Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Page 267
To admit no waverer here!
For to act the good endeavor,
None but rascals meek appear.
Chorus.
Surely we for wine may languish!
Let the bumper then go round!
For all sighs and groans of anguish
We have now in rapture drown’d.
Trio.
Let each merry minstrel enter,
He’s right welcome to our hall!
’Tis but with the self-tormentor
That we are not liberal;
For we fear that his caprices,
That his eyebrows dark and sad,
That his grief that never ceases
Hide an empty heart, or bad.
Chorus.
No one now for wine shall languish!
Here no minstrel shall be found,
Who all sighs and groans of anguish,
Has not first in rapture drown’d!
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ERGO BIBAMUS!
FOR a praiseworthy object we’re now gather’d here,
So, brethren, sing: Ergo bibamus!
Tho’ talk may be hush’d, yet the glasses ring clear,
Remember then: Ergo bibamus!
In truth ’tis an old, ’tis an excellent word,
With its sound so befitting each bosom is stirr’d,
And an echo the festal hall filling is heard,
A glorious Ergo bibamus!
I saw mine own love in her beauty so rare,
And bethought me of: Ergo bibamus!
So I gently approach’d, and she let me stand there,
While I help’d myself, thinking: Bibamus!
And when she’s appeas’d, and will clasp you and kiss;
Or when those embraces and kisses ye miss,
Take refuge, till found is some worthier bliss,
In the comforting Ergo bibamus!
I am call’d by my fate far away from each friend;
Ye lov’d ones, then: Ergo bibamus!
With wallet light-laden from hence I must wend,
So double our Ergo bibamus!
Whate’er to his treasures the niggard may add,
Yet regard for the joyous will ever be had,
For gladness lends ever its charms to the glad,
So, brethren, sing: Ergo bibamus!
And what shall we say of to-day as it flies?
I thought but of: Ergo Bibamus!
’Tis one of those truly that seldom arise,
So again and again sing: Bibamus!
For joy through a wide-open portal it guides,
Bright glitter the clouds, as the curtain divides,
And a form, a divine one, to greet us in glides,
While we thunder our: Ergo bibamus!
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EPIPHANIAS.
THE three holy kings with their star’s bright ray, —
They eat and they drink, but had rather not pay;
They like to eat and drink away,
They eat and drink, but had rather not pay.
The three holy kings have all come here,
In number not four, but three they appear;
And if a fourth join’d the other three,
Increas’d by one their number would be.
The first am I, — the fair and the white,
I ought to be seen when the sun shines bright!
But, alas! with all my spices and myrrh,
No girl now likes me, — I please not her.
The next am I, — the brown and the long,
Known well to women, known well to song.
Instead of spices, ’tis gold I bear,
And so I’m welcome everywhere.
The last am I, — the black and small,
And fain would be right merry withal.
I like to eat and to drink full measure,
I eat and drink, and give thanks with pleasure.
The three holy kings are friendly and mild,
They seek the Mother, and seek the Child;
The pious Joseph is sitting by,
The ox and the ass on their litter lie.
We’re bringing gold, we’re bringing myrrh,
The women incense always prefer;
And if we have wine of a worthy growth,
We three to drink like six are not loth.
As here we see fair lads and lasses,
But not a sign of oxen or asses,
We know that we have gone astray
And so go further on our way.
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FINNISH SONG.
IF the lov’d one, the well-known one,
Should return as he departed,
On his lips would ring my kisses,
Though the wolf’s blood might have dy’d them;
And a hearty grasp I’d give him,
Though his finger-ends were serpents.
Wind! Oh, if thou hadst but reason,
Word for word in turns thou’dst carry,
E’en though some perchance might perish
‘Tween two lovers so far distant.
All choice morsels I’d dispense with,
Table-flesh of priests neglect too,
Sooner than renounce my lover,
Whom, in Summer having vanquish’d,
I in Winter tam’d still longer.
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GYPSY SONG.
IN the drizzling mist, with the snow high-pil’d,
In the Winter night, in the forest wild,
I heard the wolves with their ravenous howl,
I heard the screaming note of the owl:
Wille wau wau wau!
Wille wo wo wo!
Wito hu!
I shot, one day, a cat in a ditch —
The dear black cat of Anna the witch;
Upon me, at night, seven were-wolves came down,
Seven women they were, from out of the town.
