Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Page 283
Like a rock, as though fast-chain’d and silent?
Fr. Pecht del.
published by george barrie
Schultheiss sculp.
Frederika
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ARTIST’S EVENING SONG.
UH, would that some celestial flower
Might fill the world with rapture!
That inspiration’s blissful power
My inmost soul might capture!
The feeling takes me in control,
My weakness makes me stumble;
Ah, Nature, recognize my soul,
Thy worshipper though humble!
How many a long and weary year
My heart has vainly waited,
As on a meadow wan and sere,
For fountains uncreated!
Ah, Nature, how I yearn for thee,
Thy love and faith consoling!
A wondrous river full and free
Through paradises rolling.
And all my song and all my strength
Thou turnest to endeavor,
Until my narrow path at length
Shall widen out forever.
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Parables
Joy from that in type we borrow.
Which in life gives only sorrow.
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EXPLANATION OF AN ANTIQUE GEM.
A YOUNG fig tree its form lifts high
Within a beauteous garden;
And see, a goat is sitting by,
As if he were its warden.
But O Quirites, how one errs!
The tree is guarded badly;
For round the other side there whirrs
And hums a beetle madly.
The hero with his well-mail’d coat
Nibbles the branches tall so;
A mighty longing feels the goat
Gently to climb up also.
And so, my friends, ere long ye see
The tree all leafless standing;
It looks a type of misery,
Help of the gods demanding.
Then listen, ye ingenuous youth,
Who hold wise saws respected:
From he-goat and from beetle’s tooth
A tree should be protected!
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CAT-PIE.
WHILE he is mark’d by vision clear
Who fathoms Nature’s treasures,
The man may follow, void of fear,
Who her proportions measures.
Though for one mortal, it is true,
These trades may both be fitted,
Yet, that the things themselves are two
Must always be admitted.
Once on a time there liv’d a cook
Whose skill was past disputing,
Who in his head a fancy took
To try his luck at shooting.
So, gun in hand, he sought a spot
Where stores of game were breeding,
And there ere long a cat he shot
That on young birds was feeding.
This cat he fancied was a hare,
Forming a judgment hasty,
So serv’d it up for people’s fare,
Well-spic’d, and in a pasty.
Yet many a guest with wrath was fill’d
(All who had noses tender):
The cat that’s by the sportsman kill’d
No cook a hare can render.
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LEGEND.
THERE liv’d in the desert a holy man
To whom a goat-footed Faun one day
Paid a visit, and thus began
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 paus’d, 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!”
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THE CRITIC.
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,
And for desert my best things swallow’d;
Soon as his meal was o’er, what follow’d?
Led by the Deuce to a neighbor 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!
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AUTHORS.
OVER the meadows, and down the stream,
And through the garden-walks straying,
He plucks the flowers that fairest seem;
His throbbing heart brooks no delaying.
His maiden then comes — oh, what ecstasy!
Thy flowers thou giv’st for one glance of her eye!
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 neighbor!
’Twas not for nothing I took all this labor!”
And such, methinks, are the author-tribe.
The one his pleasures around him strews,
That his friends, the public, may reap, if they choose:
The other would fain make them all subscribe.
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THE DILETTANTE AND THE CRITIC.
A BOY a pigeon once possess’d,
In gay and brilliant plumage dress’d;
He lov’d 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.
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.
“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!”
“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.
The boy scream’d. — ”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.
* * * * *
He who sees in the boy shadow’d forth his own case<
br />
Should be on his guard ‘gainst the fox’s whole race.
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CELEBRITY.
ON bridges small and bridges great
Stand Nepomuks in ev’ry state,
Of bronze, wood, painted, or of stone,
Some small as dolls, some giants grown;
Each passer must worship before Nepomuk,
Who to die on a bridge chanc’d 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 priz’d,
In portrait is immortaliz’d.
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!”
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THE YELPERS.
OUR rides in all directions bend,
For business or for pleasure,
Yet yelpings on our steps attend,
And barkings without measure.
The dog that in our stable dwells,
After our heels is striding,
And all the while his noisy yells
But show that we are riding.
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THE WRANGLER.
ONE day a shameless and impudent wight
Went into a shop full of steel wares bright,
Arrang’d with art upon ev’ry shelf.
He fancied they all were 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.
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!”
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JOY.
A DRAGON-FLY with beauteous wing
Is hov’ring o’er a silv’ry spring;
I watch its motions with delight, —
Now dark its colors 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!
It hovers, flutters, resting ne’er!
But hush! it settles on the mead.
I have it safe now, I declare!
And when its form I closely view,
’Tis of a sad and dingy blue —
Such, Joy-Dissector, is thy case indeed!
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PLAYING AT PRIESTS.
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 us 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 resolv’d 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 trac’d,
The bishop’s brow as mitre grac’d.
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;
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;
We were delighted, and at once
Made it a bellrope for the nonce,
And kept it moving all the day;
In turns each sister and each brother
Acted as sexton to another;
All help’d to swell the joyous throng;
The whole proceeded swimmingly,
And since no actual bell had we,
We all in chorus sang, Ding dong!
Our guileless child’s-sport long was hush’d
In memory’s tomb, like some old lay;
And yet across my mind it rush’d
With pristine force the other day.
The New-Poetic Catholics
In ev’ry point its aptness fix!
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SONGS.
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.
But let us now inside repair,
And greet the holy Chapel there!
At once the whole seems clear and bright,
Each ornament is bath’d in light,
And fraught with meaning to the sight.
God’s children! thus your fortune prize,
Be edified, and feast your eyes!
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POETRY.
GOD to his untaught children sent
Law, order, knowledge, art, from high,
And ev’ry heav’nly favor lent,
The world’s hard lot to qualify.
They knew not how they should behave,
For all from Heav’n stark-naked came;
But Poetry their garments gave,
And then not one had cause for shame.
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A PARABLE.
I PICK’D 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 rais’d themselves once more,
The stalks were blooming as before,
And all were in as good a case
As when they left their native place.
* * * * *
So felt I, when I wond’ring heard
My song to foreign tongues transferr’d.
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CUPID AND PSYCHE.
A PLAN the Muses entertain’d
Methodically to impart
To Psyche the poetic art;
Prosaic-pure her soul remain’d.
No wondrous sounds escap’d her lyre
E’en in the fairest Summer night;
But Amor came with glance of fire, —
The lesson soon was learn’d aright.
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THE DEATH OF THE FLY.
WITH eagerness he drinks the treach’rous potion,
Nor stops to rest, by the first taste misled;
Sweet is the draught, but soon all power of motion
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.
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BY THE RIVER.
WHEN by the broad stream thou dost dwell,
Oft shallow is its sluggish flood;
Then, when thy fields thou tendest well,
It o’er them spreads its slime and mud.
The ships descend ere daylight wanes,
The prudent fisher upward goes;
Round reef and rock ice casts its chains,
And boys at will the pathway close.
To this attend, then, carefully,
And what thou would’st, that execute!
Ne’er linger, ne’er o’erhasty be,
For time moves on with measur’d foot.
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THE FOX AND CRANE.
ONCE two persons uninvited
Came to join my dinner table;
For the nonce they liv’d united,
Fox and crane yclept in fable.
Civil greetings pass’d between us;
Then I pluck’d some pigeons tender
For the fox of jackal genus,