve for a long time to make me unhappy. Words would fail to describe the manifold pictures of mis'ry. Far in the distance saw we the dust, before we descended Down to the meadows; the rising hillocks hid the procession Long from our eyes, and little could we distinguish about it. When, however, we reach'd the road that winds thro' the valley, Great was the crowd and the noise of the emigrants mix'd with the waggons. We unhappily saw poor fellows passing in numbers, Some of them showing how bitter the sense of their sorrowful flight was, Some with a feeling of joy at saving their lives in a hurry. Sad was the sight of the manifold goods and chattels pertaining Unto a well-managed house, which the careful owner's accustom'd Each in its proper position to place, and in regular order, Always ready for use, for all are wanted and useful.-- Sad was the sight of them now, on many a waggon and barrow Heap'd in thorough confusion, and hurriedly huddled together. Over a cupboard was placed a sieve and a coverlet woollen; Beds in the kneeding troughs lay, and linen over the glasses. Ah! and the danger appear'd to rob the men of their senses, Just as in our great fire of twenty years ago happen'd, When what was worthless they saved, and left all the best things behind them. So on the present occasion with heedless caution they carried Many valueless chattels, o'erlading the cattle and horses,-- Common old boards and barrels, a birdcage next to a goosepen. Women and children were gasping beneath the weight of their bundles, Baskets and tubs full of utterly useless articles, bearing. (Man is always unwilling the least of his goods to abandon.) Thus on its dusty way advanced the crowded procession, All in hopeless confusion. First one, whose cattle were weaker, Fain would slowly advance, while others would eagerly hasten. Then there arose a scream of half-crush'd women and children, And a lowing of cattle, with yelping of dogs intermingled, And a wailing of aged and sick, all sitting and shaking, Ranged in their beds on the top of the waggon too-heavily laden. Next some lumbering wheel, push'd out of the track by the pressure, Went to the edge of the roadway; the vehicle fell in the ditch then, Rolling right over, and throwing, in falling, the men who were in it Far in the field, screaming loudly, their persons however uninjured. Then the boxes roll'd off and tumbled close to the waggon. Those who saw them failing full surely expected to see them Smash'd to pieces beneath the weight of the chests and the presses. So the waggon lay broken, and those that it carried were helpless, For the rest of the train went on, and hurriedly pass'd them, Thinking only of self, and carried away by the current. So we sped to the spot, and found the sick and the aged Who, when at home and in bed, could scarcely endure their sad ailments, Lying there on the ground, all sighing and groaning in anguish, Stifled by clouds of dust, and scorch'd by the fierce sun of summer.
903 Then replied in tones of compassion the sensitive landlord Hermann I trust will find them and give them refreshment and clothing. I should unwillingly see them: I grieve at the eight of such sorrow. Touch'd by the earliest news of the sad extent of the suffering, Hastily sent we a trifle from out of our superabundance, Just to comfort a few, and then our minds were more easy. Now let us cease to discourse on such a sorrowful subject, For men's hearts are easily overshadow'd by terror, And by care, more odious far to me than misfortune. Now let us go to a cooler place, the little back-parlour; There the sun never shines, and the walls are so thick that the hot air Never can enter; and mother shall forthwith bring us a glass each Full of fine Eighty-three, well fitted to drive away trouble. This is a bad place for drinking; the flies will hum round the glasses." So they all went inside, enjoying themselves in the coolness. Then in a well-cut flask the mother carefully brought them Some of that clear good wine, upon a bright metal waiter With those greenish rummers, the fittingest goblets for Rhine wine. So the three sat together, around the glistening polish'd Circular large brown table-Äon massive feet it was planted. Merrily clink'd together the glasses of host and of pastor, But the other one thoughtfully held his glass without moving, And in friendly fashion the host thus ask'd him to join them:--
904 "Drink, good neighbour, I pray! A merciful God has protected Us in the past from misfortune, and will protect us in future. All must confess that since He thought fit to severely chastise us, When that terrible fire occurr'd, He has constantly bless'd us. And watch'd over us constantly, just as man is accustom'd His eye's precious apple to guard, that dearest of members. Shall He not for the future preserve us, and be our Protector? For 'tis in danger we learn to appreciate duly His Goodness. This so flourishing town, which He built again from its ashes By the industrious hands of its burghers, and bless'd it so richly, Will He again destroy it, and render their toil unavailing?"
905 Cheerfully answer'd the excellent pastor, in accents of mildness "Steadfastly cling to this faith, and cherish such worthy opinions; In good fortune they'll make you prudent, and then in misfortune Well-grounded hopes they'll supply, and furnish you true consolation."
906 Then continued the host, with thoughts full of manhood and wisdom "Oft have I greeted with wonder the rolling flood of the Rhine stream, When, on my business trav'lling, I've once more come to its borders. Grand has it ever appear'd, exalting my feelings and senses; But I could never imagine that soon its beautiful margin Into a wall would be turn'd, to keep the French from our country, And its wide-spreading bed a ditch to hinder and check them. So by Nature we're guarded, we're guarded by valorous Germans, And by the Lord we're guarded; who then would foolishly tremble? Weary the combatants are, and all things indicate peace soon; And when at length the long-expected festival's holden Here in our church, and the bells chime in with the organ in chorus, And the trumpets are blowing, the noble Te Deum upraising, Then on that selfsame day I fain would see, my good pastor, Our dear Hermann kneel with his bride at the altar before you, And the glad festival held through the length and breadth of the country Will henceforward to me be a glad anniversary also! But I am grieved to observe that the youth, who is always so active When he is here at home, abroad is so slow and so timid. Little at any time cares he to mix with the rest of the people; Yes, he even avoids young maidens' society ever, And the frolicsome dance, that great delight of young people."
907 Thus he spake, and then listen'd. The sound of the stamping of horses Drawing nearer was heard; and then the roll of the carriage, Which, with impetuous speed, now thunder'd under the gateway. ----- II. TERPSICHORE.
HERMANN.
908 Then when into the room the well-built son made his entry, Straightway with piercing glances the minister eyed him intently, And with carefulness watch'd his looks and the whole of his bearing, With an inquiring eye which easily faces decyphers; Then he smiled, and with cordial words address'd him as follows "How you are changed in appearance, my friend! I never have seen you Half so lively before; your looks are thoroughly cheerful. You have return'd quite joyous and merry. You've doubtless divided All of the presents amongst the poor, their blessings receiving."
909 Then in calm accents replied the son, with gravity speaking "Whether I've laudably acted, I know not; I follow'd the impulse Of my own heart, as now I'll proceed to describe with exactness. Mother, you rummaged so long, in looking over old pieces, And in making your choice, that 'twas late when the bundle was ready, And the wine and the beer were slowly and carefully pack'd up. When I at length emerged at the gate, and came on the highway, Streams of citizens met I returning, with women and children, For the train of the exiles had long disappear'd in the distance. So I quicken'd my pace, and hastily drove to the village Where I had heard that to-night to rest and to sleep they intended. Well, as I went on my way, the newly-made causeway ascending, Suddenly saw I a waggon, of excellent timber constructed, Drawn by a couple of oxen, the best and the strongest of foreign. Close beside it there walk'd, with sturdy footsteps, a maiden, Guiding the two strong beasts with a long kind of staff, which with skill she Knew how to use, now driving, and now restraining their progress. When the maiden observed me, she quietly came near the horses, And address'd me as follows:--'Our usual condition, believe me, Is not so sad as perchance you might judge from our present appearance. I am not yet accustom'd to ask for alms from a stranger, Who so often but gives, to rid himself of a beggar. But I'm compell'd to speak by necessity. Here on the straw now Lies the lately-confined poor wife of a wealthy landowner, Whom with much trouble I managed to save with oxen and waggon. We were late in arriving, and scarcely with life she escaped. Now the newly-born child in her arms is lying, all naked, And our friends will be able to give them but little assistance, E'en if in the next village, to which to-night we are going, We should still find them, although I fear they have left it already. If you belong to the neighbourhood, any available linen These poor people will deem a most acceptable present.
910 "Thus she spake, and wearily raised herself the pale patient Up from the straw and gazed upon me, while thus I made answer 'Oft doth a heavenly spirit whisper to kind-hearted people, So that they feel the distress o'er their poorer brethren impending; For my mother, your troubles foreboding, gave me a bundle Ready prepared for relieving the wants of those who were naked.' Then I loosen'd the knots of the cord, and the dressing-gown gave her Which belong'd to my father, and gave her some shirts and some linen, And she thank'd me with joy and said:--'The fortunate know not How 'tis that miracles happen; we only discover in sorrow God's protecting finger and hand, extended to beckon Good men to good. May your kindness to us by Him be requited.' And I saw the poor patient joyfully handling the linen, Valuing most of all the soft flannel, the dressing-gown lining. Then the maid thus address'd her:--'Now let us haste to the village Where our friends are resting, to-night intending to sleep there There I will straightway attend to what e'er for the infant is needed.' Then she saluted me too, her thanks most heartily giving, Drove the oxen, the waggon went on. I lingerd behind them, Holding my horses rein'd back, divided between two opinions, Whether to hasten ahead, reach the village, the viands distribute 'Mongst the rest of the people, or give them forthwith to the maiden, So that she might herself divide them amongst them with prudence Soon I made up my mind, and follow'd after her softly, Overtook her without delay, and said to her quickly 'Maiden, it was not linen alone that my mother provided And in the carriage placed, as clothing to give to the naked, But she added meat, and many an excellent drink too; And I have got quite a stock stow'd away in the boot of the carriage. Well, I have taken a fancy the rest of the gifts to deposit In your hands, and thus fulfil to the best my commission; You will divide them with prudence, whilst I my fate am obeying.' Then the maiden replied:--'With faithfulness I will distribute All your gifts, and the needy shall surely rejoice at your bounty.' Thus she spake, and I hastily open'd the boot of the carriage, Took out the hams (full heavy they were) and took out the bread-stuffs, Flasks of wine and beer, and handed the whole of them over. Gladly would I have given her more, but empty the boot was. Straightway she pack'd them away at the feet of the patient, and forthwith Started again, whilst I hasten'd back to the town with my horses."
911 Then when Hermann had ended his story, the garrulous neighbour Open'd his mouth and exclaim'd:--"I only deem the man happy Who lives alone in his house in these days of flight and confusion, Who has neither wife nor children cringing beside him I feel happy at present; I hate the title of father; Care of children and wife in these days would be a sad drawback. Often have I bethought me of flight, and have gather'd together All that I deem most precious, the antique gold and the jewels Worn by my late dear mother, not one of which has been sold yet. Much indeed is left out, that is not so easily carried. Even the herbs and the roots, collected with plenty of trouble, I should he sorry to lose, though little in value they may be. If the dispenser remains, I shall leave my house in good spirits If my ready money is saved, and my body, why truly All is saved, for a bachelor easily flies when 'tis needed."
912 "Neighbour," rejoin'd forthwith young Hermann, with emphasis speaking "Altogether I differ, and greatly blame your opinions. Can that man be deem'd worthy, who both in good and ill fortune Thinks alone of himself, and knows not the secret of sharing Sorrows and joys with others, and feels no longing to do so? I could more easily now than before determine to marry Many an excellent maiden needs a husband's protection, Many a man a cheerful wife, when sorrow's before him." Smilingly said then the father:--"I'm pleas'd to hear what you're saying, Words of such wisdom have seldom been utter'd by you in my presence.
913 Then his good mother broke in, in her turn, with vivacity speaking "Son, you are certainly right. We parents set the example. 'Twas not in time of pleasure that we made choice of each other, And 'twas the saddest of hours, that knitted us closely together. Monday morning,--how well I remember! the very day after That most terrible fire occurr'd which burnt down the borough, Twenty years ago now; the day, like to-day, was a Sunday, Hot and dry was the weather, and little available water. All the inhabitants, clothed in their festival garments, were walking, Scatter'd about in the inns and the mills of the neighbouring hamlets. At one end of the town the fire broke out, and the flames ran Hastily all through the streets, impell'd by the draught they created. And the barns were consumed, where all the rich harvest was gather'd And all the streets as far as the market; the dwelling house also Of my father hard by was destroy'd, as likewise was this one. Little indeed could we save; I sat the sorrowful night through On the green of the town, protecting the beds and the boxes. Finally sleep overtook me, and when by the cool breeze of morning Which dies away when the sun arises I was awaken'd, Saw I the smoke and the glow, and the half-consumed walls and the chimneys. Then my heart was sorely afflicted; but soon in his glory Rose the sun more brilliant than ever, my spirits reviving. Then in haste I arose, impell'd the site to revisit Where our dwelling had stood, to see if the chickens were living Which I especially loved; for childlike I still was by nature. But when over the ruins of courtyard and house I was climbing, Which still smoked, and saw my dwelling destroy'd and deserted, You came up on the other side, the ruins exploring. You had a horse shut up in his stall; the still-glowing rafters Over it lay, and rubbish, and nought could be seen of the creature. Over against each other we stood, in doubt and in sorrow, For the wall had fallen which used to sever our courtyards; And you grasp'd my hand, addressing me softly as follows 'Lizzy, what here are you doing? Away! Your soles you are burning, For the rubbish is hot, and is scorching my boots which are thicker.' Then you lifted me up, and carried me off through your courtyard. There still stood the gateway before the house, with its arch'd roof, Just as it now is standing, the only thing left remaining. And you sat me down and kiss'd me, and I tried to stop you, But you presently said, with kindly words full of meaning 'See, my house is destroy'd! Stop here and help me to build it, I in return will help to rebuild the house of your father.' I understood you not, till you sent to my father your mother, And ere long our marriage fulfilid the troth we soon plighted. Still to this day I remember with pleasure the half-consumed rafters, Still do I see the sun in all his majesty rising, For on that day I gain'd my husband; the son of my youth too Gained I during that earliest time of the wild desolation. Therefore commend I you, Hermann, for having with confidence guileless Turn'd towards marriage your thoughts in such a period of mourning, And for daring to woo in war and over the ruins.--"
914 Then the father straightway replied, with eagerness speaking:-- "Sensible is your opinion, and true is also the story Which you have told us, good mother, for so did ev'rything happen. But what is better is better. 'Tis not the fortune of all men All their life and existence to find decided beforehand; All are not doom'd to such troubles as we and others have suffer'd. O, how happy is he whose careful father and mother Have a house ready to give him, which he can successfully manage! All beginnings are hard, and most so the landlords profession. Numberless things a man must have, and ev'rything daily Dearer becomes, so he needs to scrape together more money. So I am hoping that you, dear Hermann, will shortly be bringing Home to us a bride possessing an excellent dowry, For a worthy husband deserves a girl who is wealthy, And 'tis a capital thing for the wish'd-for wife to bring with her Plenty of suitable articles stow'd in her baskets and boxes. Not in vain for years does the mother prepare for her daughter Stocks of all kinds of linen, both finest and strongest in texture; Not in vain do god-parents give them presents of silver, Or the father lay by in his desk a few pieces of money. For she hereafter will gladden, with all her goods and possessions, That happy youth who is destined from out of all others to choose her. Yes! I know how pleasant it makes a house for a young wife, When she finds her own property placed in the rooms and the kitchen, And when she herself has cover'd the bed and the table. Only well-to-do brides should be seen in a house, I consider, For a poor one is sure at last to be scorn'd by her husband, And he'll deem her a jade who as jade first appear'd with her bundle. Men are always unjust, but moments of love are but transient. Yes, my Hermann, you greatly would cheer the old age of your father If you soon would bring home a daughter-in-law to console me, Out of the neighbourhood too,--yes, out of yon dwelling, the green one! Rich is the man, in truth his trade and his manufactures Make him daily richer, for when does a merchant not prosper? He has only three daughters; the whole of his wealth they'll inherit. True the eldest's already engaged; but then there's the second, And the third, who still (not for long) may be had for the asking. Had I been in your place, I should not till this time have waited; Bring home one of the girls, as I brought your mother before you.
