I spurn’d, till little there remain’d to prove.
Now calmly through the world I wend my way:
That which I crave may everywhere be had,
With me I bring the one thing needful — love.
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DEPARTURE.
WITH many a thousand kiss not yet content,
At length with One kiss I was forc’d to go;
After that bitter parting’s depth of woe,
I deem’d the shore from which my steps I bent,
Its hills, streams, dwellings, mountains, as I went,
A pledge of joy, till daylight ceas’d to glow;
Then on my sight did blissful visions grow
In the dim-lighted, distant firmament.
And when at length the sea confin’d my gaze,
My ardent longing fill’d my heart once more;
What I had lost, unwillingly I sought.
Then Heaven appear’d to shed its kindly rays;
Methought that all I had possess’d of yore
Remain’d still mine — that I was reft of nought.
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THE LOVING ONE WRITES.
THE look that thy sweet eyes on mine impress,
The pledge thy lips to mine convey, — the kiss, —
He who, like me, hath knowledge sure of this,
Can he in aught beside find happiness?
Remov’d from thee, friend-sever’d, in distress,
These thoughts I vainly struggle to dismiss:
They still return to that one hour of bliss,
The only one; then tears my grief confess.
But unawares the tear makes haste to dry:
He loves, methinks, e’en to these glades so still, —
And shalt not thou to distant lands extend?
Receive the murmurs of this loving sigh;
My only joy on earth is in thy will,
Thy kindly will tow’rd me; a token send!
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THE LOVING ONE ONCE MORE.
WHY do I o’er my paper once more bend?
Ask not too closely, dearest one, I pray:
For, to speak truth, I’ve nothing now to say;
Yet to thy hands at length ‘twill come, dear friend.
Since I can come not with it, what I send
My undivided heart shall now convey,
With all its joys, hopes, pleasures, pains, to-day:
All this hath no beginning, hath no end.
Henceforward I may ne’er to thee confide
How, far as thought, wish, fancy, will, can reach,
My faithful heart with thine is surely blended.
Thus stood I once enraptur’d by thy side,
Gaz’d on thee, and said nought. What need of speech?
My very being in itself was ended.
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SHE CANNOT END.
WHEN unto thee I sent the page all white,
Instead of first thereon inscribing aught,
The space thou doubtless filledst up in sport,
And sent it me, to make my joy grow bright.
As soon as the blue cover met my sight,
As well becomes a woman, quick as thought
I tore it open, leaving hidden nought,
And read the well-known words of pure delight:
My only being! Dearest heart! Sweet child!
How kindly thou my yearning then didst still
With gentle words, enthralling me to thee.
In truth methought I read thy whispers mild
Wherewith thou lovingly my soul didst fill,
E’en to myself for aye ennobling me.
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NEMESIS.
WHEN through the nations stalks contagion wild,
We from them cautiously should steal away.
E’en I have oft with ling’ring and delay
Shunn’d many an influence, not to be defil’d.
And e’en though Amor oft my hours beguil’d,
At length with him preferr’d I not to play,
And so, too, with the wretched sons of clay,
When four and three-lin’d verses they compil’d.
But punishment pursues the scoffer straight,
As if by serpent-torch of furies led
From hill to vale, from land to sea to fly.
I hear the genie’s laughter at my fate;
Yet do I find all power of thinking fled
In sonnet-rage and love’s fierce ecstasy.
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THE CHRISTMAS-BOX.
THIS box, mine own sweet darling, thou wilt find
With many a varied sweetmeat’s form supplied;
The fruits are they of holy Christmas tide,
But bak’d indeed, for children’s use design’d.
I’d fain, in speeches sweet with skill combin’d,
Poetic sweetmeats for the feast provide;
But why in such frivolities confide?
Perish the thought, with flattery to blind!
One sweet thing there is still, that from within,
Within us speaks, — that may be felt afar;
This may be wafted o’er to thee alone.
If thou a recollection fond canst win,
As if with pleasure gleam’d each well-known star,
The smallest gift thou never wilt disown.
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THE WARNING.
WHEN sounds the trumpet at the Judgment-Day,
And when forever all things earthly die,
We must a full and true account supply
Of ev’ry useless word we dropp’d in play.
But what effect will all the words convey
Wherein with eager zeal and lovingly,
That I might win thy favor, labor’d I,
If on thine ear alone they die away?
Therefore, sweet love, thy conscience bear in mind,
Remember well how long thou hast delay’d,
So that the world such sufferings may not know.
If I must reckon, and excuses find
For all things useless I to thee have said,
To a full year the Judgment-Day will grow.
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THE DOUBTERS AND THE LOVERS.
The Doubters.
YE love, and sonnets write! Fate’s strange behest!
The heart, its hidden meaning to declare,
Must seek for rhymes, uniting pair with pair:
Learn, children, that the will is weak, at best.
Scarcely with freedom the o’erflowing breast
As yet can speak, and well may it beware;
Tempestuous passions sweep each chord that’s there,
Then once more sink to night and gentle rest.
Why vex yourselves and us, the heavy stone
Up the steep path but step by step to roll?
It falls again, and ye ne’er cease to strive.
The Lovers.
But we are on the proper road alone!
If gladly is to thaw the frozen soul
The fire of love must aye be kept alive.
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THE EPOCHS.
ON Petrarch’s heart, all other days before,
In flaming letters written, was impress’d
Good Friday. And on mine, be it confess’d,
Is this year’s Advent, as it passeth o’er.
I do not now begin, —
I still adore
Her whom I early cherish’d in my breast,
Then once again with prudence dispossess’d,
And to whose heart I’m driven back once more.
The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love,
Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad;
One long Good Friday ’twas, one heartache drear;
But may my mistress’ Advent ever prove,
With its palm-jubilee, so sweet and glad,
One endless Mayday, through the livelong year!
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CHARADE.
TWO words there are, both short, of beauty rare,
Whose sounds our lips so often love to frame,
But which with clearness never can proclaim
The things whose own peculiar stamp they bear.
’Tis well in days of age and youth so fair
One on the other boldly to inflame;
And if those words together link’d we name,
A blissful rapture we discover there.
But now to give them pleasure do I seek;
And in myself my happiness would find;
I hope in silence, but I hope for this:
Gently, as lov’d one’s names, those words to speak,
To see them both within one image shrin’d,
Both in one being to embrace with bliss.
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Miscellaneous Poems.
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,
Phœbus gave me, when a boy,
All life’s fulness 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 plac’d.
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.
Fulness waxes in my breast
Of emotions social, bless’d;
Friendship’s nurtur’d, — love awakes, —
And the silence Phœbus 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
Pierc’d his marrow and his frame.
That which Amor stole before
Phœbus 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 bless’d
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 clamors 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.
Phœbus 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 be?
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 be 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, inflam’d 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.
Vapor, smoke, as from a fire,
And advancing clouds I view;
Chords not only grace the lyre,
For the bow its chords hath too.
Even the adorer’s heart
Dreads the wild advancing band,
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,
Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Page 276