Miscellaneous Poems
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in the wares before you spread,
Types of all things may be read.
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THE GERMAN PARNASSUS.
’NEATH the shadow
Of these bushes,
On the meadow
Where the cooling water gushes.
Phoebus gave me, when a boy,
All life’s fullness to enjoy.
So, in silence, as the God
Bade them with his sov’reign nod,
Sacred Muses train’d my days
To his praise.—
With the bright and silv’ry flood
Of Parnassus stirr’d my blood,
And the seal so pure and chaste
By them on my lips was placed.
With her modest pinions, see,
Philomel encircles me!
In these bushes, in yon grove,
Calls she to her sister-throng,
And their heavenly choral song
Teaches me to dream of love.
Fullness waxes in my breast
Of emotions social, blest;
Friendship’s nurtured─love awakes,—
And the silence Phoebus breaks
Of his mountains, of his vales,
Sweetly blow the balmy gales;
All for whom he shows affection,
Who are worthy his protection,
Gladly follow his direction.
This one comes with joyous bearing
And with open, radiant gaze;
That a sterner look is wearing,
This one, scarcely cured, with daring
Wakes the strength of former days;
For the sweet, destructive flame
Pierced his marrow and his frame.
That which Amor stole before
Phoebus only can restore,
Peace, and joy, and harmony,
Aspirations pure and free.
Brethren, rise ye!
Numbers prize ye!
Deeds of worth resemble they.
Who can better than the bard
Guide a friend when gone astray?
If his duty he regard,
More he’ll do, than others may.
Yes! afar I hear them sing!
Yes! I hear them touch the string,
And with mighty godlike stroke
Right and duty they inspire,
And evoke,
As they sing, and wake the lyre,
Tendencies of noblest worth,
To each type of strength give birth.
Phantasies of sweetest power
Flower
Round about on ev’ry bough,
Bending now
Like the magic wood of old,
’Neath the fruit that gleams like gold.
What we feel and what we view
In the land of highest bliss,—
This dear soil, a sun like this,—
Lures the best of women too.
And the Muses’ breathings blest
Rouse the maiden’s gentle breast,
Tune the throat to minstrelsy,
And with cheeks of beauteous dye,
Bid it sing a worthy song,
Sit the sister-band among;
And their strains grow softer still,
As they vie with earnest will.
One amongst the band betimes
Goes to wander
By the beeches, ’neath the limes,
Yonder seeking, finding yonder
That which in the morning-grove
She had lost through roguish Love,
All her breast’s first aspirations,
And her heart’s calm meditations,
To the shady wood so fair
Gently stealing,
Takes she that which man can ne’er
Duly merit,—each soft feeling,—
Disregards the noontide ray
And the dew at close of day,─
In the plain her path she loses.
Ne’er disturb her on her way!
Seek her silently, ye Muses
Shouts I hear, wherein the sound
Of the waterfall is drown’d.
From the grove loud clamours rise,
Strange the tumult, strange the cries.
See I rightly? Can it be?
To the very sanctuary,
Lo, an impious troop in-hies!
O’er the land
Streams the band;
Hot desire,
Drunken-fire
In their gaze
Wildly plays,—
Makes their hair
Bristle there.
And the troop,
With fell swoop,
Women, men,
Coming then,
Ply their blows
And expose,
Void of shame,
All the frame.
Iron shot,
Fierce and hot,
Strike with fear
On the ear;
All they slay
On their way.
O’er the land
Pours the band;
All take flight
At their sight.
Ah, o’er ev’ry plant they rush!
Ah, their cruel footsteps crush
All the flowers that fill their path!
Who will dare to stem their wrath?
Brethren, let us venture all!
Virtue in your pure cheek glows.
Phoebus will attend our call
When he sees our heavy woes;
And that we may have aright
Weapons suited to the fight,
He the mountain shaketh now—
From its brow
Rattling down
Stone on stone
Through the thicket spread appear.
Brethren, seize them! Wherefore fear?