Wille wau wau wau!
Wille wo wo wo!
Wito hu!
I knew them all; ay, I knew them straight;
First, Anna, then Ursula, Eve and Kate,
And Barbara, Lizzy and Bet as well;
And forming a ring, they began to yell:
Wille wau wau wau!
Wille wo wo wo!
Wito hu!
Then call’d I their names with angry threat:
“What would’st thou, Anna? What would’st thou, Bet?”
At hearing my voice, themselves they shook,
And howling and yelling, to flight they took.
Wille wau wau wau!
Wille wo wo wo!
Wito hu!
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Poems from Wilhelm Meister.
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MIGNON.
WHO never eat with tears his bread,
Who never through night’s heavy hours
Sat weeping on his lonely bed, —
He knows you not, ye heavenly powers!
Through you the paths of life we gain,
Ye let poor mortals go astray,
And then abandon them to pain, —
E’en here the penalty we pay.
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THE SAME.
MY grief no mortals know,
Except the yearning!
Alone, a prey to woe,
All pleasure spurning,
Up tow’rds the sky I throw
A gaze discerning.
He who my love can know
Seems ne’er returning;
With strange and fiery glow
My heart
is burning.
My grief no mortals know,
Except the yearning!
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THE HARPER.
WHO gives himself to solitude,
Soon lonely will remain;
Each lives, each loves in joyous mood,
And leaves him to his pain.
Yes! leave me to my grief!
Were solitude’s relief
E’er granted me,
Alone I should not be.
A lover steals, on footstep light,
To learn if his love’s alone;
Thus o’er me steals, by day and night,
Anguish before unknown,
Thus o’er me steals deep grief.
Ah, when I find relief
Within the tomb so lonely,
Will rest be met with only!
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PHILINE.
SING no more in mournful tones
Of the loneliness of night;
For ’tis made, ye beauteous ones,
For all social pleasures bright.
As of old to man a wife
As his better half was given,
So the night is half our life,
And the fairest under heaven.
How can ye enjoy the day,
Which obstructs our rapture’s tide?
Let it waste itself away;
Worthless ’tis for aught beside.
But when in the darkling hours
From the lamp soft rays are glowing,
And from mouth to mouth sweet showers,
Now of jest, now love, are flowing, —
When the nimble, wanton boy,
Who so wildly spends his days,
Oft amid light sports with joy
O’er some trifling gift delays, —
When the nightingale is singing
Strains the lover holds so dear,
Though like sighs and wailings ringing
In the mournful captive’s ear, —
With what heart-emotion bless’d
Do ye hearken to the bell,
Wont of safety and of rest
With twelve solemn strokes to tell!
Therefore in each heavy hour,
Let this precept fill your heart:
O’er each day will sorrow lour,
Rapture ev’ry night impart.
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Ballads
Poets’ art is ever able
To endow with truth mere fable.
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MIGNON.
KNOW’ST thou the land where the fair citron blows,
Where the bright orange midst the foliage glows,
Where soft winds greet us from the azure skies,
Where silent myrtles, stately laurels rise,
Know’st thou it well?
’Tis there, ’tis there,
That I with thee, belov’d one, would repair!
Know’st thou the house? On columns rests its pile,
Its halls are gleaming, and its chambers smile,
And marble statues stand and gaze on me:
“Poor child! what sorrow hath befallen thee?”
Know’st thou it well?
’Tis there, ’tis there,
That I with thee, protector, would repair!
Know’st thou the mountain, and its cloudy bridge?
The mule can scarcely find the misty ridge;
In caverns dwells the dragon’s olden brood,
The frowning crag obstructs the raging flood.
Know’st thou it well?
’Tis there, ’tis there,
Our path lies — Father — thither, oh, repair!
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THE HARPER.
“WHAT tuneful strains salute mine ear
Without the castle walls?
Oh, let the song re-echo here,
Within our festal halls!”
Thus spake the king, the page out-hied;
The boy return’d; the monarch cried:
“Admit the old man yonder!”
“All hail, ye noble lords to-night!
All hail, ye beauteous dames!
Star plac’d by star! What heavenly sight!
Who e’er can tell their names?
Within this glittering hall sublime,
Be clos’d, mine eyes! ’tis not the time
For me to feast my wonder.”