915 Then, with modesty, answer'd the son his impetuous father "Truly my wish was, like yours, to marry one of the daughters Of our neighbour. We all, in fact, were brought up together, Sported in youthful days near the fountain adjoining the market, And from the rudeness of boys I often managed to save them. But those days have long pass'd the maidens grew up, and with reason Stop now at home and avoid the rougher pastimes of childhood. Well brought up with a vengeance they are! To please you, I sometimes Went to visit them, just for the sake of olden acquaintance But I was never much pleased at holding intercourse with them, For they were always finding fault, and I had to bear it First my coat was too long, the cloth too coarse, and the colour Far too common, my hair was cut and curl'd very badly. I at last was thinking of dressing myself like the shop-boys, Who are accustom'd on Sundays to show off their persons up yonder, And round whose coats in summer half-silken tatters are hanging. But ere long I discover'd they only intended to fool me This was very annoying, my pride was offended, but more still Felt I deeply wounded that they so mistook the good feelings Which I cherish'd towards them, especially Minnie, the youngest. Well, I went last Easter, politely to pay them a visit, And I wore the new coat now hanging up in the closet, And was frizzled and curld, like all the rest of the youngsters. When I enter'd, they titter'd; but that didn't very much matter. Minnie sat at the piano, the father was present amongst them, Pleased with his daughter's singing, and quite in a jocular humour. Little could I understand of the words in the song she was singing, But I constantly heard of Pamina, and then of Tamino,*
916 (* Characters In Mozart's Zauberflote.) And I fain would express my opinion; so when she had ended, I ask'd questions respecting the text, and who were the persons. All were silent and smiled; but presently answer'd the father 'Did you e'er happen, my friend, to hear of Eve or of Adam?' Then no longer restrain'd they themselves, the girls burst out laughing, All the boys laugh'd loudly, the old man's sides appear'd splitting. In my confusion I let my hat fall down, and the titt'ring Lasted all the time the singing and playing continued. Then I hasten'd home, ashamed and full of vexation, Hung up my coat in the closet, and put my hair in disorder With my fingers, and swore ne'er again to cross o'er their threshold. And I'm sure I was right; for they are all vain and unloving. And I hear they're so rude as to give me the nickname Tamino." Then the mother rejoin'd:--"You're wrong, dear Hermann, to harbour Angry feelings against the children, for they are but children. Minnie's an excellent girl, and has a tenderness for you; Lately she ask'd how you were. Indeed, I wish you would choose her!"
917 Then the son thoughtfully answer'd:--"I know not why, but the fact is My annoyance has graven itself in my mind, and hereafter I could not bear at the piano to see her, or list to her singing."
918 But the father sprang up, and said, in words full of anger "Little comfort you give me, in truth! I always have said it, When you took pleasure in horses, and cared for nothing but fieldwork; That which the servants of prosperous people perform as their duty, You yourself do; meanwhile the father his son must dispense with, Who in his honour was wont to court the rest of the townsfolk. Thus with empty hopes your mother early deceived me, When your reading, and writing, and learning at school ne'er succeeded Like the rest of the boys, and so you were always the lowest. This all comes from a youth not possessing a due sense of honour, And not having the spirit to try and raise his position. Had my father but cared for me, as I have for you, sir, Sent me to school betimes, and given me proper instructors, I should not merely have been the host of the famed Golden Lion."
919 But the son arose, and approach'd the doorway in silence, Slowly, and making no noise: but then the father in dudgeon After him shouted:--"Be off! I know you're an obstinate fellow! Go and look after the business; else I shall scold you severely; But don't fancy I'll ever allow you to bring home in triumph As my daughter-in-law any boorish impudent hussy. Long have I lived in the world, and know how to manage most people, Know how to entertain ladies and gentlemen, so that they leave me In good humour, and know how to flatter a stranger discreetly. But my daughter-in-law must have useful qualities also, And be able to soften my manifold cares and vexations. She must also play on the piano, that all the best people Here in the town may take pleasure in often coming to see us, As in the house of our neighbour the merchant happens each Sunday." Softly the son at these words raised the latch, and left the apartment. ----- III. THALIA.
THE BURGHERS.
920 Thus did the prudent son escape from the hot conversation, But the father continued precisely as he had begun it What is not in a man can never come out of him, surely! Never, I fear, shall I see fulfill'd my dearest of wishes, That my son should be unlike his father, but better. What would be the fate of a house or a town, if its inmates Did not all take pride in preserving, renewing, improving, As we are taught by the age, and by the wisdom of strangers? Man is not born to spring out of the ground, just like a mere mushroom, And to rot away soon in the very place that produced him! Leaving behind him no trace of what he has done in his lifetime. One can judge by the look of a house of the taste of its master, As on ent'ring a town, one can judge the authorities' fitness. For where the towers and walls are falling, where in the ditches Dirt is collected, and dirt in every street is seen lying, Where the stones come out of their groove, and are not replaced there, Where the beams are rotting, and vainly the houses are waiting New supports; that town is sure to be wretchedly managed. For where order and cleanliness reign not supreme in high places, Then to dirt and delay the citizens soon get accustom'd, Just as the beggar's accustom'd to wear his cloths full of tatters. Therefore I often have wish'd that Hermann would start on his travels Ere he's much older, and visit at any rate Strasburg and Frankfort, And that pleasant town, Mannheim, so evenly built and so cheerful. He who has seen such large and cleanly cities rests never Till his own native town, however small, he sees better'd. Do not all strangers who visit us praise our well-mended gateways, And the well-whited tower, the church so neatly repair'd too? Do not all praise our pavements? Our well-arranged cover'd-in conduits, Always well furnish'd with water, utility blending with safety, So that a fire, whenever it happens, is straightway extinguish'd,-- Is not this the result of that conflagration so dreadful? Six times in Council I superintended the town's works, receiving Hearty thanks and assistance from every well-disposed burgher. How I design'd, follow'd up, and ensured the completion of measures Worthy men had projected, and afterwards left all unfinish'd! Finally, every man in the Council took pleasure in working. All put forth their exertions, and now they have finally settled That new highway to make, which will join our town with the main road. But I am greatly afraid that the young generation won't act thus; Some on the one hand think only of pleasure and trumpery dresses, Others wont stir out of doors, and pass all their time by the fireside, And our Hermann, I fear, will always be one of this last sort."
921 Forthwith to him replied the excellent sensible mother "Father, you're always unjust whenever you speak of your son, and That is the least likely way to obtain your wishes' fulfillment, For we cannot fashion our children after our fancy. We must have them and love them, as God has given them to us, Bring them up for the best, and let each do as he listeth. One has one kind of gift, another possesses another, Each one employs them, and each in turn in his separate fashion Good and happy becomes. My Hermann shall not be upbraided, For I know that he well deserves the wealth he'll inherit; He'll be an excellent landlord, a pattern to burghers and peasants, And, as I clearly foresee, by no means the last in the Council. But with your blame and reproaches, you daily dishearten him sadly, As you have done just now, and make the poor fellow unhappy."
922 Then she left the apartment, and after her son hasten'd quickly, Hoping somewhere to find him, and with her words of affection Gladden his heart, for he, the excellent son, well deserved it. Smilingly, when she had closed the door, continued the father "What a wonderful race of people are women and children. All of them fain would do whatever pleases their fancy, And we're only alow'd to praise them and flatter them freely. Once for all there's truth in the ancient proverb which tells us: He who moves not forward, goes backward! a capital saying!"
923 Speaking with much circumspection, the druggist made answer as follows "What you say, good neighbour, is certainly true, and my plan is Always to think of improvement, provided tho' new, 'tis not costly. But what avails it in truth, unless one has plenty of money, Active and fussy to he, improving both inside and outside? Sadly confined are the means of a burgher; e'en when he knows it, Little that's good he is able to do, his purse is too narrow, And the sum wanted too great; and so he is always prevented. I have had plenty of schemes! but then I was terribly frighten'd At the expense, especially during a time of such danger. Long had my house smiled upon me, decked out in modish exterior, Long had my windows with large panes of glass resplendently glitterd. Who can compete with a merchant, however, who, rolling in riches, Also knows the manner in which what is best can be purchased? Only look at the house up yonder, the new one: how handsome Looks the stucco of those white scrolls on the green-colour'd panels! Large are the plates of the windows--how shining and brilliant the panes are, Quite eclipsing the rest of the houses that stand in the market! Yet at the time of the fire, our two were by far the most handsome, Mine at the sign of the Angel, and yours at the old Golden Lion. Then my garden was famous throughout the whole country, and strangers Used to stop as they pass'd and peep through my red-colourd palings At my beggars of stone, and at my dwarfs, which were painted, He to whom I gave coffee inside my beautiful grotto, Which, alas! is now cover'd with dust and tumbling to pieces, Used to rejoice in the colour'd glimmering light of the mussels, Ranged in natural order around it, and connoisseurs even Used with dazzled eyes to gaze at the spars and the coral. Then, in the drawing-room, people look'd with delight on the painting, Where the prim ladies and gentlemen walked in the garden demurely, And with pointed fingers presented the flowers, and held them. Ah, if only such things were now to be seen! Little care I Now to go out; for everything needs to be alter'd and tasteful, As it is call'd; and white are the benches of wood and the palings; All things are simple and plain; and neither carving not gilding Now are employ'd, and foreign timber is now all the fashion. I should be only too pleased to possess some novelty also, So as to march with the times, and my household furniture alter. But we all are afraid to make the least alteration, For who is able to pay the present charges of workmen? Lately a fancy possess'd me, the angel Michael, whose figure Hangs up over my shop, to treat to a new coat of gilding, And the terrible Dragon, who round his feet is entwining; But I have left him all brown; as he is; for the cost quite alarm'd me." ----- IV. EUTERPE.
MOTHER AND SON.
924 Thus the men discoursed together; and meanwhile the mother Went in search of her son,--at first in front of the dwelling On the bench of stone, for he was accustom'd to sit there. When she found him not there, she went to look in the stable, Thinking perchance he was feeding his splendid horses, the stallions Which he had bought when foals, and which he entrusted to no one. But the servant inform'd her that he had gone to the garden. Then she nimbly strode across the long double courtyard, Left the stables behind, and the barns all made of good timber, Enter'd the garden which stretch'd far away to the walls of the borough, Walk'd across it, rejoicing to see how all things were growing, Carefully straighten'd the props, on which the apple-tree's branches, Heavily loaded, reposed, and the weighty boughs of the pear-tree, Took a few caterpillars from off the strong-sprouting cabbage; For a bustling woman is never idle one moment. In this manner she came to the end of the long-reaching garden, Where was the arbour all cover'd with woodbine: she found not her son there, Nor was he to be seen in any part of the garden. But she found on the latch the door which out of the arbour Through the wall of the town had been made by special permission During their ancestor's time, the worthy old burgomaster. So she easily stepp'd across the dry ditch at the spot where On the highway abutted their well-inclosed excellent vineyard. Rising steeply upwards, its face tow'rd the sun turn'd directly. Up the hill she proceeded, rejoicing, as farther she mounted, At the size of the grapes, which scarcely were hid by the foliage. Shady and well-cover'd in, the middle walk at the top was, Which was ascended by steps of rough flat pieces constructed. And within it were hanging fine chasselas and muscatels also, And a reddish-blue grape, of quite an exceptional bigness, All with carefulness planted, to give to their guests after dinner. But with separate stems the rest of the vineyard was planted, Smaller grapes producing, from which the finest wine made is. So she constantly mounted, enjoying in prospect the autumn. And the festal day, when the neighbourhood met with rejoicing, Picking and treading the grapes, and putting the must in the wine-vats, Every corner and nook resounding at night with the fireworks, Blazing and cracking away, due honour to pay to the harvest. But she uneasy became, when she in vain had been calling Twice and three times her son, and when the sole answer that reach'd her Came from the garrulous echo which out of the town towers issued. Strange it appear'd to have to seek him; he never went far off, (As he before had told her) in order to ward off all sorrow From his dear mother, and her forebodings of coming disaster. But she still was expecting upon the highway to find him, For the doors at the bottom, like those at the top, of the vineyard Stood wide open; and so at length she enter'd the broad field Which, with its spreading expanse, o'er the whole of the hill's back extended. On their own property still she proceeded, greatly rejoicing At their own crops, and at the corn which nodded so bravely, Over the whole field in golden majesty waving. Then on the border between the fields she follow'd the footpath, Keeping her eye on the pear-tree fix'd, the big one, which standing Perch'd by itself on the top of the hill, their property bounded. Who had planted it, no one knew; throughout the whole country Far and wide was it visible; noted also its fruit was. Under its shadow the reaper ate his dinner at noonday, And the herdsman was wont to lie, when tending his cattle. Benches made of rough stones and of turf were placed all about it. And she was not mistaken; there sat her Hermann and rested On his arm he was leaning, and seem'd to be looking cross country Tow'rds the mountains beyond; his back was turn'd to his mother. Softly creeping up, she lightly tapp'd on his shoulder; And he hastily turn'd; she saw that his eyes full of tears were.
925 "Mother," he said in confusion:--"You greatly surprise me!" and quickly Wiped he away his tears, the noble and sensitive youngster. "What! You are weeping, my son?" the startled mother continued "That is indeed unlike you! I never before saw you crying! Say, what has sadden'd your heart? What drives you to sit here all lonely Under the shade of the pear-tree? What is it that makes you unhappy?"
926 Then the excellent youth collected himself, and made answer "Truly that man can have no heart, but a bosom of iron, Who no sympathy feels for the wants of unfortunate exiles; He has no sense in his head who, in times of such deep tribulation, Has no concern for himself or for his country's well-being. What I to-day have seen and heard, has stirr'd up my feelings; Well, I have come up here, and seen the beautiful, spreading Landscape, which in fruitful hills to our sight is presented, Seen the golden fruit of the sheaves all nodding together, And a plentiful crop of fruit, full garners foreboding. But, alas, how near is the foe! By the Rhine's flowing waters We are protected indeed; but what are rivers and mountains To such a terrible nation, which hurries along like a tempest! For they summon together the young and the old from all quarters, Rushing wildly along, while the multitude little is caring Even for death; when one falls, his place is straight fill'd by another, Ah! and can Germans dare to remain at home in their dwellings, Thinking perchance to escape from the widely-threat'ning disaster? Dearest mother, I tell you that I to-day am quite sorry That I was lately excused, when they selected the fighters Out of the townfolk. 'Tis true I'm an only son, and more-over Large is our inn, and our business also is very important; Were it not better however for me to fight in the vanguard On the frontier, than here to await disaster and bondage? Yes, my spirit has told me, and in my innermost bosom Feel I courage and longing to live and die for my country, And to others to set an example worthy to follow. Oh, of a truth, if the strength of the German youths was collected On the frontier, all bound by a vow not to yield to the stranger, He on our noble soil should never set foot, or be able Under our eyes to consume the fruits of the land, or to issue Orders unto our men, or despoil our women and maidens! See, good mother, within my inmost heart I've determined Soon and straightway to do what seems to me right and becoming; For the man who thinks long, not always chooses what best is. See, I will not return to the house, but will go from here straightway Into the town, and there will place at the fighters' disposal This stout arm and this heart, to serve, as I best can, my country. Then let my father say whether feelings of honour are stirring In my bosom or not, and whether I yearn to mount upwards."
