He lies, and feels God’s angry frown,
He feels, and grinneth hideously;
He feels Hell’s speechless agonies;
A thousand times he howls and sighs:
“O burning flames! quick, swallow me!”
There lies he in the fiery waves,
By torments rack’d and pangs infernal,
Instant annihilation craves,
And hears those pangs will be eternal.
Those mighty squadrons, too, are here,
The partners of his curs’d career,
Yet far less bad than he were they.
Here lies the countless throng combin’d,
In black and fearful crowds entwin’d,
While round him fiery tempests play;
He sees how they the Judge avoid,
He sees the storm upon them feed,
Yet is not at the sight o’erjoy’d,
Because his pangs e’en theirs exceed.
The Son of Man in triumph passes
Down to Hell’s wild and black morasses,
And there unfolds His majesty.
Hell cannot bear the bright array,
For, since her first created day,
Darkness alone e’er govern’d she.
She lay remote from ev’ry light,
With torments fill’d in Chaos here;
God turn’d forever from her sight
His radiant features’ glory clear.
Within the realms she calls her own,
She sees the splendor of the Son,
His dreaded glories shining forth;
She sees Him clad in rolling thunder,
She sees the rocks all quake with wonder
When God before her stands in wrath.
She sees He comes her Judge to be,
She feels the awful pangs inside her,
Herself to slay endeavors she,
But e’en this comfort is denied her.
Now looks she back, with pains untold,
Upon those happy times of old,
When all these glories gave her joy;
When yet her heart revered the truth,
When her glad soul, in endless youth
And rapture dwelt, without alloy.
She calls to mind with madden’d thought
How over man her wiles prevail’d;
To take revenge on God she sought,
And feels the vengeance it entail’d.
God was made man, and came to earth.
Then Satan cried with fearful mirth:
“E’en He my victim now shall be!”
He sought to slay the Lord Most High,
The world’s Creator now must die;
But, Satan, endless woe to thee!
Thou thought’st to overcome Him then,
Rejoicing in His suffering;
But He in triumph comes again
To bind thee: Death! where is thy sting?
Speak, Hell! where is thy victory?
Thy power destroy’d and scatter’d see!
Know’st thou not now the Highest’s might?
See, Satan, see thy rule o’erthrown!
By thousand-varying pangs weigh’d down,
Thou dwell’st in dark and endless night.
As though by lightning struck thou liest,
No gleam of rapture far or wide;
In vain! no hope thou there descriest, —
For me alone Messiah died!
A howling rises through the air,
A trembling fills each dark vault there,
When Christ to Hell is seen to come.
She snarls with rage, but needs must cower
Before our mighty Hero’s power;
He signs — and Hell is straightway dumb.
Before His voice the thunders break,
On high His victor-banner blows;
E’en angels at His fury quake,
When Christ to the dread judgment goes.
Now speaks He, and His voice is thunder,
He speaks, the rocks are rent in sunder,
His breath is like devouring flames.
Thus speaks He: “Tremble, ye accurs’d!
He who from Eden hurl’d you erst,
Your kingdom’s overthrow proclaims.
Look up! My children once were ye,
Your arms against Me then ye turn’d,
Ye fell, that ye might sinners be,
Ye’ve now the wages that ye earn’d.
“My greatest foemen from that day,
Ye led My dearest friends astray, —
As ye had fallen, man must fall.
To kill him evermore ye sought,
‘They all shall die the death,’ ye thought;
But howl! for Me I’ve won them all.
For them alone did I descend,
For them pray’d, suffer’d, perish’d I.
Ye ne’er shall gain your wicked end;
Who trusts in Me shall never die.
“In endless chains here lie ye now,
Nothing can save you from the slough,
Not boldness, not regret for crime.
Lie, then, and writhe in brimstone fire!
’Twas ye yourselves drew down Mine ire,
Lie and lament throughout all time!
And also ye, whom I selected,
E’en ye forever I disown,
For ye My saving grace rejected;
Ye murmur? blame yourselves alone!
“Ye might have liv’d with Me in bliss,
For I of yore had promis’d this;
Ye sinn’d, and all My precepts slighted.
Wrapp’d in the sleep of sin ye dwelt,
Now is My fearful judgment felt,
By a just doom your guilt requited.”
Thus spake He, and a fearful storm
From Him proceeds, the lightnings glow,
The thunders seize each wicked form,
And hurl them in the gulf below.
The God-man closeth Hell’s sad doors;
In all His majesty He soars
From those dark regions back to light:
He sitteth at the Father’s side.