The minstrel straightway clos’d his eyes,
And woke a thrilling tone;
The knights look’d on in knightly guise,
Fair looks tow’rd earth were thrown.
The monarch, ravish’d by the strain,
Bade them bring forth a golden chain,
To be his numbers’ guerdon.
“The golden chain give not to me,
But give the chain to those
In whose bold face we shiver’d see
The lances of our foes.
Or give it to thy chancellor there;
With other burdens he may bear
This one more golden burden.
“I sing, like birds of blithesome note,
That in the branches dwell;
The song that rises from the throat
Repays the minstrel well.
One boon I’d crave, if not too bold —
One bumper in a cup of gold
Be as my guerdon given.”
The bowl he rais’d, the bowl he quaff’d:
“Oh, drink, with solace fraught!
Oh, house thrice-bless’d, where such a draught
A trifling gift is thought!
When Fortune smiles, remember me,
And as I thank you heartily
As warmly thank ye Heaven!”
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BALLAD
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Of the Banished and Returning Count.
OH, enter, old minstrel, thou time-honor’d one!
We children are here in the hall all alone,
The portals we straightway will bar.
Our mother is praying, our father is gone
To the forest, on wolves to make war.
Oh, sing us a ballad, the tale then repeat,
‘Till brother and I learn it right;
We long have been hoping a minstrel to meet,
For children hear tales with delight.
“At midnight, when darkness its fearful veil weaves,
His lofty and stately old castle he leaves,
But first he has buried his wealth.
What figure is that in his arms one perceives,
As the Count quits the gateway by stealth?
O’er what is his mantle so hastily thrown?
What bears he along in his flight?
A daughter it is, and she gently sleeps on:” —
The children they hear with delight.
“The morning soon glimmers, the world is so wide,
In valleys and forests a home is suppli’d,
The bard in each village is cheer’d.
Thus lives he and wanders, while years onward glide,
And longer still waxes his beard;
But the maiden so fair in his arms grows amain,
‘Neath her star all-protecting and bright,
Secur’d in the mantle from wind and from rain” —
The children they hear with delight.
“And year upon year with swift footstep now steals,
The mantle it fades, many rents it reveals,
The maiden no more it can hold.
The father he sees her, what rapture he feels!
His joy cannot now be controll’d.
How worthy she seems of the race whence she springs,
How noble and fair to the sight!
What wealth to her dearly-lov’d father she brings!” —
The children they hear with delight.
“Then comes there a princely knight galloping by,
She stretches her hand out, as soon as he’s nigh,
But alms he refuses to give.
He seizes her hand, with a smile in his eye:
‘Thou art mine!’ he exclaims, ‘while I live!’
‘When thou know’st,’ cries the old man, ‘the treasure that’s there,
A princess thou’lt make her of right;
Betroth’d be she now, on this spot green and fair’ “ —
The children they hear with delight.
“So she’s bless’d by the priest on the hallowed place,
And she goes with a smiling but sorrowful face,
From her father she fain would not part.
The old man still wanders with ne’er-changing pace,
He covers with joy his sad heart.
So I think of my daughter, as years pass away,
And my grandchildren far from my sight;
I bless them by night, and I bless them by day” —
The children they hear with delight.
He blesses the children: a knocking they hear,
The father it is! They spring forward in fear,
The old man they cannot conceal —
“Thou beggar, would’st lure, then, my children so dear?
Straight seize him, ye vassals of steel!
To the dungeon most deep, with the fool-hardy knave!”
The mother from far hears the fight;
She hastens with flatt’ring entreaty to crave —
The children they hear with delight.
The vassals they suffer the Bard to stand there,
And mother and children implore him to spare,
The proud prince would stifle his ire,
‘Till driven to fury at hearing their prayer,
His smouldering anger takes fire:
“Thou pitiful race! Oh, thou beggarly crew!
Eclipsing my star, once so bright!
Ye’ll bring me destruction, ye sorely shall rue!” —
The children they hear with affright.
The old man still stands there with dignified mien,
The vassals of steel quake before him, I ween,
The Count’s fury increases in power;
“My wedded existence a curse long has been,
And these are the fruits from that flower!
’Tis ever denied, and the saying is true,
That to wed with the base-born is right;
The beggar has borne me a beggarly crew,” —
The children they hear with affright.
“If the husband, the father, thus treats you with scorn,