927 Then with significance answer'd his good and sensible mother, Shedding tears in silence, which easily rose in her eyelids:-- "Son, what has wrought so strange a change in your temper and feelings, That you freely and openly speak to your mother no longer, As you till yesterday did, nor tell her truly your wishes? If another had heard you speaking, he doubtless would praise you Highly, and deem your new resolution as worthy of honour, Being deceived by your words, and by your manner of speaking. I however can only blame you. I know you much better. You are concealing your heart, and very diff'rent your thoughts are; For I am sure you care not at all for drum and for trumpet, Nor, to please the maidens, care you to wear regimentals. For, though brave you may be, and gallant, your proper vocation Is to remain at home, the property quietly watching. Therefore tell me truly: What means this sudden decision?"
928 Earnestly answer'd the son:--"You are wrong, dear-mother, one day is Unlike another. The youth soon ripens into his manhood. Ofttimes he ripens better to action in silence than living That tumultuous noisy life which ruins so many. And though silent I have been, and am, a heart has been fashion'd Inside my bosom, which hates whatever unfair and unjust is, And I am able right well to discriminate secular matters. Work moreover my arms and my feet has mightily strengthen'd. All that I tell you is true; I boldly venture to say so. And yet, mother, you blame me with reason; you've caught me employing Words that are only half true, and that serve to conceal my true feelings. For I must need confess, it is not the advent of danger Calls me away from my father's house, nor a resolute purpose Useful to be to my country, and dreaded to be by the foeman. Words alone it was that I utter'd,--words only intended Those deep feelings to hide, which within my breast are contending. And now leave me, my mother! For as in my bosom I cherish Wishes that are but vain, my life will be to no purpose. For I know that the Unit who makes a self-sacrifice, only Injures himself, unless all endeavour the Whole to accomplish."
929 "Now continue," replied forthwith his sensible mother:-- "Tell me all that has happen'd, the least as w'ell as the greatest Men are always hasty, and only remember the last thing, And the hasty are easily forced from the road by obstructions. But a woman is skillful, and full of resources, and scorns not Bye-roads to traverse when needed, well-skill'd to accomplish her purpose. Tell me then all, and why you are stirr'd by such violent feelings More than I ever have seen, while the blood is boiling within you, And from your eyes the tears against your will fain would fall now."
930 Then the youth gave way to his sorrow, and burst into weeping, Weeping aloud on the breast of his mother, and softly replying "Truly, my father's words to-day have wounded me sadly, Never have I deserved at his hands such treatment,--no, never! For to honour my parents was always my wish from my childhood, No one ever appear'd so prudent and wise as my parents, Who in the darker days of childhood carefully watch'd me. Much indeed it has been my lot to endure from my playmates, When with their knavish pranks they used to embitter my temper. Often I little suspected the tricks they were playing upon me: But if they happen'd to ridicule Father, whenever on Sundays Out of church he came with his slow deliberate footsteps, If they laugh'd at the strings of his cap, and his dressing-gown's flowers, Which he in stately wise wore, and to-day at length has discarded, Then in a fury I clench'd my fist, and, storming and raging, Fell upon them and hit and struck with terrible onslaught, Heedless where my blows fell. With bleeding noses they halloed, And could scarcely escape from the force of my blows and my kicking. Then, as in years I advanced, I had much to endure from my father, Who, in default of others to blame, would often abuse me, When at the Council's last sitting his anger perchance was excited, And I the penalty paid of the squabbles and strife of his colleagues. You yourself have oft pitied me; I endured it with patience, Always rememb'ring the much-to-be-honour'd kindness of parents, Whose only thought is to swell for our sakes their goods and possessions, And who deprive themselves of much, to save for their children. But, alas, not saving alone, for enjoyment hereafter, Constitutes happiness, no, not heaps of gold or of silver, Neither field upon field, however compact the estate be. For the father grows old, and his son at the same time grows older, Feeling no joy in To-day, and full of care for To-morrow. Now look down from this height, and see how beauteous before us Lies the fair rich expanse, with vineyard and gardens at bottom; There are the stables and barns, and the rest of the property likewise; There I also descry the back of our house, in the gables Of the roof may be seen the window of my small apartment. When I remember the time when I used to look out for the moon there Half through the night, or perchance at morning awaited the sunrise, When with but few hours of healthy sleep I was fully contented, Ah, how lonely do all things appear! My chamber, the court, and Garden, the beautiful field which spreads itself over the hillside; All appears but a desert to me: I still am unmarried!" Then his good mother answer'd his speech in a sensible manner "Son, your wish to be able to lead your bride to her chamber, Turning the night to the dearest and happiest half of your lifetime, Making your work by day more truly free and unfetter'd, Cannot be greater than that of your father and mother. We always Urged you,--commanded, I even might say,--to choose some fair maiden. But I know full well, and my heart has told me already If the right hour arrives not, or if the right maiden appears not Instantly when they are sought for, man's choice is thrown in confusion, And he is driven by fear to seize what is counterfeit only. If I may tell you, my son, your choice already is taken, For your heart is smitten, and sensitive more than is usual. Answer me plainly, then, for my spirit already has told me: She whom now you have chosen is that poor emigrant maiden!"
931 "Yes, dear mother, you're right!" the son with vivacity answer'd Yes, it is she! And unless this very day I conduct her Home as my bride, she will go on her way and escape me for ever, In the confusion of war, and in moving backwards and forwards. Mother, then before my eyes will in vain he unfolded All our rich estate, and each year henceforward be fruitful. Yes, the familiar house and the garden will be my aversion. Ah, and the love of my mother no comfort will give to my sorrow, For I feel that by Love each former bond must be loosen'd, When her own bonds she knits; 'tis not the maiden alone who Leaves her father and mother behind, when she follows her husband. So it is with the youth; no more he knows mother and father. When he beholds the maiden, the only beloved one, approaching. Therefore let me go hence, to where desperation may lead me, For my father already has spoken in words of decision, And his house no longer is mine, if he shuts out the maiden Whom alone I would fain take home as my bride from henceforward."
932 Then the excellent sensible mother answer'd with quickness "Men are precisely like rocks when they stand opposed to each other! Proud and unyielding, the one will never draw near to the other. Neither will suffer his tongue to utter the first friendly accent. Therefore I tell you, my son, a hope still exists in my bosom, If she is worthy and good, he will give his consent to your marriage, Poor though she be, and although with disdain he refused you the poor thing. For in his hot-beaded fashion he utters many expressions Which he never intends; and so will accept the Refused One. But he requires kind words, and has a right to require them, For your father he is; his anger is all after dinner, When he more eagerly speaks, and questions the reasons of others, Meaning but little thereby; the wine then excites all the vigour Of his impetuous will, and prevents him from giving due weight to Other people's opinions; he hears and he feels his own only. But when evening arrives, the tone of the many discourses Which his friends and himself hold together, is very much alter'd. Milder becomes he, as soon as his liquor's effects have passed over And he feels the injustice his eagerness did unto others. Come, we will venture at once! Success the reward is of boldness, And we have need of the friends who now have assembled around him.-- Most of all we shall want the help of our excellent pastor." Thus she eagerly spoke, and leaving the stone that she sat on, Also lifted her son from his seat. He willingly follow'd, And they descended in silence, revolving the weighty proposal. ----- V. POLYHYMNIA.
THE COSMOPOLITE.
933 But the Three, as before, were still sitting and talking together, With the landlord, the worthy divine, and also the druggist, And the conversation still concern'd the same subject, Which in every form they had long been discussing together. Full of noble thoughts, the excellent pastor continued "I can't contradict you. I know 'tis the duty of mortals Ever to strive for improvement; and, as we may see, they strive also Ever for that which is higher, at least what is new they seek after, But don't hurry too fast! For combined with these feelings, kind Nature Also has given us pleasure in dwelling on that which is ancient, And in clinging to that to which we have long been accustom'd. Each situation is good that's accordant to nature and reason. Many things man desires, and yet he has need of but little; For but short are the days, and confined is the lot of a mortal. I can never blame the man who, active and restless, Hurries along, and explores each corner of earth and the ocean Boldly and carefully, while he rejoices at seeing the profits Which round him and his family gather themselves in abundance. But I also duly esteem the peaceable burgher, Who with silent steps his paternal inheritance paces, And watches over the earth, the seasons carefully noting. 'Tis not every year that he finds his property alter'd; Newly-planted trees cannot stretch out their arms tow'rds the heavens All in a moment, adorn'd with beautiful buds in abundance. No, a man has need of patience, he also has need of Pure unruffled tranquil thoughts and an intellect honest; For to the nourishing earth few seeds at a time he entrusteth, Few are the creatures he keeps at a time, with a view to their breeding, For what is Useful alone remains the first thought of his lifetime. Happy the man to whom Nature a mind thus attuned may have given! 'Tis by him that we all are fed. And happy the townsman Of the small town who unites the vocations of town and of country. He is exempt from the pressure by which the poor farmer is worried, Is not perplex'd by the citizens' cares and soaring ambition, Who, with limited means,--especially women and maidens,-- Think of nothing but aping the ways of the great and the wealthy, You should therefore bless your son's disposition so peaceful, And the like-minded wife whom we soon may expect him to marry.
934 Thus he spoke. At that moment the mother and son stood before them. By the hand she led him and placed him in front of her husband "Father," she said, "how often have we, when talking together, Thought of that joyful day in the future, when Hermann, selecting After long waiting his bride at length would make us both happy! All kinds of projects we form'd. designing first one, then another Girl as his wife, as we talk'd in the manner that parents delight in. Now the day has arrived; and now has his bride been conducted Hither and shown him by Heaven; his heart at length has decided. Were we not always saying that he should choose for himself, and Were you not lately wishing that he might feel for a maiden Warm and heart-felt emotions? And now has arrived the right moment! Yes, he has felt and has chosen, and like a man has decided. That fair maiden it is, the Stranger whom he encounter'd. Give her him; else he'll remain--he has sworn it--unmarried for ever."
935 And the son added himself:--"My father, O give her! My heart has Chosen purely and truly: she'll make you an excellent daughter."
936 But the father was silent. Then suddenly rose the good pastor, And address'd him as follows:--" One single moment's decisive Both of the life of a man, and of the whole of his Future. After lengthen'd reflection, each resolution made by him Is but the work of a moment; the prudent alone seize the right one. Nothing more dangerous is, in making a choice, than revolving First this point and then that, and so confusing the feelings. Pure is Hermann's mind; from his youth I have known him; he never, Even in boyhood, was wont to extend his hand hither and thither. What he desired, was suitable to him; he held to it firmly. Be not astonish'd and scared, because there appears on a sudden What you so long have desired. 'Tis true the appearance at present Bears not the shape of the wish, as you in your mind had conceived it. For our wishes conceal the thing that we wish for; our gifts too Come from above upon us, each clad in its own proper figure. Do not now mistake the maiden who has succeeded First in touching the heart of your good wise son, whom you love so. Happy is he who is able to clasp the hand of his first love, And whose dearest wish is not doom'd to pine in his bosom! Yes, I can see by his face, already his fate is decided; True affection converts the youth to a man in a moment. He little changeable is; I fear me, if this you deny him, All the fairest years of his life will be changed into sorrow."
937 Then in prudent fashion the druggist, who long had been wanting His opinion to give, rejoin'd in the following manner "This is Just a case when the middle course is the wisest! 'Hasten slowly,' you know, was the motto of Caesar Augustus. I am always ready to be of use to my neighbours, And to turn to their profit what little wits I can boast of. Youth especially needs the guidance of those who are older. Let me then depart; I fain would prove her, that maiden, And will examine the people 'mongst whom she lives, and who know her. I am not soon deceived; I know how to rate their opinions."
938 Then forthwith replied the son, with eagerness speaking:-- "Do so, neighbour, and go, make your inquiries. However, I should greatly prefer that our friend, the pastor, went with you; Two such excellent men are witnesses none can find fault with. O, my father! the maiden no vagabond is, I assure you, No mere adventurer, wand'ring about all over the country, And deceiving the inexperienced youths with her cunning; No! the harsh destiny link'd with this war, so destructive of all things, Which is destroying the world, and already has wholly uprooted Many a time-honour'd fabric, has driven the poor thing to exile. Are not brave men of noble birth now wand'ring in mis'ry? Princes are fleeing disguised, and monarchs in banishment living. Ah, and she also herself, the best of her sisters, is driven Out of her native land; but her own misfortunes forgetting, Others she seeks to console, and, though helpless, is also most helpful. Great are the woes and distress which over the earth's face are brooding, But may happiness not be evoked from out of this sorrow? May not I, in the arms of my bride, the wife I have chosen, Even rejoice at the war, as you at the great conflagration?"
939 Then replied the father, and open'd his mouth with importance:-- "Strangely indeed, my son, has your tongue been suddenly loosen'd, Which for years has stuck in your mouth, and moved there but rarely I to-day must experience that which threatens each father: How the ardent will of a son a too-gentle mother Willingly favours, whilst each neighbour is ready to back him, Only provided it be at the cost of a father or husband! But what use would it be to resist so many together? For I see that defiance and tears will otherwise greet me. Go and prove her, and in God's name then hasten to bring her Home as my daughter; if not, he must think no more of the maiden."
940 Thus spake the father. The son exclaim'd with jubilant gesture "Ere the ev'ning arrives, you shall have the dearest of daughters, Such as the man desires whose bosom is govern'd by prudence And I venture to think the good creature is fortunate also. Yes, she will ever be grateful that I her father and mother Have restored her in you, as sensible children would wish it. But I will loiter no longer; I'll straightway harness the horses, And conduct our friends on the traces of her whom I love so, Leave the men to themselves and their own intuitive wisdom, And be guided alone by their decision--I swear it,-- And not see the maiden again, until she my own is." Then he left the house; meanwhile the others were eagerly Settling many a point, and the weighty matter debating.
941 Hermann sped to the stable forthwith, where the spirited stallions Tranquilly stood and with eagerness swallow'd the pure oats before them, And the well-dried hay, which was cut from the best of their meadows. Then in eager haste in their mouths the shining bits placed he, Quickly drew the harness through the well-plated buckles, And then fastend the long broad reins in proper position, Led the horses out in the yard, where already the carriage, Easily moved along by its pole, had been push'd by the servant. Then they restrain'd the impetuous strength of the fast-moving horses, Fastening both with neat-looking ropes to the bar of the carriage. Hermann seized his whip, took his seat, and drove to the gateway. When in the roomy carriage his friends had taken their places, Swiftly he drove away, and left the pavement behind them, Left behind the walls of the town and the clean-looking towers, Thus sped Hermann along, till he reach'd the familiar highway, Not delaying a moment, and galloping uphill and downhill. When however at length the village steeple descried he, And not far away lay the houses surrounded by gardens, He began to think it was time to hold in the horses.
942 By the time-honour'd gloom of noble lime-trees o'er shadow'd, Which for many a century past on the spot had been rooted, Stood there a green and spreading grass-plot in front of the village, Cover'd with turf, for the peasants and neighbouring townsmen a playground. Scooped out under the trees, to no great depth, stood a fountain. On descending the steps, some benches of stone might be seen there, Ranged all around the spring, which ceaselessly well'd forth its waters, Cleanly, enclosed by a low wall all round, and convenient to draw from. Hermann then determined beneath the shadow his horses With the carriage to stop. He did so, and spoke then as follows "Now, my friends, get down, and go by yourselves to discover Whether the maiden is worthy to have the hand which I offer. I am convinced that she is; and you'll bring me no new or strange story: Had I to manage alone, I would straightway go off to the village, And in few words should my fate by the charming creature be settled.