O friends, what joy doth this betide!
For us, for us He still will fight!
The angels’ sacred choir around
Rejoice before the mighty Lord,
So that all creatures hear the sound:
“Zebaoth’s God be aye ador’d!”
Chronological table of contents
Alphabetical table of contents
Art
Artist, fashion! talk not long!
Be a breath thine only song!
Chronological table of contents
Alphabetical table of contents
THE DROPS OF NECTAR.
WHEN Minerva, to give pleasure
To Prometheus, her well-lov’d 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 vigor.
To a happy end they tasted,
They, and other gentle insects!
For with mortals now divide they
Art — that noblest gift of all.
Chronological table of contents
Alphabetical table of contents
THE WANDERER.
Wanderer.
YOUNG woman, may God bless thee,
Thee and the su
cking 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Up, still up!
Wanderer.
Lo, a mossy architrave is here!
I discern thee, fashioning spirit!
On the stone thou hast impress’d thy seal.
Woman.
Onward, stranger!
Wanderer.
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.
At these stones, why
Start’st thou, stranger?
Many stones are lying yonder
Round my cottage.
Wanderer.
Yonder?
Woman.
Through the thicket,
Turning to the left,
Here!
Wanderer.
Ye Muses and ye Graces!
Woman.
This, then, is my cottage.
Wanderer.
’Tis a ruin’d temple!
Woman.
Just below it, see,
Springs the fountain
Whence I drink.
Wanderer.
Thou dost hover
O’er thy grave, all glowing,
Genius! while upon thee
Hath thy masterpiece
Fallen crumbling,
Thou Immortal One!
Woman.
Stay, a cup I’ll fetch thee
Whence to drink.
Wanderer.
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.
How the infant sleeps!
Wilt thou rest thee in the cottage,
Stranger? Would’st 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.
Sweet is thy repose!
How, with heaven-born health imbued,
Peacefully he slumbers!
O 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.
God bless him! — Is he sleeping still?
To the fresh draught I naught can add,
Saving a crust of bread for thee to eat.
Wanderer.
I thank thee well.
How fair the verdure all around!
How green!
Woman.
My husband soon
Will home return
From labor. Tarry, tarry, man,
And with us eat our evening meal.
Wanderer.
Is’t here ye dwell?
Woman.
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 expir’d. —
Hast thou been sleeping, dearest heart?
How lively, and how full of play!
Sweet rogue!
Wanderer.
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,
O man, an humble cot, —
Enjoyest e’en ‘mid tombs! —
Farewell, thou happy woman!
Woman.
Thou wilt not stay, then?
Wanderer.
May God preserve thee,
And bless thy boy!
Woman.
A happy journey!
Wanderer.
Whither conducts the path
Across yon hill?
Woman.
To Cuma.
Wanderer.
How far from hence?
Woman.
’Tis full three miles.
Wanderer.
Farewell!
O 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,
Illumin’d by the setting sun,
Let me embrace a wife like this,
Her infant in her arms!
Chronological table of contents
Alphabetical table of contents
LOVE AS A LANDSCAPE-PAINTER.
ON a rocky peak once sat I early,
Gazing on the mist with eyes unmoving;
Stretch’d out like a pall of grayish texture,
All things round, and all above it cover’d.
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 gaz’d, and thought in secret:
“Would the boy pretend to be a master?”
“Would’st thou be forever 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.”
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.
First on high a radiant sun he painted,
Which upon mine eyes with splendor 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.
Ah, there blossom’d flowers beside the river.
And bright colors gleam’d upon the meadow.
Gold, and green, and purple, and enamell’d,
All like carbuncles and emeralds seeming!
Bright and clear he added then the heavens,
And the blue-tinged mountains far and farther,
So that I, as though newborn, enraptur’d
Gaz’d on, now the painter, now the picture.
Then spake he: “Although I have convinc’d thee
That this art I understand full surely,
Yet the hardest still is left to show thee.”
Thereupon he trac’d, 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,
Trac’d 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 color
As the finger that had serv’d to paint them.
“O thou boy!” exclaim’d I then, “what master
In his school receiv’d thee as his pupil,
Teaching thee so truthfully and quickly
Wisely to begin, and well to finish?”
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.
As now all, yes, all thus mov’d together, —
Flowers, rivers, trees, the veil, — all moving, —
And the gentle foot of that most fair one,
Can ye think that on my rock I linger’d,
Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Page 282