The Poems of Goethe - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (readera ebook reader .txt) 📗

his forehead the stars, Nowhere will rest then His insecure feet, And with him sport Tempest and cloud.

Though with firm sinewy Limbs he may stand On the enduring Well-grounded earth, All he is ever Able to do, Is to resemble The oak or the vine.

Wherein do gods Differ from mortals? In that the former See endless billows Heaving before them; Us doth the billow Lift up and swallow, So that we perish.

Small is the ring Enclosing our life, And whole generations Link themselves firmly On to existence's Chain never-ending.

1789. * -----

THE GODLIKE.

NOBLE be man, Helpful and good! For that alone Distinguisheth him From all the beings Unto us known.

Hail to the beings, Unknown and glorious, Whom we forebode! From his example Learn we to know them!

For unfeeling Nature is ever: On bad and on good The sun alike shineth; And on the wicked, As on the best, The moon and stars gleam.

Tempest and torrent, Thunder and hail, Roar on their path, Seizing the while, As they haste onward, One after another.

Even so, fortune Gropes 'mid the throng-- Innocent boyhood's Curly head seizing,-- Seizing the hoary Head of the sinner.

After laws mighty, Brazen, eternal, Must all we mortals Finish the circuit Of our existence.

Man, and man only Can do the impossible; He 'tis distinguisheth, Chooseth and judgeth; He to the moment Endurance can lend.

He and he only The good can reward, The bad can he punish, Can heal and can save; All that wanders and strays Can usefully blend. And we pay homage To the immortals As though they were men, And did in the great, What the best, in the small, Does or might do.

Be the man that is noble, Both helpful and good. Unweariedly forming The right and the useful, A type of those beings Our mind hath foreshadow'd!

1782. -----

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

in the wares before you spread, Types of all things may be read.

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.)

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,