943 Her you will easily recognize 'mongst all the rest of the people, For her appearance is altogether unlike that of others. But I will now describe the modest dress she is wearing:-- First a bodice red her well-arch'd bosom upraises, Prettily tied, while black are the stays fitting closely around her. Then the seams of the ruff she has carefully plaited and folded, Which with modest grace, her chin so round is encircling. Free and joyously rises her head with its elegant oval, Strongly round bodkins of silver her back-hair is many times twisted Her blue well-plaited gown begins from under her bodice. And as she walks envelopes her well-turn'd ankles completely. But I have one thing to say, and this must expressly entreat you: Do not speak to the maiden, and let not your scheme be discover'd. But inquire of others, and hearken to all that they tell you, When you have learnt enough to satisfy father and mother, Then return to me straight, and we'll settle future proceedings. This is the plan which I have matured, while driving you hither."
944 Thus he spoke, and the friends forthwith went on to the village, Where, in gardens and barns and houses, the multitude crowded; All along the broad road the numberless carts were collected, Men were feeding the lowing cattle and feeding the horses. Women on every hedge the linen were carefully drying, Whilst the children in glee were splashing about in the streamlet. Forcing their way through the waggons, and past the men and the cattle, Walk'd the ambassador spies, looking well to the righthand and lefthand, Hoping somewhere to see the form of the well-described maiden; But wherever they look'd, no trace of the girl they discover'd.
945 Presently denser became the crowd. Round some of the waggons. Men in a passion were quarrelling, women also were screaming. Then of a sudden approach'd an aged man with firm footstep Marching straight up to the fighters; and forthwith was hush'd the contention, When he bade them be still, and with fatherly earnestness threaten'd. "Are we not yet," he exclaim'd, "by misfortune so knitted together, As to have learnt at length the art of reciprocal patience And toleration, though each cannot measure the actions of others? Prosperous men indeed may quarrel! Will sorrow not teach you How no longer as formerly you should quarrel with brethren? Each should give way to each other, when treading the soil of the stranger, And, as you hope for mercy yourselves, you should share your possessions."
946 Thus the man address'd them, and all were silent. In peaceful Humour the reconciled men look'd after their cattle and waggons. When the pastor heard the man discourse in this fashion, And the foreign magistrate's peaceful nature discovered, He approach'd him in turn, and used this significant language "Truly, Father, when nations are living in days of good fortune, Drawing their food from the earth, which gladly opens its treasures, And its wish'd-for gifts each year and each month is renewing, Then all matters go smoothly; each thinks himself far the wisest, And the best, and so they exist by the side of each other, And the most sensible man no better than others is reckon'd For the world moves on, as if by itself and in silence. But when distress unsettles our usual manner of living, Pulls down each time-honour'd fabric, and roots up the seed in our gardens, Drives the man and his wife far away from the home they delight in, Hurries them off in confusion through days and nights full of anguish, Ah! then look we around in search of the man who is wisest, And no longer in vain he utters his words full of wisdom. Tell me whether you be these fugitives' magistrate, Father, Over whose minds you appear to possess such an influence soothing? Aye, to-day I could deem you one of the leaders of old time, Who through wastes and through deserts conducted the wandering people; I could imagine 'twas Joshua I am addressing, or Moses."
947 Then with solemn looks the magistrate answer'd as follows "Truly the present times resemble the strangest of old times, Which are preserved in the pages of history, sacred or common. He in these days who has lived to-day and yesterday only, Many a year has lived, events so crowd on each other. When I reflect back a little, a grey old age I could fancy On my head to be lying, and yet my strength is still active. Yes, we people in truth may liken ourselves to those others Unto whom in a fiery bush appear'd, in a solemn Moment, the Lord our God; in fire and clouds we behold him."
948 When the pastor would fain continue to speak on this subject, And was anxious to learn the fate of the man and his party, Quickly into his ear his companion secretly whisper'd "Speak for a time with the magistrate, turning your talk on the maiden, Whilst I wander about, endeav'ring to find her. Directly I am successful, I'll join you again." Then nodded the pastor, And the spy went to seek her, in barns and through hedges and gardens. ----- VI. KLIO.
THE AGE.
949 When the pastor ask'd the foreign magistrate questions, What the people had suffer'd, how long from their homes they had wander'd, Then the man replied:--"By no means short are our sorrows, For we have drunk the bitters of many a long year together, All the more dreadful, because our fairest hopes have been blighted. Who can deny that his heart beat wildly and high in his bosom And that with purer pulses his breast more freely was throbbing, When the newborn sun first rose in the whole of its glory, When we heard of the right of man, to have all things in common, Heard of noble Equality, and of inspiriting Freedom! Each man then hoped to attain new life for himself, and the fetters Which had encircled many a land appear'd to be broken, Fetters held by the hands of sloth and selfish indulgence. Did not all nations turn their gaze, in those days of emotion, Tow'rds the world's capital, which so many a long year had been so, And then more than ever deserved a name so distinguish'd? Were not the men, who first proclaim'd so noble a message, Names that are worthy to rank with the highest the sun ever shone on, Did not each give to mankind his courage and genius and language?
950 "And we also, as neighbours, at first were warmly excited. Presently after began the war, and the train of arm'd Frenchmen Nearer approach'd; at first they appear'd to bring with them friendship, And they brought it in fact; for all their souls were exalted. And the gay trees of liberty ev'rywhere gladly they planted, Promising unto each his own, and the government long'd for. Greatly at this was youth, and greatly old age was delighted, And the joyous dance began round the newly-raised standards. In this manner the overpowering Frenchmen soon conquer'd First the minds of the men, with their fiery lively proceedings, Then the hearts of the women, with irresistible graces. Even the strain of the war, with its many demands, seem'd but trifling, For before our eyes the distance by hope was illumined, Luring our gaze far ahead into paths now first open'd before us. "O how joyful the time, when with his bride the glad bridegroom Whirls in the dance, awaiting the day that will join them for ever But more glorious far was the time when the Highest of all things Which man's mind can conceive, close by and attainable seemed. Then were the tongues of all loosen'd, and words of wisdom and feeling Not by greybeards alone, but by men and by striplings were utter'd.
951 "But the heavens soon clouded became. For the sake of the mast'ry Strove a contemptible crew, unfit to accomplish good actions. Then they murder'd each other, and took to oppressing their new-found Neighbours and brothers, and sent on missions whole herds of selfÄseekers And the superiors took to carousing and robbing by wholesale, And the inferiors down to the lowest caroused and robb'd also. Nobody thought of aught else than having enough for tomorrow. Terrible was the distress, and daily increased the oppression. None the cry understood, that they of the day were the masters. Then even temperate minds were attack'd by sorrow and fury; Each one reflected, and swore to avenge all the injuries suffer'd, And to atone for the hitter loss of hopes twice defrauded. Presently Fortune declared herself on the side of the Germans, And the French were compell'd to retreat by forced marches before them. Ah! the sad fate of the war we then for the first time experienced. For the victor is kind and humane, at least he appears so, And he spares the man he has vanquish'd, as if he his own were, When he employs him daily, and with his property helps him. But the fugitive knows no law; he wards off death only, And both quickly and recklessly all that he meets with, consumes he. Then his mind becomes heated apace; and soon desperation Fills his heart, and impels him to all kinds of criminal actions. Nothing then holds he respected, he steals It. With furious longing On the woman he rushes; his lust becomes awful to think of. Death all around him he sees, his last minutes in cruelty spends he, Wildly exulting in blood, and exulting in howls and in anguish.
952 "Then in the minds of our men arose a terrible yearning That which was lost to avenge, and that which remain'd to defend still. All of them seized upon arms, lured on by the fugitives' hurry, By their pale faces, and by their shy, uncertain demeanour. There was heard the sound of alarm-bells unceasingly ringing, And the approach of danger restrain'd not their violent fury. Soon into weapons were turn'd the implements peaceful of tillage, And with dripping blood the scythe and the pitchfork were cover'd. Every foeman without distinction was ruthlessly slaughter'd, Fury was ev'rywhere raging, and artful, cowardly weakness. May I never again see men in such wretched confusion! Even the raging wild beast is a better object to gaze on. Ne'er let them speak of freedom, as if themselves they could govern! All the evil which Law has driven farback in the corner Seems to escape, as soon as the fetters which bound it are loosen'd."
953 "Excellent man," replied the pastor, with emphasis speaking "If you're mistaken in man, 'tis not for me to reprove you. Evil enough have you suffer'd indeed from his cruel proceedings! Would you but look back, however, on days so laden with sorrow, You would yourself confess how much that is good you have witness'd, Much that is excellent, which remains conceald in the bossom Till by danger 'tis stirr'd, and till necessity makes man Show himself as an angel, a tutelar God unto others."
954 Then with a smile replied the worthy old magistrate, saying "Your reminder is wise, like that which they give to the suff'rer Who has had his dwelling burnt down, that under the ruins, Gold and silver are lying, though melted and cover'd with ashes. Little, indeed, it may be, and yet that little is precious, And the poor man digs it up, and rejoices at finding the treasure. Gladly, therefore, I turn my thoughts to those few worthy actions Which my memory still is able to dwell on with pleasure. Yes, I will not deny it, I saw late foemen uniting So as to save the town from harm; I saw with devotion Parents, children and friends impossible actions attempting, Saw how the youth of a sudden became a man, how the greybeard Once more was young, how the child as a stripling appear'd in a moment. Aye, and the weaker sex, as people commonly call it, Show'd itself brave and daring, with presence of mind all-unwonted. Let me now, in the first place, describe a deed of rare merit By a high-spirited girl accomplish'd, an excellent maiden, Who in the great farmhouse remain'd behind with the servants, When the whole of the men had departed, to fight with the strangers. Well, there fell on the court a troop of vagabond scoundrels, Plund'ring and forcing their way inside the rooms of the women. Soon they cast their eyes on the forms of the grown-up fair maiden And of the other dear girls, in age little more than mere children. Hurried away by raging desire, unfeelingly rush'd they On the trembling band, and on the high-spirited maiden. But she instantly seized the sword from the side of a ruffian, Hew'd him down to the ground; at her feet straight fell he, all bleeding, Then with doughty strokes the maidens she bravely deliver'd. Wounded four more of the robbers; with life, however, escaped they. Then she lock'd up the court, and, arm'd still, waited for succour.
955 When the pastor heard the praise of the maiden thus utter'd Feelings of hope for his friend forthwith arose in his bosom, And he prepared to ask what had been the fate of the damsel, Whether she, in the sorrowful flight, form'd one of the people? At this moment, however, the druggist nimbly approach'd them, Pull'd the sleeve of the pastor, and whisper'd to him as follows "I have at last pick'd out the maiden from many a hundred By her description! Pray come and judge for yourself with your own eyes; Bring the magistrate with you, that we may learn the whole story."
956 So they turn'd themselves round; but the magistrate found himself summon'd By his own followers, who had need of his presence and counsel. But the pastor forthwith the druggist accompanied, till they Came to a gap in the hedge, when the latter pointed with slyness, "See you," exclaim'd he, "the maiden? The child's clothes she has been changing. And I recognise well the old calico--also the cushion-- Cover of blue, which Hermann took in the bundle and gave her. Quickly and well, of a truth, she has used the presents left with her. These are evident proofs; and all the rest coincide too; For a bodice red her well-arch'd bosom upraises, Prettily tied, while black are the stays fitting close around her. Then the seams of the ruff she has carefully plaited and folded, Which, with modest grace, her chin so round is encircling; Free and joyously rises her head, with its elegant oval, Strongly round bodkins of silver her back-hair is many times twisted. When she is sitting, we plainly see her noble proportions, And the blue well-plaited gown which begins from close to her bosom, And in rich folds descending, her well-turn'd ankles envelops. 'Tis she, beyond all doubt. So come, that we may examine Whether she be both a good and a frugal and virtuous maiden." Then the pastor rejoin'd, the sitting damsel inspecting "That she enchanted the youth, I confess is no matter of wonder, For she stands the test of the gaze of a man of experience. Happy the person to whom Mother Nature the right face has given! She recommends him at all times, he never appears as a stranger, Each one gladly approaches, and each one beside him would linger, If with his face is combined a pleasant and courteous demeanour. Yes, I assure you the youth has indeed discover'd a maiden Who the whole of the days of his life will enliven with gladness, And with her womanly strength assist him at all times and truly. Thus a perfect body preserves the soul also in pureness, And a vigorous youth of a happy old age gives assurance.
957 After reflecting a little, the druggist made answer as follows:-- "Yet appearances oft are deceitful. I trust not the outside. Often, indeed, have I found the truth of the proverb which tells us Ere you share a bushel of salt with a new-found acquaintance, Do not trust him too readily; time will make you more certain How you and he will get on, and whether your friendship is lasting. Let us then, in the first place, inquire amongst the good people Unto whom the maiden is known, who can tell us about her."
958 "Well, of a truth I commend your prudence," the pastor continued "Not for ourselves are we wooing! To woo for others is serious." So they started to meet the worthy magistrate seeing How in the course of his business he was ascending the main street. And the wise pastor straightway address'd him with foresight as follows "We, by-the-bye, have just seen a girl in the neighbouring garden Under an apple-tree sitting, and clothes for the children preparing, Made of worn calico, which for the purpose was doubtless presented. We were pleased by her face; she appears to be one of the right sort. Tell us, what know you about her? We ask from a laudable motive."
959 When the magistrate came to the garden and peep'd in, exclaimed he "Well do I know her, in truth; for when I told you the story Of that noble deed which was done by the maiden I spoke of, How she seized on the sword, and defended herself, and the servants, She the heroine was! You can see how active her nature. But she's as good as she's strong; for her aged kinsman she tended Until the time of his death, for he died overwhelm'd by affliction At the distress of his town, and the danger his goods were exposed to. Also with mute resignation she bore the grievous affliction Of her betroth'd's sad death, a noble young man who, incited By the first fire of noble thoughts to struggle for freedom, Went himself to Paris, and soon found a terrible death there. For, as at home, so there, he fought 'gainst intrigue and oppression."
960 Thus the magistrate spoke. The others departed and thanked him, And the pastor produced a gold piece (the silver his purse held He some hours before had with genuine kindness expended When he saw the fugitives passing in sorrowful masses).
961 And to the magistrate handed it, saying:--" Divide it, I pray you, 'Mongst those who need it the most. May God give it prosperous increase."
962 But the man refused to accept it, and said:--"I assure you, Many a dollar we've saved, and plenty of clothing and such things, And I trust we may reach our homes before they are finish'd."
963 Then continued the pastor, the gold in his hand once more placing "None should delay to give in days like the present, and no one Ought to refuse to receive what is offer'd with liberal kindness. No one can tell how long he will keep what in peace he possesses, No one, how long he is doom'd in foreign countries to wander, While he's deprived of the field and the garden by which he is nurtured."
964 "Bravo!" added in turn the druggist, with eagerness speaking "Had I but money to spare in my pocket, you surely should have it, Silver and gold alike; for your followers certainly need it. Yet I'll not leave you without a present, if only to show you My good will, and I hope you will take the will for the action." Thus he spoke, and pull'd out by the strings the leather embroider'd Pouch, in which he was wont his stock of tobacco to carry, Daintily open'd and shared its contents--some two or three pipes' full. "Small in truth is the gift," he added. The magistrate answered: "Good tobacco is always a welcome present to trav'llers." Then the druggist began his canister to praise very highly. But the pastor drew him away, and the magistrate left them. "Come, let us hasten!" exclaimed the sensible man, "for our young friend Anxiously waits; without further delay let him hear the good tidings."