Now the villain crew assail,
As though with a storm of hail,
And expel the strangers wild
From these regions soft and mild
Where the sun has ever smil’d!
What strange wonder do I see?
Can it be?
All my limbs of power are reft.
And all strength my hand has left.
Can it he?
None are strangers that I see!
And our brethren ’tis who go
On before, the way to show!
Oh, the reckless impious ones!
How they, with their jarring tones,
Beat the time, as on they hie!
Quick, my brethren!—let us fly!
To the rash ones, yet a word!
Ay, my voice shall now be heard,
As a peal of thunder, strong!
Words as poets’ arms were made,—
When the god will he obey’d,
Follow fast his darts ere long.
Was it possible that ye
Thus your godlike dignity
Should forget? The Thyrsus rude
Must a heavy burden feel
To the hand but wont to steal
O’er the lyre in gentle mood.
From the sparkling waterfalls,
From the brook that purling calls,
Shall Silenus’ loathsome beast
Be allow’d at will to feast?
Aganippe’s * wave he sips
With profane and spreading lips,—
With ungainly feet stamps madly,
Till the waters flow on sadly.
Fain I’d think myself deluded
In the sadd’ning sounds I hear;
From the holy glades secluded
Hateful tones assail the ear.
Laughter wild (exchange how mournful!)
Takes the place of love’s sweet dream;
Women-haters and the scornful
In exulting chorus scream.
Nightingale and turtle dove
Fly their nests so warm and chaste,
And, inflamed with sensual love,
Holds the Faun the Nymph embrac’d.
Here a garment’s torn away,
Scoffs succeed their sated bliss,
While the god, with angry ray,
Looks upon each impious kiss.
Vapour, smoke, as from a fire,
And advancing clouds I view;
Chords not only grace the lyre,
For the bow its chords bath too.
Even the adorer’s heart
Dreads the wild advancing hand,
For the flames that round them dart
Show the fierce destroyer’s hand.
Oh neglect not what I say,
For I speak it lovingly!
From our boundaries haste away,
From the god’s dread anger fly!
Cleanse once more the holy place,
Turn the savage train aside!
Earth contains upon its face
Many a spot unsanctified;
Here we only prize the good.
Stars unsullied round us burn.
If ye, in repentant mood,
From your wanderings would return,—
If ye fail to find the bliss
That ye found with us of yore,—
Or when lawless mirth like this
Gives your hearts delight no more,—
Then return in pilgrim guise,
Gladly up the mountain go,
While your strains repentant rise,
And our brethren’s advent show.
Let a new-born wreath entwine
Solemnly your temples round;
Rapture glows in hearts divine
When a long-lost sinner’s found.
Swifter e’en than Lathe’s flood
Round Death’s silent house can play,
Ev’ry error of the good
Will love’s chalice wash away.
All will haste your steps to meet,
As ye come in majesty,—
Men your blessing will entreat;—
Ours ye thus will doubly be!
1798.
(* Aganippe—A spring in Boeotia, which arose out of Mount
Helicon, and was sacred to Apollo and the Muses.)
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LILY’S MENAGERIE.
[Goethe describes this much-admired Poem, which he wrote in honour of his love Lily, as being “designed to change his surrender of her into despair, by drolly-fretful images.”]
There’s no menagerie, I vow,
Excels my Lily’s at this minute;
She keeps the strangest creatures in it,
And catches them, she knows not how.
Oh, how they hop, and run, and rave,
And their clipp’d pinions wildly wave,—
Poor princes, who must all endure
The pangs of love that nought can cure.
What is the fairy’s name?—Is’t Lily?—Ask not me! Give thanks to Heaven if she’s unknown to thee.
Oh what a cackling, what a shrieking,
When near the door she takes her stand,
With her food-basket in her hand!
Oh what a croaking, what a squeaking!