965 So they hasten'd and came, and found that the youngster was leaning 'Gainst his carriage under the lime-trees. The horses were pawing Wildly the turf; he held them in check and stood there all pensive, Silently gazing in front, and saw not his friends coming near him, Till, as they came, they called him and gave him signals of triumph. Some way off the druggist already began to address him, But they approach'd the youth still nearer, and then the good pastor Seized his hand and spoke and took the word from his comrade "Friend, I wish you joy! Your eye so true and your true heart Rightly have chosen! May you and the wife of your young days be happy! She is full worthy of you; so come and turn around the carriage, That we may reach without delay the end of the village, So as to woo her, and shortly escort the dear creature home with us." But the youth stood still, and without any token of pleasure Heard the words of the envoy, though sounding consoling and heav'nly, Deeply sigh'd and said:--"We came full speed in the carriage And shall probably go back home ashamed and but slowly; For, since I have been waiting care has fallen upon me, Doubt and suspicion and all that a heart full of love is exposed to. Do you suppose we have only to come, for the maiden to follow, Just because we are rich, and she poor and wandering in exile? Poverty, when undeserved, itself makes proud. The fair maiden Seems to be active and frugal; the world she may claim as her portion. Do you suppose that a woman of such great beauty and manners Can have grown up without exciting love in man's bosom? Do you suppose that her heart until now has to love been fast closed? Do not drive thither in haste, for perchance to our shame and confusion We shall have slowly to turn towards home the heads of our horses. Yes, some youth, I fear me, possesses her heart, and already She has doubtless promised her hand and her solemn troth plighted, And I shall stand all ashamed before her, When making my offer."
966 Then the pastor proceeded to cheer him with words of good comfort, But his companion broke in, in his usual talkative manner "As things used to be, this embarrassment would not have happened, When each matter was brought to a close in an orthodox fashion. Then for their son themselves the bride the parents selected, And a friend of the house was secretly call'd in the first place. He was then quietly sent as a suitor to visit the parents Of the selected bride; and, dress'd in his gayest apparel, Went after dinner some Sunday to visit the excellent burgher, And began by exchanging polite remarks on all subjects, Cleverly turning and bending the talk in the proper direction. After long beating about the bush, he flatter'd the daughter, And spoke well of the man and the house that gave his commission. Sensible people soon saw his drift, and the sensible envoy Watch'd how the notion was taken, and then could explain himself farther. If they declined the proposal, why then the refusal cost nothing, But if all prosper'd, why then the suitor for ever thereafter Play'd the first fiddle at every family feast and rejoicing. For the married couple remember'd the whole of their lifetime Whose was the skilful hand by which the marriage knot tied was. All this now is chang'd, and with many an excellent custom Has gone quite out of fashion. Each person woos for himself now. Everyone now must bear the weight of a maiden's refusal On his own shoulders, and stand all ashamed before her, if needs be."
967 "Let that be as it may," then answered the young man who scarcely Heard what was said, and his mind had made up already in silence "I will go myself, and out of the mouth of the maiden Learn my own fate, for towards her I cherish the most trustful feelings That any man ever cherish'd towards any woman whatever. That which she says will be good and sensible,--this I am sure of. If I am never to see her again, I must once more behold her, And the ingenuous gaze of her black eyes must meet for the last time. If to my heart I may clasp her never, her bosom and shoulders I would once more see, which my arm so longs to encircle: Once more the mouth I would see, from which one kiss and a Yes will Make me happy for ever, a No for ever undo me. But now leave me alone! Wait here no longer. Return you Straight to my father and mother, in order to tell them in person That their son was right, and that the maiden is worthy. And so leave me alone! I myself shall return by the footpath Over the hill by the pear-tree and then descend through the vineyard, Which is the shortest way back. Oh may I soon with rejoicing Take the beloved one home! But perchance all alone I must slink back By that path to our house and tread it no more with a light heart." Thus he spoke, and then placed the reins in the hands of the pastor, Who, in a knowing way both the foaming horses restraining, Nimbly mounted the carriage, and took the seat of the driver.
968 But you still delay'd, good cautious neighbour, and spoke thus Friend, I will gladly entrust to you soul, and spirit, and mind too, But my body and bones are not preserved in the best way When the hand of a parson such worldly matters as reins grasps!"
969 But you smiled in return, you sensible pastor, replying "Pray jump in, nor fear with both body and spirit to trust me, For this hand to hold the reins has long been accustom'd, And these eyes are train'd to turn the corner with prudence. For we were wont to drive the carriage, when living at Strasburg, At the time when with the young baron I went there, for daily, Driven by me, through the echoing gateway thunder'd the carriage By the dusty roads to distant meadows and lindens, Through the crowds of the people who spend their lifetime in walking."
970 Partially comforted, then his neighbour mounted the carriage, Sitting like one prepared to make a wise jump, if needs be, And the stallions, eager to reach their stables, coursed homewards, While beneath their powerful hoofs the dust rose in thick clouds. Long there stood the youth, and saw the dust rise before him, Saw the dust disperse; but still he stood there, unthinking. ----- VII. ERATO.
DOROTHEA.
971 As the man on a journey, who, just at the moment of sunset, Fixes his gaze once more on the rapidly vanishing planet, Then on the side of the rocks and in the dark thicket still sees he Hov'ring its image; wherever he turns his looks, on in front still Runs it, and glitters and wavers before him in colours all splendid, So before Hermanns eyes did the beautiful form of the maiden Softly move, and appear'd to follow the path through the cornfields.
972 But he roused himself up from his startling dream, and then slowly Turn'd tow'rd the village his steps, and once more started,--for once more Saw he the noble maiden's stately figure approaching. Fixedly gazed he; it was no phantom in truth; she herself 'twas In her hands by the handle she carried two pitchers,--one larger, One of a smaller size, and nimbly walk'd to the fountain. And he joyfully went to meet her; the sight of her gave him Courage and strength, and so he address'd the surprised one as follows:-- "Do I find you again, brave maiden, engaged in assisting Others so soon, and in giving refreshment to those who may need it? Tell me why you have come all alone to the spring so far distant, Whilst the rest are content with the water that's found in the village? This one, indeed, special virtue possesses, and pleasant to drink is. Is't for the sake of that sick one you come, whom you saved with such courage?"
973 Then the good maiden the youth in friendly fashion saluted, Saying:--"Already my walk to the fountain is fully rewarded, Since I have found the kind person who gave us so many good presents; For the sight of a giver, like that of a gift, is refreshing. Come and see for yourself the persons who tasted your kindness, And receive the tranquil thanks of all you have aided. But that you may know the reason why I have come here, Water to draw at a spot where the spring is both pure and unceasing, I must inform you that thoughtless men have disturb'd all the water Found in the village, by carelessly letting the horses and oxen Wade about in the spring which give the inhabitants water. In the same manner, with all their washing and cleaning they've dirtied All the troughs of the village, and all the fountains have sullied. For each one of them only thinks how quickly and soon he May supply his own wants, and cares not for those who come after."
974 Thus she spoke, and soon she arrived at the foot of the broad steps With her companion, and both of them sat themselves down on the low wall Round the spring. She bent herself over, to draw out the water, He the other pitcher took up, and bent himself over, And in the blue of the heavens they saw their figures reflected, Waving, and nodding, and in the mirror their greetings exchanging. "Now let me drink," exclaim'd the youth in accents of gladness. And she gave him the pitcher. They then, like old friends, sat together, Leaning against the vessels, when she address'd him as follows "Say, why find I you here without your carriage and horses, Far from the place where first I saw you. Pray how came you hither?"
975 Hermann thoughtfully gazed on the ground, but presently lifted Calmly towards her his glances, and gazed on her face in kind fashion, Feeling quite calm and composed. And yet with love to address her Found he quite out of the question; for love from her eyes was not beaming, But an intellect clear, which bade him use sensible language. Soon he collected his thoughts, and quietly said to the maiden:-- "Let me speak, my child, and let me answer your questions. "'Tis for your sake alone I have come,--why seek to conceal it? For I happily live with two affectionate parents, Whom I faithfully help to look after our house and possessions, Being an only son, while numerous are our employments. I look after the field work; the house is carefully managed By my father; my mother the hostelry cheers and enlivens. But you also have doubtless found out how greatly the servants, Sometimes by fraud, and sometimes by levity, worry their mistress, Constantly making her change them, and barter one fault for another. Long has my mother, therefore, been wanting a girl in the household, Who, not only with hand, but also with heart might assist her, In the place of the daughter she lost, alas, prematurely. Now when I saw you to-day near the carriage, so active and sprightly, Saw the strength of your arm and the perfect health of your members, When I heard your sensible words, I was struck with amazement, And I hasten'd back home, deservedly praising the stranger Both to my parents and friends. And now I come to inform you What they desire, as I do. Forgive my stammering language!"
976 "Do not hesitate," said she, "to tell me the rest of your story I have with gratitude felt that you have not sought to insult me. Speak on boldly, I pray; your words shall never alarm me; You would fain hire me now as maid to your father and mother, To look after the house, which now is in excellent order. And you think that in me you have found a qualified maiden, One that is able to work, and not of a quarrelsome nature. Your proposal was short, and short shall my answer be also Yes! with you I will go, and the voice of my destiny follow. I have fulfill'd my duty, and brought the lying-in woman Back to her friends again, who all rejoice at her rescue. Most of them now are together, the rest will presently join them. All expect that they, in a few short days, will be able Homewards to go; 'tis thus that exiles themselves love to flatter. But I cannot deceive myself with hopes so delusive In these sad days which promise still sadder days in the future For all the bonds of the world are loosen'd, and nought can rejoin them, Save that supreme necessity over our future impending. If in the house of so worthy a man I can earn my own living, Serving under the eye of his excellent wife, I will do so; For a wandering girl bears not the best reputation. Yes! with you I will go, as soon as I've taken the pitcher Back to my friends, and received the blessing of those worthy people. Come! you needs must see them, and from their hands shall receive me."
977 Joyfully heard the youth the willing maiden's decision, Doubting whether he now had not better tell her the whole truth; But it appear'd to him best to let her remain in her error, First to take her home, and then for her love to entreat her. Ah! but now he espied a golden ring on her finger, And so let her speak, while he attentively listen'd:--
978 "Let us now return," she continued, "the custom is always To admonish the maidens who tarry too long at the fountain, Yet how delightful it is by the fast-flowing water to chatter!" Then they both arose, and once more directed their glances Into the fountain, and then a blissful longing came o'er them.
979 So from the ground by the handles she silently lifted the pitchers, Mounted the steps of the well, and Hermann follow'd the loved one. One of the pitchers he ask'd her to give him, thus sharing the burden. "Leave it," she said, "the weight feels less when thus they are balanced; And the master I've soon to obey, should not be my servant. Gaze not so earnestly at me, as if my fate were still doubtfull! Women should learn betimes to serve, according to station, For by serving alone she attains at last to the mast'ry, To the due influence which she ought to possess in the household. Early the sister must learn to serve her brothers and parents, And her life is ever a ceaseless going and coming, Or a lifting and carrying, working and doing for others. Well for her, if she finds no manner of life too offensive, And if to her the hours of night and of day all the same are, So that her work never seems too mean, her needle too pointed, So that herself she forgets, and liveth only for others! For as a mother in truth she needs the whole of the virtues, When the suckling awakens the sick one, and nourishment calls for From the exhausted parent, heaping cares upon suff'ring. Twenty men together could not endure such a burden, And they ought not,--and yet they gratefully ought to behold it."
980 Thus she spoke, and with her silent companion advanced she Through the garden, until the floor of the granary reach'd they, Where the sick woman lay, whom she left by her daughters attended, Those dear rescued maidens, the types of innocent beauty. Both of them enter'd the room, and from the other direction, Holding a child in each hand, her friend, the magistrate, enter'd. These had lately been lost for some time by the sorrowing mother, But the old man had now found them out in the crowd of the people. And they sprang in with joy, to greet their dearly-loved mother, To rejoice in a brother, the playmate now seen for the first time!
981 Then on Dorothea they sprang, and greeted her warmly, Asking for bread and fruit, but asking for drink before all things. And they handed the water all round. The children first drank some, Then the sick woman drank, with her daughters, the magistrate also. All were refresh'd, and sounded the praise of the excellent water; Mineral was it, and very reviving, and wholesome for drinking.
982 Then with a serious look continued the maiden, and spoke thus Friends, to your mouths for the last time in truth I have lifted the pitcher, And for the last time, alas, have moisten'd your lips with pure water. But whenever in scorching heat your drink may refresh you, And in the shade you enjoy repose and a fountain unsullied, Then remember me, and all my friendly assistance, Which I from love, and not from relationship merely have render'd. All your kindness to me, as long as life lasts, I'll remember, I unwillingly leave you; but each one is now to each other Rather a burden than comfort. We all must shortly be scatter'd Over a foreign land, unless to return we are able. See, here stands the youth to whom for those gifts we're indebted, All those clothes for the child, and all those acceptable viands. Well, he has come, and is anxious that I to his house should go with him, There as a servant to act to his rich and excellent parents, And I have not refused him, for serving appears my vocation, And to be served by others at home would seem like a burden. So I'll go willingly with him; the youth appears to be prudent, Thus will his parents be properly cared for, as rich people should be. Therefore, now, farewell, my much-loved friend, and be joyful In your living infant, who looks so healthily at you. When you press him against your bosom, wrapp'd up in those colourd Swaddling-clothes, then remember the youth who so kindly bestow'd them, And who in future will feed and clothe me also, your loved friend. You too, excellent man," to the magistrate turning, she added "Warmly I thank for so often acting the part of a father."
983 Then she knelt herself down before the lying-in patient, Kiss'd the weeping woman, her whisper'd blessing receiving. Meanwhile the worthy magistrate spoke to Hermann as follows "You deserve, my friend to be counted amongst the good landlords Who are anxious to manage their house through qualified people. For I have often observed how cautiously men are accustom'd Sheep and cattle and horses to watch, when buying or bart'ring But a man, who's so useful, provided he's good and efficient, And who does so much harm and mischief by treacherous dealings, Him will people admit to their houses by chance and haphazard, And too late find reason to rue an o'erhasty decision. This you appear to understand, for a girl you have chosen As your servant, and that of your parents, who thoroughly good is. Treat her well, and as long as she finds the business suit her, You will not miss your sister, your parents will miss not their daughter."
984 Other persons now enter'd, the patient's nearest relations, Many articles bringing, and better lodgings announcing. All were inform'd of the maiden's decision, and warmly bless'd Hermann, Both with significant looks, and also with grateful expressions, And one secretly whispered into the ear of another "If the master should turn to a bridegroom, her home is provided." Hermann then presently took her hand, and address'd her as follows "Let us be going; the day is declining, and far off the village." Then the women, with lively expressions, embraced Dorothea; Hermann drew her away; they still continued to greet her. Next the children, with screams and terrible crying attack'd her, Pulling her clothes, their second mother refusing to part from. But first one of the women, and then another rebuked them "Children, hush! to the town she is going, intending to bring you Plenty of gingerbread back, which your brother already had order'd, From the confectioner, when the stork was passing there lately, And she'll soon return, with papers prettily gilded."
985 So at length the children released her; but scarcely could Hermann Tear her from their embraces and distant-signalling kerchiefs. ----- VIII. MELPOMENE.
HERMANN AND DOROTHEA.
986 So tow'rd the sun, now fast sinking to rest, the two walk'd together, Whilst he veil'd himself deep in clouds which thunder portended. Out-of his veil now here, now there, with fiery glances Beaming over the plain with rays foreboding and lurid. "May this threatening weather," said Hermann, "not bring to us shortly Hail and violent rain, for well does the harvest now promise." And they both rejoiced in the corn so lofty and waving, Well nigh reaching the heads of the two tall figures that walk'd there. Then the maiden spoke to her friendly leader as follows "Generous youth, to whom I shall owe a kind destiny shortly, Shelter and home, when so many poor exiles must weather the tempest, In the first place tell me all about your good parents, Whom I intend to serve with all my soul from hence-forward; Knowing one's master, 'tis easier far to give satisfaction, By rememb'ring the things which he deems of the highest importance, And on which he has set his heart with the greatest decision. Tell me, then, how best I can win your father and mother."
987 Then the good and sensible youth made answer as follows "You are indeed quite right, my kind and excellent maiden, To begin by asking about the tastes of my parents! For I have hitherto striven in vain to satisfy Father, When I look'd after the inn, as well as my regular duty, Working early and late in the field, and tending the vineyard. Mother indeed was contented; she knew how to value my efforts; And she will certainly hold you to be an excellent maiden, If you take care of the house, as though the dwelling your own were. But my father's unlike her; he's fond of outward appearance. Gentle maiden, deem me not cold and void of all feeling, If I disclose my father's nature to you, who're a stranger. Yes, such words have never before escaped, I assure von Out of my mouth, which is little accustom'd to babble and chatter; But you have managed to worm all my secrets from out of my bosom. Well, my worthy father the graces of life holds in honour, Wishes for outward signs of love, as well as of rev'rence, And would doubtless be satisfied with an inferior servant Who understood this fancy, and hate a better, who did not."
988 Cheerfully she replied, with gentle movement increasing Through the darkening path the speed at which she was walking: I in truth shall hope to satisfy both of your parents, For your mother's character my own nature resembles, And to external graces have I from my youth been accustom'd. Our old neighbours, the French, in their earlier days laid much stress on Courteous demeanour; 'twas common alike to nobles and burghers, And to peasants, and each enjoin'd it on all his acquaintance. in the same way, on the side of the Germans, the children were train'd up Every morning, with plenty of kissing of hands and of curtsies, To salute their parents, and always to act with politeness. All that I have learnt, and all I have practised since childhood, All that comes from my heart,--I will practise it all with the old man. But on what terms shall I--I scarcely dare ask such a question,-- Be with yourself, the only son, and hereafter my master?"
989 Thus she spoke, and at that moment they came to the peartree. Down from the skies the moon at her full was shining in glory; Night had arrived, and the last pale gleam of the sunset had vanish'd. So before them were lying, in masses all heap'd up together, Lights as clear as the day, and shadows of night and of darkness. And the friendly question was heard by Hermann with pleasure, Under the shade of the noble tree at the spot which he loved so Which that day had witness'd his tears at the fate of the exile. And whilst they sat themselves down, to take a little repose there, Thus the loving youth spoke, whilst he seized the hand of the maiden "Let your heart give the answer, and always obey what it tells you!" But he ventured to say no more, however propitious Was the moment; he feard that a No would be her sole answer, Ah! and he felt the ring on her finger, that sorrowful token. So by the side of each other they quietly sat and in silence, But the maiden began to speak, and said, "How delightful Is the light of the moon! The clearness of day it resembles. Yonder I see in the town the houses and courtyards quite plainly, In the gable a window; methinks all the panes I can reckon."
990 "That which you see," replied the youth, who spoke with an effort, "That is our house down to which I now am about to conduct you, And that window yonder belongs to my room in the attic, Which will probably soon be yours, as we're making great changes. All these fields are ours, and ripe for the harvest to-morrow; Here in the shade we are wont to rest, enjoying our meal-time. But let us now descend across the vineyard and garden, For observe how the threatening storm is hitherward rolling, Lightening first, and then eclipsing the beautiful full moon." So the pair arose, and wauder'd down by the corn-field,
991 Through the powerful corn, in the nightly clearness rejoicing; And they reach'd the vineyard, and through its dark shadows proceeded. So he guided her down the numerous tiers of the flat stones Which, in an unhewn state, served as steps to the walk through the foliage. Slowly she descended, and placed her hands on his shoulders; And, with a quivering light, the moon through the foliage o'erlook'd them, Till by storm-clouds envelop'd, she left the couple in darkness. Then the strong youth supported the maiden, who on him was leaning; She, however, not knowing the path, or observing the rough steps, Slipp'd as she walk'd, her foot gave way, and she well nigh was falling. Hastily held out his arm the youth with nimbleness thoughtful, And held up his beloved one; she gently sank on his shoulders, Breast was press'd against breast, and cheek against cheek, and so stood he Fix'd like a marble statue, restrained by a firm resolution; He embraced her no closer, thoughall her weight he supported; So he felt his noble burden, the warmth of her bosom, And her balmy breath, against his warm lips exhaling, Bearing with manly feelings the woman's heroical greatness.
992 But she conceal'd the pain which she felt, and jestingly spoke thus "It betokens misfortune,--so scrupulous people inform us,-- For the foot to give way on entering a house, near the threshold. I should have wish'd, in truth, for a sign of some happier omen! Let us tarry a little, for fear your parents should blame you For their limping servant, and you should be thought a bad landlord." ----- IX. URANIA.
CONCLUSION.
993 O YE Muses, who gladly favour a love that is heartfelt, Who on his way the excellent youth have hitherto guided, Who have press'd the maid to his bosom before their betrothal, Help still further to perfect the bonds of a couple so loving, Drive away the clouds which over their happiness hover! But begin by saying what now in the house has been passing.
994 For the third time the mother impatiently enter'd the chamber Where the men were sitting, which she had anxiously quitted, Speaking of the approaching storm, and the loss of the moon's light, Then of her son's long absence, and all the perils that night brings. Strongly she censured their friends for having so soon left the youngster, For not even addressing the maiden, or seeking to woo her.
995 "Make not the worst of the mischief," the father peevishly answer'd; "For you see we are waiting ourselves, expecting the issue."
996 But the neighbour sat still, and calmly address'd them as follows:-- "In uneasy moments like these, I always feel grateful To my late father, who when I was young all seeds of impatience In my mind uprooted, and left no fragment remaining, And I learnt how to wait, as well as the best of the wise men. "Tell us what legerdemain he employ'd," the pastor made answer. "I will gladly inform you, and each one may gain by the lesson," Answer'd the neighbour. "When I was a boy, I was standing one Sunday In a state of impatience, eagerly waiting the carriage Which was to carry us out to the fountain under the lime-trees; But it came not; I ran like a weasel now hither, now thither, Up and down the stairs, and from the door to the window; Both my hands were prickling, I scratch'd away at the tables, Stamping and trotting about, and scarcely refrain'd I from crying. All this the calm man composedly saw; but finally when I Carried my folly too far, by the arm he quietly took me, Led me up to the window, and used this significant language 'See you up yonder the joiner's workshop, now closed for the Sunday? 'Twill be re-open'd to-morrow, and plane and saw will be working. Thus will the busy hours be pass'd from morning till evening. But remember this: the rimming will soon be arriving, When the master, together with all his men, will be busy In preparing and finishing quickly and deftly your coffin, And they will carefully bring over here that house made of boards, which Will at length receive the patient as well as impatient, And which is destined to carry a roof that's unpleasantly heavy. All that he mention'd I forthwith saw taking place in my mind's eye, Saw the boards join'd together, and saw the black cover made ready, Patiently then I sat, and meekly awaited the carriage. And I always think of the coffin whenever I see men Running about in a state of doubtful and wild expectation."
997 Smilingly answered the pastor:--"Death's stirring image is neither Unto the wise a cause of alarm,--or an end to the pious. Back into life it urges the former, and teaches him action, And, for the weal of the latter, it strengthens his hope in affliction. Death is a giver of life unto both. Your father did wrongly When to the sensitive boy he pointed out death in its own form. Unto the youth should be shown the worth of a noble and ripen'd Age, and unto the old man, youth, that both may rejoice in The eternal circle, and life may in life be made perfect!"
998 Here the door was open'd. The handsome couple appear'd there, And the friends were amazed, the loving parents astonish'd At the form of the bride, the form of the bridegroom resembling. Yes! the door appear'd too small to admit the tall figures Which now cross'd the threshold, in company walking together. To his parents Hermann presented her, hastily saying:-- "Here is a maiden just of the sort you are wishing to have here, Welcome her kindly, dear father! she fully deserves it, and you too, Mother dear, ask her questions as to her housekeeping knowledge, That you may see how well she deserves to form one of our party." Then he hastily took on one side the excellent pastor, Saying:--" Kind sir, I entreat you to help me out of this trouble Quickly, and loosen the knot, whose unravelling I am so dreading; For I have not ventured to woo as my bride the fair maiden, But she believes she's to be a maid in the house, and I fear me She will in anger depart, as soon as we talk about marriage. But it must be decided at once! no longer in error Shall she remain, and I no longer this doubt can put up with. Hasten and once more exhibit that wisdom we all hold in honour." So the pastor forthwith turn'd round to the rest of the party, But the maiden's soul was, unhappily, troubled already By the talk of the father, who just had address'd her as follows, Speaking good humour'dly, and in accents pleasant and lively "Yes, I'm well satisfied, child! I joyfully see that my son has Just as good taste as his father, who in his younger days show'd it, Always leading the fairest one out in the dance, and then lastly Taking the fairest one home as his wife--'twas your dear little mother! For by the bride whom a man selects, we may easily gather What kind of spirit his is, and whether he knows his own value. But you will surely need but a short time to form your decision, For I verily think he will find it full easy to follow." Hermann but partially heard the words; the whole of his members Inwardly quivered, and all the circle were suddenly silent.
999 But the excellent maiden, by words of such irony wounded, (As she esteem'd them to be) and deeply distress'd in her spirit, Stood, while a passing flush from her cheeks as far as her neck was Spreading, but she restrain'd herself, and collected her thoughts soon; Then to the old man she said, not fully concealing her sorrow "Truly I was not prepared by your son for such a reception, When he described his father's nature,--that excellent burgher, And I know I am standing before you, a person of culture, Who behaves himself wisely to all, in a suitable manner. But it would seem that you feel not pity enough for the poor thing Who has just cross'd your threshold, prepared to enter your service Else you would not seek to point out, with ridicule bitter, How far removed my lot from your son's and that of yourself is. True, with a little bundle, and poor, I have enter'd your dwelling, Which it is the owner's delight to furnish with all things. But I know myself well, and feel the whole situation. Is it generous thus to greet me with language so jeering, Which was well nigh expelled me the house, when just on the threshold?"
1000 Hermann uneasily moved about, and signed to the pastor To interpose without delay, and clear up the error. Quickly the wise man advanced to the spot, and witness'd the maiden's Silent vexation and tearful eyes and scarce-restrain'd sorrow. Then his spirit advised him to solve not at once the confusion, But, on the contrary, prove the excited mind of the maiden. So, in words framed to try her, the pastor address'd her as follows:-- "Surely, my foreign maiden, you did not fully consider, When you made up your mind to serve a stranger so quickly, What it really is to enter the house of a master; For a shake of the hand decides your fate for a twelvemonth, And a single word Yes to much endurance will bind you. But the worst part of the service is not the wearisome habits, Nor the bitter toil of the work, which seems never-ending; For the active freeman works hard as well as the servant. But to suffer the whims of the master, who blames you unjustly, Or who calls for this and for that, not knowing his own mind, And the mistress's violence, always so easily kindled, With the children's rough and supercilious bad manners,-- This is indeed hard to bear, whilst still fulfilling your duties Promptly and actively, never becoming morose or ill-natured; Yet for such work you appear little fit, for already the father's Jokes have offended you deeply; yet nothing more commonly happens Than to tease a maiden about her liking a youngster." Thus he spoke, and the maiden felt the weight of his language, And no more restrain'd herself; mightily all her emotions Show'd themselves, her bosom heaved, and a deep sigh escaped her, And whilst shedding burning tears, she answer'd as follows:-- "Ne'er does the clever man, who seeks to advise us in sorrow, Think how little his chilling words our hearts can deliver From the pangs which an unseen destiny fastens upon us. You are happy and merry. How then should a jest ever wound you? But the slightest touch gives torture to those who are suff'ring. Even dissimulation would nothing avail me at present. Let me at once disclose what later would deepen my sorrow, And consign me perchance to agony mute and consuming. Let me depart forthwith! No more in this house dare I linger; I must hence and away, and look once more for my poor friends Whom I left in distress, when seeking to better my fortunes. This is my firm resolve; and now I may properly tell you That which had else been buried for many a year in my bosom. Yes, the father's jest has wounded me deeply, I own it, Not that I'm proud and touchy, as ill becometh a servant, But because in truth in my heart a feeling has risen For the youth, who to-day has fill'd the part of my Saviour. For when first in the road he left me, his image remain'd still Firmly fix'd in my mind; and I thought of the fortunate maiden Whom, as his betroth'd one, he cherish'd perchance in his bosom. And when I found him again at the well, the sight of him charm'd me Just as if I had-seen an angel descending from heaven. And I follow'd him willingly, when as a servant he sought me, But by my heart in truth I was flatter'd (I need must confess it), As I hitherward came, that I might possibly win him, If I became in the house an indispensable pillar. But, alas, I now see the dangers I well nigh fell into, When I bethought me of living so near a silently-loved one. Now for the first time I feel how far removed a poor maiden Is from a richer youth, however clever she may be. I have told you all this, that you my heart may mistake not, Which an event that in thought I foreshadow has wounded already. For I must have expected, my secret wishes concealing, That, ere much time had elapsed, I should see him bringing his bride home. And how then could I have endured my hidden affliction! Happily I am warn'd in time, and out of my bosom Has my secret escaped, whilst curable still is the evil. But no more of the subject! I now must tarry no longer In this house, where I now am standing in pain and confusion, All my foolish hopes and my feelings freely confessing. Not the night which, with sinking clouds, is spreading around us, Not the rolling thunder (I hear it already) shall stop me, Not the falling rain, which outside is descending in torrents, Not the blustering storm. All this I had to encounter In that sorrowful flight, while the enemy follow'd behind Us. And once more I go on my way, as I long have been wont to, Seized by the whirlpool of time, and parted from all that I care for. So farewell! I'll tarry no longer. My fate is accomplish'd!"
1001 Thus she spoke, and towards the door she hastily turn'd her, Holding under her arm the bundle she brought when arriving. But the mother seized by both of her arms the fair maiden, Clasping her round the body, and cried with surprise and amazement "Say, what signifies this? These fruitless tears, what denote they? No, I'll not leave you alone! You're surely my dear son's betroth'd one!" But the father stood still, and show'd a great deal of reluctance, Stared at the weeping girl, and peevishly spoke then as follows "This, then, is all the indulgence my friends are willing to give me, That at the close of the day the most unpleasant thing happens! For there is nothing I hate so much as the tears of a woman, And their passionate cries, set up with such heat and excitement, Which a little plain sense would show to be utterly needless. Truly, I find the sight of these whimsical doings a nuisance. Matters must shift for themselves; as for me, I think it is bed-time." So he quickly turn'd round, and hasten'd to go to the chamber Where the marriage-bed stood, in which he slept for the most part. But his son held him back, and spoke in words of entreaty "Father, don't go in a hurry, and be not amniote with the maiden! I alone have to bear the blame of all this confusion, Which our friend has increased by his unexpected dissembling. Speak then, honour'd Sir! for to you the affair I confided; Heap not up pain and annoyance, but rather complete the whole matter; For I surely in future should not respect you so highly, If you play practical jokes, instead of displaying true wisdom."
1002 Thereupon the worthy pastor smilingly answer'd "What kind of wisdom could have extracted the charming confession Of this good maiden, and so have reveal'd all her character to us? Is not your care converted at once to pleasure and rapture? Speak out, then, for yourself! Why need explanations from others Hermann then stepped forward, and gently address'd her as follows "Do not repent of your tears, nor yet of your passing affliction; For they perfect my happiness; yours too, I fain would consider. I came not to the fountain, to hire so noble a maiden As a servant, I came to seek to win you affections. But, alas! my timid gaze had not strength to discover Your heart's leanings; it saw in your eye but a friendly expression, When you greeted it out of the tranquil fountain's bright mirror. Merely to bring you home, made half of my happiness certain But you now make it complete! May every blessing be yours, then!" Then the maiden look'd on the youth with heartfelt emotion, And avoided not kiss or embrace, the summit of rapture, When they also are to the loving the long-wish'd-for pledges Of approaching bliss in a life which now seems to them endless. Then the pastor told the others the whole of the story; But the maiden came and gracefully bent o'er the father, Kissing the while his hand, which he to draw back attempted. And she said:--" I am sure that you will forgive the surprised one, First for her tears of sorrow, and then for her tears of true rapture. O forgive the emotions by which they both have been prompted, And let me fully enjoy the bliss that has now been vouchsafed me! Let the first vexation, which my confusion gave rise to, Also be the last! The loving service which lately Was by the servant promised, shall now by the daughter be render'd."