Alive all the trees and the bushes appear,
While to her feet whole troops draw near;
The very fish within, the water clear
Splash with impatience and their heads protrude;
And then she throws around the food
With such a look!—the very gods delighting
(To say nought of beasts). There begins, then, a biting,
A picking, a pecking, a sipping,
And each o’er the legs of another is tripping,
And pushing, and pressing, and flapping,
And chasing, and fuming, and snapping,
And all for one small piece of bread,
To which, though dry, her fair hands give a taste,
As though it in ambrosia had been plac’d.
And then her look! the tone
With which she calls: Pipi! Pipi!
Would draw Jove’s eagle from his throne;
Yes, Venus’ turtle doves, I wean,
And the vain peacock e’en,
Would come, I swear,
Soon as that tone had reach’d them through the air.
E’en from a forest dark had she
Enticed a bear, unlick’d, ill-bred,
And, by her wiles alluring, led
To join the gentle company,
Until as tame as they was he:
(Up to a certain point, be’t understood!)
How fair, and, ah, how good
She seem’d to be! I would have drain’d my blood
To water e’en her flow’rets sweet.
“Thou sayest: I! Who? How? And where?”—
Well, to be plain, good Sirs—I am the bear;
In a net-apron, caught, alas!
Chain’d by a silk-thread at her feet.
But how this wonder came to pass
I’ll tell some day, if ye are curious;
Just now, my temper’s much too furious.
Ah, when I’m in the corner plac’d,
And hear afar the creatures snapping,
And see the flipping and the flapping,
I turn around
With growling sound,
And backward run a step in haste,
And look around
With growling sound.
Then run again a step in haste,
And to my former post go round.
But suddenly my anger grows,
A mighty spirit fills my nose,
My inward feelings all revolt.
A creature such as thou! a dolt!
Pipi, a squirrel able nuts to crack!
I bristle up my shaggy back
Unused a slave to be.
I’m laughed at by each trim and upstart tree
To scorn. The bowling-green I fly,
With neatly-mown and well-kept grass:
The box makes faces as I pass,—
Into the darkest thicket hasten I,
Hoping to ‘scape from the ring,
Over the palings to spring!
Vainly I leap and climb;
I feel a leaden spell.
That pinions me as well,
And when I’m fully wearied out in time,
I lay me down beside some mock-cascade,
And roll myself half dead, and foam, and cry,
And, ah! no Oreads hear my sigh,
Excepting those of china made!
But, ah, with sudden power
In all my members blissful feelings reign!
’Tis she who singeth yonder in her bower!
I hear that darling, darling voice again.
The air is warm, and teems with fragrance clear,
Sings she perchance for me alone to hear?
I haste, and trample down the shrubs amain;
The trees make way, the bushes all retreat,
And so—the beast is lying at her feet.
She looks at him: “The monster’s droll enough!
He’s, for a bear, too mild,
Yet, for a dog, too wild,
So shaggy, clumsy, rough!”
Upon his back she gently strokes her foot;
He thinks himself in Paradise.
What feelings through his seven senses shoot!
But she looks on with careless eyes.
I lick her soles, and kiss her shoes,
As gently as a bear well may;
Softly I rise, and with a clever ruse
Leap on her knee.—On a propitious day
She suffers it; my ears then tickles she,
And hits me a hard blow in wanton play;
I growl with new-born ecstasy;
Then speaks she in a sweet vain jest, I wot
“Allons lout doux! eh! la menotte!
Et faites serviteur
Comme un joli seigneur.”
Thus she proceeds with sport and glee;
Hope fills the oft-deluded beast;
Yet if one moment he would lazy be,
Her fondness all at once hath ceas’d.
She doth a flask of balsam-fire possess,
Sweeter than honey bees can make,
One drop of which she’ll on her finger take,
When soften’d by his love and faithfulness,
Wherewith her monster’s raging thirst to slake;
Then leaves me to myself, and flies at last,
And I, unbound, yet prison’d fast
By magic, follow in her train,
Seek for her, tremble, fly again.
The hapless creature thus tormenteth she,
Regardless of his pleasure or his woe;
Ha! oft half-open’d does she leave the door for me,
And sideways looks to learn if I will fly or no.