1003 And the father, his tears concealing, straightway embraced her; Lovingly came the mother in turn, and heartily kiss'd her, Warmly shaking her hand; and silently wept they together. Then in a hasty manner, the good and sensible pastor Seized the hand of the father, his wedding-ring off from his finger Drawing (not easily though; so plump was the member that held it) Then he took the mother's ring, and betroth'd the two children, Saying:--"Once more may it be these golden hoops' destination Firmly to fasten a bond altogether resembling the old one! For this youth is deeply imbued with love for the maiden, And the maiden confesses that she for the youth has a liking. Therefore, I now betroth you, and wish you all blessings hereafter, With the parents' consent, and with our friend here as a witness."
1004 And the neighbour bent forward, and added his own benediction; But when the clergyman placed the gold ring on the hand of the maiden, He with astonishment saw the one which already was on it, And which Hermann before at the fountain had anxiously noticed. Whereupon he spoke in words at once friendly and jesting "What! You are twice engaging yourself? I hope that the first one May not appear at the altar, unkindly forbidding the banns there!"
1005 But she said in reply:--"O let me devote but one moment To this mournful remembrance! For well did the good youth deserve it, Who, when departing, presented the ring, but never return'd home. All was by him foreseen, when freedom's love of a sudden, And a desire to play his part in the new-found Existence, Drove him to go to Paris, where prison and death were his portion. 'Farewell,' said he, 'I go; for all things on earth are in motion At this moment, and all things appear in a state of disunion. Fundamental laws in the steadiest countries are loosen'd, And possessions are parted from those who used to possess them, Friends are parted from friends, and love is parted from love too. I now leave you here, and whether I ever shall see you Here again,--who can tell? Perchance these words will our last be. Man is a stranger here upon earth, the proverb informs us; Every person has now become more a stranger than ever. Ours the soil is no longer; our treasures are fast flying from us; All the sacred old vessels of gold and silver are melted, All is moving, as though the old-fashion'd world would roll backwards Into chaos and night, in order anew to be fashion'd. You of my heart have possession, and if we shall ever here-after Meet again over the wreck of the world, it will be as new creatures, All remodell'd and free and independent of fortune; For what fetters can bind down those who survive such a period! But if we are destined not to escape from these dangers, If we are never again to embrace each other with raptures O then fondly keep in your thoughts my hovering image, That you may be prepared with like courage for good and ill fortune! If a new home or a new alliance should chance to allure you, Then enjoy with thanks whatever your destiny offers, Purely loving the loving, and grateful to him who thus loves you. But remember always to tread with a circumspect footstep, For the fresh pangs of a second loss will behind you be lurking. Deem each day as sacred; but value not life any higher Than any other possession, for all possessions are fleeting.' Thus he spoke; and the noble youth and I parted for ever: Meanwhile I ev'rything lost, and a thousand times thought of his warning. Once more I think of his words, now that love is sweetly preparing Happiness for me anew, and the brightest of hopes is unfolding. Pardon me, dearest friend, for trembling e'en at the moment When I am clasping your arm! For thus, on first landing, the sailor Fancies that even the solid ground is shaking beneath him."
1006 Thus she spoke, and she placed the rings by the side of each other. But the bridegroom answer'd, with noble and manly emotion "All the firmer, amidst the universal disruption, Be, Dorothea, our union! We'll show ourselves bold and enduring, Firmly hold our own, and firmly retain our possessions. For the man who in wav'ring times is inclined to be wav'ring Only increases the evil, and spreads it wider and wider; But the man of firm decision the universe fashions. 'Tis not becoming the Germans to further this fearful commotion, And in addition to waver uncertainly hither and thither. 'This is our own!' we ought to say, and so to maintain it! For the world will ever applaud those resolute nations Who for God and the Law, their wives, and parents, and children Struggle, and fall when contending against the foeman together. You are mine; and now what is mine, is mine more than ever. Not with anxiety will I preserve it, or timidly use it, But with courage and strength. And if the enemy threaten Now or hereafter, I'll hold myself ready, and reach down my weapons. If I know that the house and my parents by you are protected, I shall expose my breast to the enemy, void of all terror; And if all others thought thus, then might against might should be measured, And in the early prospect of peace we should all be rejoicing."
1007 1796Ä7. ----- WEST-EASTERN DIVAN. ----- Who the song would understand, Needs must seek the song's own land. Who the minstrel understand, Needs must seek the minstrel's land. -----
1008 The Poems comprised in this collection are written in the Persian style, and are greatly admired by Oriental scholars, for the truthfulness with which the Eastern spirit of poetry is reproduced by the Western minstrel. They were chiefly composed between the years 1814 and 1819, and first given to the world in the latter year. Of the twelve books into which they are divided, that of Suleika will probably be considered the best, from the many graceful love-songs which it contains. The following is Hanoi's account of the Divan, and may well serve as a substitute for anything I could say respecting it:--
1009 It contains opinions and sentiments on the East, expressed in a series of rich cantos and stanzas full of sweetness and spirit, and all this as enchanting as a harem emitting the most delicious and rare perfumes, and blooming with exquisitely-lovely nymphs with eyebrows painted black, eyes piercing as those of the antelope, arms white as alabaster, and of the most graceful and perfectly-formed shapes, while the heart of the reader beats and grows faint, as did that of the happy Gaspard Debaran, the clown, who, when on the highest step of his ladder, was enabled to peep into the Seraglio of Constantinople--that recess concealed from the inspection of man. Sometimes also the reader may imagine himself indolently stretched on a carpet of Persian softness, luxuriously smoking the yellow tobacco of Turkistan through a long tube of jessamine and amber, while a black slave fans him with a fan of peacock's feathers, and a little boy presents him with a cup of genuine Mocha. Goethe has put these enchanting and voluptuous customs into poetry, and his verses are so perfect, so harmonious, so tasteful, so soft, that it seems really surprising that he should ever have been able to have brought the German language to this state of suppleness. The charm of the book is inexplicable; it is a votive nosegay sent from the West to the East, composed of the most precious and curious plants: red roses, hortensias like the breast of a spotless maiden, purple digitalis like the long finger of a man, fantastically formed ranunculi, and in the midst of all, silent and tastefully concealed, a tuft of German violets. This nosegay signifies that the West is tired of thin and icy-cold spirituality, and seeks warmth in the strong and healthy bosom of the East."
1010 Translations are here given of upwards of sixty of the best Poems embraced in the Divan, the number in the original exceeding two hundred. ----- I. MORGAGNI NAME.
BOOK OF THE MINSTREL.
TALISMANS.
1011 God is of the east possess'd, God is ruler of the west; North and south alike, each land Rests within His gentle hand. ----- HE, the only righteous one, Wills that right to each be done. 'Mongst His hundred titles, then, Highest praised be this!--Amen. ----- ERROR seeketh to deceive me, Thou art able to retrieve me; Both in action and in song Keep my course from going wrong.
1012 1819.* ----- THE FOUR FAVOURS.
1013 THAT Arabs through the realms of space
1014 May wander on, light-hearted, Great Allah hath, to all their race,
1015 Four favours meet imparted.
1016 The turban first--that ornament
1017 All regal crowns excelling; A light and ever-shifting tent,
1018 Wherein to make our dwelling;
1019 A sword, which, more than rocks and walls
1020 Doth shield us, brightly glistening; A song that profits and enthrall,
1021 For which the maids are list'ning!
1022 1814. ----- DISCORD.
1023 WHEN by the brook his strain
1024 Cupid is fluting, And on the neighboring plain
1025 Mayors disputing, There turns the ear ere long,
1026 Loving and tender, Yet to the noise a song
1027 Soon must surrender. Loud then the flute-notes glad
1028 Sound 'mid war's thunder; If I grow raving mad,
1029 Is it a wonder? Flutes sing and trumpets bray,
1030 Waxing yet stronger; If, then, my senses stray,
1031 Wonder no longer.
1032 1814. ----- SONG AND STRUCTURE.
1033 LET the Greek his plastic clay
1034 Mould in human fashion, While his own creation may
1035 Wake his glowing passion;
1036 But it is our joy to court
1037 Great Euphrates' torrent, Here and there at will to sport
1038 In the Wat'ry current.
1039 Quench'd I thus my spirit's flame,
1040 Songs had soon resounded; Water drawn by bards whose fame
1041 Pure is, may be rounded.+
1042 1819.* (+ This oriental belief in the power of the pure to roll-up water into a crystal hail is made the foundation of the Interesting Pariah Legend, that will be found elsewhere amongst the Ballads.) ----- II. HAFIS NAME.
BOOK OF HAFIS.
1043 Spirit let us bridegroom call,
1044 And the word the bride; Known this wedding is to all
1045 Who have Hafis tried.
1046 THE UNLIMITED.
1047 THAT thou can't never end, doth make thee great, And that thou ne'er beginnest, is thy fate. Thy song is changeful as yon starry frame, End and beginning evermore the same; And what the middle bringeth, but contains What was at first, and what at last remains. Thou art of joy the true and minstrel-source, From thee pours wave on wave with ceaseless force. A mouth that's aye prepared to kiss,
1048 A breast whence flows a loving song, A throat that finds no draught amiss,
1049 An open heart that knows no wrong.
1050 And what though all the world should sink!
1051 Hafis, with thee, alone with thee
1052 Will I contend! joy, misery,
1053 The portion of us twain shall be; Like thee to love, like thee to drink,--
1054 This be my pride,--this, life to me!
1055 Now, Song, with thine own fire be sung,-- For thou art older, thou more young!
1056 1817.* ----- TO HAFIS.
1057 HAFIS, straight to equal thee,
1058 One would strive in vain; Though a ship with majesty
1059 Cleaves the foaming main, Feels its sails swell haughtily
1060 As it onward hies Crush'd by ocean's stern decree,
1061 Wrecked it straightway lies. Tow'rd thee, songs, light, graceful, free,
1062 Mount with cooling gush; Then their glow consumeth me,
1063 As like fire they rush. Yet a thought with ecstasy
1064 Hath my courage moved; In the land of melody
1065 I have lived and loved.
1066 1815. ----- III. USCHK NAME.
BOOK OF LOVE.
THE TYPES.
1067 List, and in memory bear These six fond loving pair. Love, when aroused, kept true Rustan and Rad! Strangers approach from far Joseph and Suleika; Love, void of hope, is in Ferhad and Schirin. Born for each other are Medschnun and Lily; Loving, though old and grey, Dschemil saw Boteinah. Love's sweet caprice anon, Brown maid + and Solomon! If thou dost mark them well, Stronger thy love will swell.
1068 1817.* (+ Brown maid is the Queen of Sheba.) ----- ONE PAIR MORE.
1069 LOVE is indeed a glorious prize! What fairer guerdon meets our eyes?-- Though neither wealth nor power are thine, A very hero thou dost shine. As of the prophet, they will tell, Wamik and Asia's tale as well.-- They'll tell not of them,--they'll but give Their names, which now are all that live. The deeds they did, the toils they proved No mortal knows! But that they loved This know we. Here's the story true Of Wamik and of Asia too.
1070 1827.* ----- LOVE's torments sought a place of rest,
1071 Where all might drear and lonely be; They found ere long my desert breast,
1072 And nestled in its vacancy.
1073 1827.* ----- IV. TEFKIR NAME.
BOOK OF CONTEMPLATION.
FIVE THINGS.
1074 What makes time short to me?
1075 Activity! What makes it long and spiritless?
1076 'Tis idleness! What brings us to debt?
1077 To delay and forget! What makes us succeed?
1078 Decision with speed How to fame to ascend?
1079 Oneself to defend!
1080 1814 ----- FOR woman due allowance make!
1081 Form'd of a crooked rib was she,--
1082 By Heaven she could not straightened be. Attempt to bend her, and she'll break; If left alone, more crooked grows madam; What well could be worse, my good friend, Adam?-- For woman due allowance make; 'Twere grievous, if thy rib should break!
1083 1819.* ----- FIRDUSI (Speaks).
1084 OH world, with what baseness and guilt thou art rife!
1085 Thou nurtures, trainest, and illest the while.
1086 He only whom Allah doth bless with his smile Is train'd and is nurtured with riches and life.
1089.* ----- SULEIKA (Speaks).
1090 THE mirror tells me, I am fair!
1091 Thou sayest, to grow old my fate will be. Nought in God's presence changeth e'er,--
1092 Love him, for this one moment, then, in me.
1093 1819.* ----- V. RENDSCH NAME
BOOK OF GLOOM.
1094 It is a fault oneself to praise,
1095 And yet 'tis done by each whose deeds are kind; And if there's no deceit in what he says,
1096 The good we still as good shall find.
1097 Let, then, ye fools, that wise man taste
1098 Of joy, who fancies that he s wise, That he, a fool like you, may waste
1099 Th' insipid thanks the world supplies.
1100 1816. ----- VI. HIKMET NAME.
BOOK OF PROVERBS.
1101 Call on the present day and night for nought, Save what by yesterday was brought. ----- THE sea is flowing ever, The land retains it never. ----- BE stirring, man, while yet the day is clear; The night when none can work fast Draweth near. ----- WHEN the heavy-laden sigh, Deeming help and hope gone by, Oft, with healing power is heard, Comfort-fraught, a kindly word. ----- How vast is mine inheritance, how glorious and sublime! For time mine own possession is, the land I till is time! ----- UNWARY saith,--ne'er lived a man more true; The deepest heart, the highest head he knew,-- "In ev'ry place and time thou'lt find availing Uprightness, judgment, kindliness unfailing." ----- THOUGH the bards whom the Orient sun bath bless'd Are greater than we who dwell in the west, Yet in hatred of those whom our equals we find. In this we're not in the least behind. -----
1102 WOULD we let our envy burst,
1103 Feed its hunger fully first! To keep our proper place,
1104 We'll show our bristles more; With hawks men all things chase,
1105 Except the savage boar. ----- BY those who themselves more bravely have fought A hero's praise will be joyfully told. The worth of man can only be taught By those who have suffer'd both heat and cold. ----- "WHEREFORE is truth so far from our eyes, Buried as though in a distant land?" None at the proper moment are wise!
1106 Could they properly understand,
1107 Truth would appear in her own sweet guise, Beauteous, gentle, and close at hand. ----- WHY these inquiries make,
1108 Where charity may flow? Cast in the flood thy cake,--
1109 Its eater, who will know? ----- ONCE when I a spider had kill'd,
1110 Then methought: wast right or wrong?
1111 That we both to these times should belong, This had God in His goodness willed. ----- MOTLEY this congregation is, for, lo! At the communion kneel both friend and foe. ----- IF the country I'm to show, Thou must on the housetop go. ----- A MAN with households twain
1112 Ne'er finds attention meet, A house wherein two women reign
1113 Is ne'er kept clean and neat. ----- BLESS, thou dread Creator,
1114 Bless this humble fane; Man may build them greater,--
1115 More they'll not contain. ----- LET this house's glory rise,
1116 Handed to far ages down,
1117 And the son his honour prize. As the father his renown. ----- O'ER the Mediterranean sea
1118 Proudly hath the Orient sprung; Who loves Hafis and knows him, he
1119 Knows what Caldron hath sung. ----- IF the ass that bore the Saviour
1120 Were to Mecca driven, he
1121 Would not alter, but would be Still an ass in his behavior. ----- THE flood of passion storms with fruitless strife
1122 'Gainst the unvanquished solid land.--
1123 It throws poetic pearls upon the strand, And thus is gain'd the prize of life. ----- WHEN so many minstrels there are,
1124 How it pains me, alas, to know it! Who from the earth drives poetry far?
1125 Who but the poet! ----- VII. TIMUR NAME.
BOOK OF TIMUR.
THE WINTER AND TIMUR.
1126 So the winter now closed round them With resistless fury. Scattering Over all his breath so icy, He inflamed each wind that blithe To assail them angrily. Over them he gave dominion To his frost-unsharpened tempests; Down to Timur's council went he, And with threat'ning voice address'd him:-- "Softly, slowly, wretched being! Live, the tyrant of injustice; But shall hearts be scorch'd much longer By thy flames,--consume before them? If amongst the evil spirits Thou art one,--good! I'm another. Thou a greybeard art--so I am; Land and men we make to stiffen. Thou art Mars! And I Saturnus,-- Both are evil-working planets, When united, horror-fraught. Thou dost kill the soul, thou freezes E'en the atmosphere; still colder Is my breath than thine was ever. Thy wild armies vex the faithful With a thousand varying torments; Well! God grant that I discover Even worse, before I perish! And by God, I'll give thee none. Let God hear what now I tell thee! Yes, by God! from Death's cold clutches Nought, O greybeard, shall protect thee, Not the hearth's broad coalfire's ardour, Not December's brightest flame."
1127 1814. ----- TO SULEIKA.
1128 FITTING perfumes to prepare,
1129 And to raise thy rapture high, Must a thousand rosebuds fair
1130 First in fiery torments die.
1131 One small flask's contents to glean,
1132 Whose sweet fragrance aye may live, Slender as thy finger e'en,
1133 Must a world its treasures give;
1134 Yes, a world where life is moving,
1135 Which, with impulse full and strong, Could forbode the Bulbul's loving,
1136 Sweet, and spirit-stirring song.
1137 Since they thus have swell'd our joy,
1138 Should such torments grieve us, then? Doth not Timur's rule destroy
1139 Myriad souls of living men?
1140 1815.* ----- VIII. SULEIKA NAME.
BOOK OF SULEIKA.
1141 Once, methought, in the night hours cold,
1142 That I saw the moon in my sleep; But as soon as I waken'd, behold
1143 Unawares rose the sun from the deep.
1144 THAT Suleika's love was so strong
1145 For Joseph, need cause no surprise;
1146 He was young, youth pleaseth the eyes,--
1147 He was fair, they say, beyond measure
1148 Fair was she, and so great was their pleasure. But that thou, who awaitedst me long, Youthful glances of fire dost throw me, Soon wilt bless me, thy love now dost show me, This shall my joyous numbers proclaim, Thee I for ever Suleika shall name.
1149 1815. ----- HATEM.
1150 NOT occasion makes the thief;
1151 She's the greatest of the whole; For Love's relics, to my grief,
1152 From my aching heart she stole.
1153 She hath given it to thee,--
1154 All the joy my life had known, So that, in my poverty,
1155 Life I seek from thee alone.
1156 Yet compassion greets me straight
1157 In the lustre of thine eye, And I bless my newborn fate,
1158 As within thine arms I lie.
1159 1815. ----- SULEIKA.
1160 The sun appears! A glorious sight!
1161 The crescent-moon clings round him now. What could this wondrous pair unite?
1162 How to explain this riddle? How?
HATEM.
1163 May this our joy's foreboder prove!
1164 In it I view myself and thee; Thou calmest me thy sun, my love,--
1165 Come, my sweet moon, cling thou round me!
1166 1815. ----- LOVE for love, and moments sweet,
1167 Lips returning kiss for kiss, Word for word, and eyes that meet;
1168 Breath for breath, and bliss for bliss. Thus at eve, and thus the morrow!
1169 Yet thou feeblest, at my lay, Ever some half-hidden sorrow; Could I Joseph's graces borrow,
1170 All thy beauty I'd repay!
1171 1815. ----- HATEM.
1172 O, SAY, 'neath what celestial sign
1173 The day doth lie, When ne'er again this heart of mine
1174 Away will fly? And e'en though fled (what thought divine!)
1175 Would near me lie?-- On the soft couch, on whose sweet shrine
1176 My heart near hers will lie!
1177 1816. ----- HATEM.
1178 HOLD me, locks, securely caught
1179 In the circle of her face! Dear brown serpents, I have nought
1180 To repay this act of grace,
1181 Save a heart whose love ne'er dies,
1182 Throbbing with aye-youthful glow; For a raging ETA lies
1183 'Neath its veil of mist and snow.
1184 Yonder mountain's stately brow
1185 Thou, like morning beams, dost shame; Once again feels Hatem now
1186 Spring's soft breath and summer's flame.
1187 One more bumper! Fill the glass;
1188 This last cup I pledge to thee!-- By mine ashes if she pass,
1189 "He consumed," she'll say, "for me."
1190 1815. ----- THE LOVING ONE SPEAKS.
1191 AND wherefore sends not The horseman-captain His heralds hither
1192 Each day, unfailing? Yet hath he horses, He writes well.
1193 He waiteth Tali, And Neski knows he To write with beauty On silken tablets. I'd deem him present, Had I his words.
1194 The sick One will not, Will not recover From her sweet sorrow; She, when she heareth That her true lover Grows well, falls sick.
1195 1819.* ----- THE LOVING ONE AGAIN.
1196 WRITES he in Neski, Faithfully speaks he; Writes he in Tali, Joy to give, seeks he: Writes he in either, Good!--for he loves!
1197 1819.* ----- THESE tufted branches fair
1198 Observe, my loved one, well! And see the fruits they bear
1199 In green and prickly shell!
1200 They've hung roll'd up, till now,
1201 Unconsciously and still; A loosely-waving bough
1202 Doth rock them at its will.
1203 Yet, ripening from within.
1204 The kernel brown swells fast; It seeks the air to win,
1205 It seeks the sun at last.
1206 With joy it bursts its thrall,
1207 The shell must needs give way. 'Tis thus my numbers fall
1208 Before thy feet, each day.
1209 1815. ----- SULEIKA.
1210 WHAT is by this stir reveal'd?
1211 Doth the East glad tidings bring? For my heart's deep wounds are heal'd
1212 By his mild and cooling wing.
1213 He the dust with sports doth meet,
1214 And in gentle cloudlets chase; To the vineleaf's safe retreat
1215 Drives the insects' happy race,
1216 Cools these burning cheeks of mine,
1217 Checks the sun's fierce glow Adam, Kisses, as he flies, the vine,
1218 Flaunting over hill and plain.
1219 And his whispers soft convey
1220 Thousand greetings from my friend; Ere these hills own night's dark sway,
1221 Kisses greet me, without end.
1222 Thus canst thou still onward go,
1223 Serving friend and mourner too! There, where lofty ramparts glow,
1224 Soon the loved one shall I view.
1225 Ah, what makes the heart's truth known,--
1226 Love's sweet breath,--a newborn life,-- Learn I from his mouth alone,
1227 In his breath alone is rife!
1228 1815. ----- THE SUBLIME TYPE.
1229 THE sun, whom Grecians Helms call,
1230 His heavenly path with pride doth tread, And, to subdue the world's wide all,
1231 Looks round, beneath him, high o'er head.
1232 He sees the fairest goddess pine,
1233 Heaven's child, the daughter of the clouds,-- For her alone he seems to shine;
1234 In trembling grief his form he shrouds,
1235 Careless for all the realms of bliss,--
1236 Her streaming tears more swiftly flow: For every pearl he gives a kiss,
1237 And changeth into joy her woe.
1238 She gazeth upward fixedly,
1239 And deeply feels his glance of might, While, stamped with his own effigy,
1240 Each pearl would range itself aright.
1241 Thus wreath'd with bows, with hues thus grac'd,
1242 With gladness beams her face so fair, While he, to meet her, maketh haste,
1243 And yet, alas! can reach her ne'er.
1244 So, by the harsh decree of Fate,
1245 Thou modest from me, dearest one; And were I Helms e'en, the Great,
1246 What would avail his chariot-throne?
1247 1815. ----- SULEIKA.
1248 ZEPHYR, for thy humid wing,
1249 Oh, how much I envy thee! Thou to him canst tidings bring
1250 How our parting saddens me!
1251 In my breast, a yearning still
1252 As thy pinions wave, appears; Flow'rs and eyes, and wood, and hill
1253 At thy breath are steeped in tears.
1254 Yet thy mild wing gives relief,
1255 Soothes the aching eyelid's pain; Ah, I else had died for grief,
1256 Him ne'er hoped to see again.
1257 To my love, then, quick repair,
1258 Whisper softly to his heart; Yet, to give him pain, beware,
1259 Nor my bosom's pangs impart.
1260 Tell him, but in accents coy,
1261 That his love must be my life; Both, with feelings fraught with joy,
1262 In his presence will be rife.
1263 1815. ----- THE REUNION.
1264 CAN it be! of stars the star,
1265 Do I press thee to my heart? In the night of distance far,
1266 What deep gulf, what bitter smart! Yes, 'tis thou, indeed, at last,
1267 Of my joys the partner dear! Mindful, though, of sorrows past,
1268 I the present needs must fear.
1269 When the still-unfashion'd earth
1270 Lay on God's eternal breast, He ordain'd its hour of birth,
1271 With creative joy possess'd. Then a heavy sigh arose,
1272 When He spake the sentence:--"Be!" And the All, with mighty throes,
1273 Burst into reality.
1274 And when thus was born the light,
1275 Darkness near it fear'd to stay, And the elements with might
1276 Fled on every side away; Each on some far-distant trace,
1277 Each with visions wild employ, Numb, in boundless realm of space,
1278 Harmony and feeling-void.
1279 Dumb was all, all still and dead,
1280 For the first time, God alone! Then He form'd the morning-red,
1281 Which soon made its kindness known: It unravelled from the waste,
1282 Bright and glowing harmony, And once more with love was grac'd
1283 What contended formerly.
1284 And with earnest, noble strife,
1285 Each its own Peculiar sought; Back to full, unbounded life
1286 Sight and feeling soon were brought. Wherefore, if 'tis done, explore
1287 How? why give the manner, name? Allah need create no more,
1288 We his world ourselves can frame.
1289 So, with morning pinions bright,
1290 To thy mouth was I impell'd; Stamped with thousand seals by night,
1291 Star-clear is the bond fast held. Paragons on earth are we
1292 Both of grief and joy sublime, And a second sentence:--"Be!"
1293 Parts us not a second time.
1294 1815. ----- SULEIKA.
1295 With what inward joy, sweet lay,
1296 I thy meaning have descried! Lovingly thou seem'st to say
1297 That I'm ever by his side;
1298 That he ever thinks of me,
1299 That he to the absent gives All his love's sweet ecstasy,
1300 While for him alone she lives.
1301 Yes, the mirror which reveals
1302 Thee, my loved one, is my breast; This the bosom, where thy seals
1303 Endless kisses have impress'd.
1304 Numbers sweet, unsullied truth,
1305 Chain me down in sympathy! Love's embodied radiant youth,
1306 In the garb of poesy!
1307 1819.* ----- IN thousand forms mayst thou attempt surprise,
1308 Yet, all-beloved-one, straight know I thee; Thou mayst with magic veils thy face disguise,
1309 And yet, all-present-one, straight know I thee.
1310 Upon the cypress' purest, youthful bud,
1311 All-beauteous-growing-one, straight know I thee; In the canal's unsullied, living flood,
1312 All-captivating-one, well know I thee.
1313 When spreads the water-column, rising proud,
1314 All-sportive one, how gladly know I thee; When, e'en in forming, is transform'd the cloud,
1315 All-figure-changing-one, there know I thee.
1316 Veil in the meadow-carpet's flowery charms,
1317 All-checkered-starry-fair-one, know I thee; And if a plant extend its thousand arms,
1318 O, all-embracing-one, there know I thee.
1319 When on the mount is kindled morn's sweet light,
1320 Straightway, all-gladdening-one, salute I thee, The arch of heaven o'er head grows pure and bright,--
1321 All-heart-expanding-one, then breathe I thee.
1322 That which my inward, outward sense proclaims,
1323 Thou all-instructing-one, I know through thee; And if I utter Allah's hundred names,
1324 A name with each one echoes, meant for thee.
1325 1819.* ----- IX. SAKE NAME.
THE CONVIVIAL BOOK.
1326 Can the Koran from Eternity be?
1327 'Tis worth not a thought! Can the Koran a creation, then, be?
1328 Of that, I know nought! Yet that the book of all books it must be,
1329 I believe, as a Mussulman ought. That from Eternity wine, though, must be,
1330 I ever have thought; That 'twas ordain'd, ere the Angels, to be,
1331 As a truth may be taught. Drinkers, however these matters may be,
1332 Gaze on God's face, fearing nought.
1333 1815. ----- YE'VE often, for our drunkenness,
1334 Blamed us in ev'ry way, And, in abuse of drunkenness,
1335 Enough can never say. Men, overcome by drunkenness,
1336 Are wont to lie till day; And yet I find my drunkenness
1337 All night-time make me stray; For, oh! 'tis Love's sweet drunkenness
1338 That maketh me its prey, Which night and day, and day and night,
1339 My heart must needs obey,-- A heart that, in its drunkenness,
1340 Pours forth full many a lay, So that no trifling drunkenness
1341 Can dare assert its sway. Love, song, and wine's sweet drunkenness,
1342 By night-time and by day,-- How god-like is the drunkenness
1343 That maketh me its prey!
1344 1815. ----- X. MATHAL NAME.
BOOK OF PARABLES.
1345 From heaven there fell upon the foaming wave
1346 A timid drop; the flood with anger roared,--
1347 But God, its modest boldness to reward, Strength to the drop and firm endurance gave. Its form the mussel captive took,
1348 And to its lasting glory and renown,
1349 The pearl now glistens in our monarch's crown, With gentle gleam and loving look.
1350 1819.* ----- BULBUL'S song, through night hours cold,
1351 Rose to Allah's throne on high;
1352 To reward her melody, Giveth he a cage of gold. Such a cage are limbs of men,--
1353 Though at first she feels confin'd,
1354 Yet when all she brings to mind, Straight the spirit sings again.
1355 1819.* ----- IN the Koran with strange delight A peacock's feather met my sight: Thou'rt welcome in this holy place, The highest prize on earth's wide face! As in the stars of heaven, in thee, God's greatness in the small we see; For he whose gaze whole worlds bath bless'd His eye hath even here impress'd, And the light down in beauty dress'd, So that e'en monarchs cannot hope In splendour with the bird to cope. Meekly enjoy thy happy lot, And so deserve that holy spot!
1356 1815. ----- ALL kinds of men, both small and great, A fine-spun web delight to create, And in the middle they take their place, And wield their scissors with wondrous grace. But if a besom should sweep that way: "What a most shameful thing," they say,-- "They've crush'd a mighty palace to-day."
1357 1815. ----- IT IS GOOD.
1358 In Paradise while moonbeams play'd,
1359 Jehovah found, in slumber deep, Adam fast sunk; He gently laid
1360 Eve near him,--she, too, fell asleep. There lay they now, on earth's fair shrine, God's two most beauteous thoughts divine.-- When this He saw, He cried:--'Tis Good!!! And scarce could move from where He stood.
1361 No wonder, that our joy's complete While eye and eye responsive meet, When this blest thought of rapture moves us-- That we're with Him who truly loves us, And if He cries:--Good, let it be! 'Tis so for both, it seems to me. Thou'rt clasp'd within these arms of mine, Dearest of all God's thoughts divine!
|