And I—Oh gods! your hands alone
Can end the spell that’s o’er me thrown;
Free me, and gratitude my heart will fill;
And yet from heaven ye send me down no aid—
Not quite in vain doth life my limbs pervade:
I feel it! Strength is left me still.
1775. ——- TO CHARLOTTE.
’MIDST the noise of merriment and glee,
’Midst full many a sorrow, many a care,
Charlotte, I remember, we remember thee,
How, at evening’s hour so fair,
Thou a kindly hand didst reach us,
When thou, in some happy place
Where more fair is Nature s face,
Many a lightly-hidden trace
Of a spirit loved didst teach us.
Well ’tis that thy worth I rightly knew,—
That I, in the hour when first we met,
While the first impression fill’d me yet,
Call’d thee then a girl both good and true.
Rear’d in silence, calmly, knowing nought,
On the world we suddenly are thrown;
Hundred thousand billows round us sport;
All things charm us—many please alone,
Many grieve us, and as hour on hour is stealing,
To and fro our restless natures sway;
First we feel, and then we find each feeling
By the changeful world-stream borne away.
Well I know, we oft within us find
Many a hope and many a smart.
Charlotte, who can know our mind?
Charlotte, who can know our heart? Ah! ’twould fain be understood, ’twould fain o’erflow
In some creature’s fellow-feelings blest,
And, with trust, in twofold measure know
All the grief and joy in Nature’s breast.
Then thine eye is oft around thee cast,
But in vain, for all seems closed for ever.
Thus the fairest part of life is madly pass’d
Free from storm, but resting never:
To thy sorrow thou’rt to-day repell’d
By what yesterday obey’d thee.
Can that world by thee be worthy held
Which so oft betray’d thee?
Which, ’mid all thy pleasures and thy pains,
Lived in selfish, unconcern’d repose?
See, the soul its secret cells regains,
And the heart—makes haste to close.
Thus found I thee, and gladly went to meet thee;
“She’s worthy of all love!” I cried,
And pray’d that Heaven with purest bliss might greet thee,
Which in thy friend it richly hath supplied.
1776.* ——- LOVE’S DISTRESSES.
WHO will hear me? Whom shall I lament to?
Who would pity me that heard my sorrows?
Ah, the lip that erst so many raptures
Used to taste, and used to give responsive,
Now is cloven, and it pains me sorely;
And it is not thus severely wounded
By my mistress having caught me fiercely,
And then gently bitten me, intending
To secure her friend more firmly to her:
No, my tender lip is crack’d thus, only
By the winds, o’er rime and frost proceeding,
Pointed, sharp, unloving, having met me.
Now the noble grape’s bright juice commingled
With the bee’s sweet juice, upon the fire
Of my hearth, shall ease me of my torment.
Ah, what use will all this be, if with it
Love adds not a drop of his own balsam?
1789.* ——- THE MUSAGETES.
IN the deepest nights of Winter
To the Muses kind oft cried I:
“Not a ray of morn is gleaming,
Not a sign of daylight breaking;
Bring, then, at the fitting moment,
Bring the lamp’s soft glimm’ring lustre,
’Stead of Phoebus and Aurora,
To enliven my still labours!”
Yet they left me in my slumbers,
Dull and unrefreshing, lying,
And to each late-waken’d morning
Follow’d days devoid of profit.
When at length return’d the spring-time,
To the nightingales thus spake I:
“Darling nightingales, oh, beat ye
Early, early at my window,—
Wake me from the heavy slumber
That chains down the youth so strongly!”
Yet the love-o’erflowing songsters
Their sweet melodies protracted
Through the night before my window,
Kept awake my loving spirit,
Rousing new and tender yearnings
In my newly-waken’d bosom.
And the night thus fleeted o’er me,
And Aurora found me sleeping,—
Ay, the sun could scarce arouse me.
Now at length is come the Summer,
And the early fly so busy
Draws me from my pleasing slumbers
At the first-born morning-glimmer.
Mercilessly then returns she,
Though the half-aroused one often
Scares her from him with impatience,
And she lures her shameless sisters,
So that from my weary eyelids
Kindly sleep ere long is driven.
From my couch then boldly spring I,
And I seek the darling Muses,
in the beechen-grove I find them,
Full of pieasure to receive me;
And to the tormenting insects
Owe I many a golden hour.
Thus be ye, unwelcome beings,
Highly valued by the poet,
As the flies my numbers tell of.
1798. ——- MORNING LAMENT.
OH thou cruel deadly-lovely maiden,
Tell me what great sin have I committed,
That thou keep’st me to the rack thus fasten’d,
That thou hast thy solemn promise broken?
’Twas but yestere’en that thou with fondness
Press’d my hand, and these sweet accents murmured:
“Yes, I’ll come, I’ll come when morn approacheth,
Come, my friend, full surely to thy chamber.”
On the latch I left my doors, unfasten’d,
Having first with care tried all the hinges,
And rejoic’d right well to find they creak’d not.
What a night of expectation pass’d I!
For I watch’d, and ev’ry chime I number’d;
If perchance I slept a few short moments,
Still my heart remain’d awake forever,
And awoke me from my gentle slumbers.
Yes, then bless’d I night’s o’erhanging darkness,
That so calmly cover’d all things round me;
I enjoy’d the universal silence,
While I listen’d ever in the silence,
If perchance the slightest sounds were stirring.
“Had she only thoughts, my thoughts resembling,
Had she only feelings, like my feelings,
She would not await the dawn of morning.
But, ere this, would surely have been with me.”
Skipp’d a kitten on the floor above me,
Scratch’d a mouse a panel in the corner,
Was there in the house the slightest motion,
Ever hoped I that I heard thy footstep,
Ever thought I that I heard thee coming.
And so lay I long, and ever longer,
And already was the daylight dawning,
And both here and there were signs of movement.
“Is it yon door? Were it my door only!”
In my bed I lean’d upon my elbow,
Looking tow’rd the door, now half-apparent,
If perchance it might not be in motion.
Both the wings upon the latch continued,
On the quiet hinges calmly hanging.
And the day grew bright and brighter ever;
And I heard my neighbour’s door unbolted,
As he went to earn his daily wages,
And ere long I heard the waggons rumbling,
And the city gates were also open’d,
While the market-place, in ev’ry corner,
Teem’d with life and bustle and confusion.
In the house was going now and coming
Up and down the stairs, and doors were creaking
Backwards now, now forwards,—footsteps clatter’d
Yet, as though it were a thing all-living,
From my cherish’d hope I could not tear me.
When at length the sun, in hated splendour.
Fell upon my walls, upon my windows,
Up I sprang, and hasten’d to the garden,
There to blend my breath, so hot and yearning,
With the cool refreshing morning breezes,
And, it might be, even there to meet thee:
But I cannot find thee in the arbour,
Or the avenue of lofty lindens.
1789.* ——- THE VISIT.
FAIN had I to-day surprised my mistress,
But soon found I that her door was fasten’d.
Yet I had the key safe in my pocket,
And the darling door I open’d softly!
In the parlour found I not the maiden,
Found the maiden not within her closet,
Then her chamber-door I gently open’d,
When I found her wrapp’d in pleasing slumbers,
Fully dress’d, and lying on the sofa.
While at work had slumber stolen o’er her;
For her knitting and her needle found I
Resting in her folded bands so tender;
And I placed myself beside her softly,
And held counsel, whether I should wake her.
Then I looked upon the beauteous quiet
That on her sweet eyelids was reposing
On her lips was silent truth depicted,
On her cheeks had loveliness its dwelling,
And the pureness of a heart unsullied
In her bosom evermore was heaving.
All her limbs were gracefully reclining,
Set at rest by sweet and godlike balsam.
Gladly sat I, and the contemplation
Held the strong desire I felt to wake her
Firmer and firmer down, with mystic fetters.
“Oh, thou love,” methought, “I see that slumber,
Slumber that betrayeth each false feature,
Cannot injure thee, can nought discover
That could serve to harm thy friend’s soft feelings.
“Now thy beauteous eyes are firmly closed,
That, when open, form mine only rapture.
And thy sweet lips are devoid of motion,
Motionless for speaking or for kissing;
Loosen’d are the soft and magic fetters
Of thine arms, so wont to twine around me,
And the hand, the ravishing companion
Of thy sweet caresses, lies unmoving.
Were my thoughts of thee but based on error,
Were the love I bear thee self-deception,
I must now have found it out, since Amor
Is, without his bandage, placed beside me.”
Long I sat thus, full of heartfelt pleasure
At my love, and at her matchless merit;
She had so delighted me while slumbering,
That I could not venture to awake her.
Then I on the little table near her
Softly placed two oranges, two roses;
Gently, gently stole I from her chamber.
When her eyes the darling one shall open,
She will straightway spy these colourd presents,
And the friendly gift will view with wonder,
For the door will still remain unopen’d.
If perchance I see to-night the angel,
How will she rejoice,—reward me doubly
For this sacrifice of fond affection!
1765. ——- THE MAGIC NET.
Do I see a contest yonder?
See I miracles or pastimes?
Beauteous urchins, five in number,
’Gainst five sisters fair contending,—
Measured is the time they’re beating—
At a bright enchantress’ bidding.
Glitt’ring spears by some are wielded,
Threads are others nimbly twining,
So that in their snares, the weapons
One would think, must needs be captured,
Soon, in truth, the spears are prison’d;
Yet they, in the gentle war-dance,
One by one escape their fetters
In the row of loops so tender,
That make haste to seize a free one
Soon as they release a captive.
So with contests, strivings, triumphs,
Flying now, and now returning,
Is an artful net soon woven,
In its whiteness like the snow-flakes,
That, from light amid the darkness,
Draw their streaky lines so varied,
As e’en colours scarce can draw them.
Who shall now receive that garment
Far beyond all others wish’d-for?
Whom our much-loved mistress favour
As her own acknowledged servant?
I am blest by kindly Fortune’s
Tokens true, in silence pray’d for!
And I feel myself held captive,
To her service now devoted.
Yet, e’en while I, thus enraptured,
Thus adorn’d, am proudly wand’ring,
See! yon wantons are entwining,
Void of strife, with secret ardour,
Other nets, each fine and finer,
Threads of twilight interweaving,
Moonbeams sweet, night-violets’ balsam.
Ere the net is noticed by us,
Is a happier one imprison’d,
Whom we, one and all, together
Greet with envy and with blessings.
1803. ——- THE GOBLET.
ONCE I held a well-carved brimming goblet,—
In my two hands tightly clasp’d I held it,
Eagerly the sweet wine sipp’d I from it,
Seeking there to drown all care and sorrow.
Amor enter’d in, and found me sitting,
And he gently smiled in modest fashion,
Smiled as though the foolish one he pitied.
“Friend, I know a far more beauteous vessel,
One wherein to sink thy spirit wholly;
Say, what wilt thou give me, if I grant it,
And with other nectar fill it for thee?”
Oh, how kindly hath he kept his promise!
For to me, who long had yearn’d, he granted
Thee, my Lida, fill’d with soft affection.
When I clasp mine arms around thee fondly, When I drink in love’s long-hoarded balsam From thy darling lips so true, so faithful, Fill’d with bliss thus speak I to my spirit “No! a vessel such as this, save Amor Never god hath fashion’d or been lord of! Such a form was ne’er produced by Vulcan With his cunning, reason-gifted hammers! On the leaf-crown’d mountains may Lyaeus Bid his Fauns, the oldest and the wisest, Pass the choicest clusters through the winepress, And himself watch o’er the fermentation: Such a draught no toil can e’er procure him!”
1781. ——- TO THE GRASSHOPPER.