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

And the pureness of a heart unsullied In her bosom evermore was heaving. All her limbs were gracefully reclining, Set at rest by sweet and godlike balsam. Gladly sat I, and the contemplation Held the strong desire I felt to wake her Firmer and firmer down, with mystic fetters.

"Oh, thou love," methought, "I see that slumber, Slumber that betrayeth each false feature, Cannot injure thee, can nought discover That could serve to harm thy friend's soft feelings.

"Now thy beauteous eyes are firmly closed, That, when open, form mine only rapture. And thy sweet lips are devoid of motion, Motionless for speaking or for kissing; Loosen'd are the soft and magic fetters Of thine arms, so wont to twine around me, And the hand, the ravishing companion Of thy sweet caresses, lies unmoving. Were my thoughts of thee but based on error, Were the love I bear thee self-deception, I must now have found it out, since Amor Is, without his bandage, placed beside me."

Long I sat thus, full of heartfelt pleasure At my love, and at her matchless merit; She had so delighted me while slumbering, That I could not venture to awake her.

Then I on the little table near her Softly placed two oranges, two roses; Gently, gently stole I from her chamber. When her eyes the darling one shall open, She will straightway spy these colourd presents, And the friendly gift will view with wonder, For the door will still remain unopen'd.

If perchance I see to-night the angel, How will she rejoice,--reward me doubly For this sacrifice of fond affection!

1765. -----

THE MAGIC NET.

Do I see a contest yonder? See I miracles or pastimes? Beauteous urchins, five in number, 'Gainst five sisters fair contending,-- Measured is the time they're beating-- At a bright enchantress' bidding. Glitt'ring spears by some are wielded, Threads are others nimbly twining,

So that in their snares, the weapons One would think, must needs be captured, Soon, in truth, the spears are prison'd; Yet they, in the gentle war-dance, One by one escape their fetters In the row of loops so tender, That make haste to seize a free one Soon as they release a captive.

So with contests, strivings, triumphs, Flying now, and now returning, Is an artful net soon woven, In its whiteness like the snow-flakes, That, from light amid the darkness, Draw their streaky lines so varied, As e'en colours scarce can draw them.

Who shall now receive that garment Far beyond all others wish'd-for? Whom our much-loved mistress favour As her own acknowledged servant? I am blest by kindly Fortune's Tokens true, in silence pray'd for! And I feel myself held captive, To her service now devoted.

Yet, e'en while I, thus enraptured, Thus adorn'd, am proudly wand'ring, See! yon wantons are entwining, Void of strife, with secret ardour, Other nets, each fine and finer, Threads of twilight interweaving, Moonbeams sweet, night-violets' balsam.

Ere the net is noticed by us, Is a happier one imprison'd, Whom we, one and all, together Greet with envy and with blessings.

1803. -----

THE GOBLET.

ONCE I held a well-carved brimming goblet,-- In my two hands tightly clasp'd I held it, Eagerly the sweet wine sipp'd I from it, Seeking there to drown all care and sorrow.

Amor enter'd in, and found me sitting, And he gently smiled in modest fashion, Smiled as though the foolish one he pitied.

"Friend, I know a far more beauteous vessel, One wherein to sink thy spirit wholly; Say, what wilt thou give me, if I grant it, And with other nectar fill it for thee?"

Oh, how kindly hath he kept his promise! For to me, who long had yearn'd, he granted Thee, my Lida, fill'd with soft affection.

When I clasp mine arms around thee fondly, When I drink in love's long-hoarded balsam From thy darling lips so true, so faithful, Fill'd with bliss thus speak I to my spirit "No! a vessel such as this, save Amor Never god hath fashion'd or been lord of! Such a form was ne'er produced by Vulcan With his cunning, reason-gifted hammers! On the leaf-crown'd mountains may Lyaeus Bid his Fauns, the oldest and the wisest, Pass the choicest clusters through the winepress, And himself watch o'er the fermentation: Such a draught no toil can e'er procure him!"

1781. -----

TO THE GRASSHOPPER.

AFTER ANACREON.

[The strong resemblance of this fine poem to Cowley's Ode bearing the same name, and beginning "Happy insect! what can be," will be at once seen.]

HAPPY art thou, darling insect, Who, upon the trees' tall branches, By a modest draught inspired, Singing, like a monarch livest! Thou possessest as thy portion All that on the plains thou seest, All that by the hours is brought thee 'Mongst the husbandmen thou livest, As a friend, uninjured by them, Thou whom mortals love to honour, Herald sweet of sweet Spring's advent! Yes, thou'rt loved by all the Muses,

Phoebus' self, too, needs must love thee; They their silver voices gave thee, Age can never steal upon thee. Wise and gentle friend of poets, Born a creature fleshless, bloodless, Though Earth's daughter, free from suff'ring, To the gods e'en almost equal.

1781. -----

FROM 'THE SORROWS OF YOUNG WERTHER.'

[Prefixed to the second edition.]

EV'RY youth for love's sweet portion sighs,

Ev'ry maiden sighs to win man's love; Why, alas! should bitter pain arise

From the noblest passion that we prove?

Thou, kind soul, bewailest, lov'st him well,

From disgrace his memory's saved by thee; Lo, his spirit signs from out its cell:

BE A MAN, NOR SEEK TO FOLLOW ME.

1775. -----

TRILOGY OF PASSION.

I. TO WERTHER.

[This poem, written at the age of seventy-five, was appended to an edition of 'Werther,' published at that time.]

ONCE more, then, much-wept shadow, thou dost dare

Boldly to face the day's clear light, To meet me on fresh blooming meadows fair,

And dost not tremble at my sight. Those happy times appear return'd once more.

When on one field we quaff'd refreshing dew, And, when the day's unwelcome toils were o'er,

The farewell sunbeams bless'd our ravish'd view; Fate bade thee go,--to linger here was mine,-- Going the first, the smaller loss was thine.

The life of man appears a glorious fate: The day how lovely, and the night how great! And we 'mid Paradise-like raptures plac'd, The sun's bright glory scarce have learn'd to taste.

When strange contending feelings dimly cover, Now us, and now the forms that round us hover; One's feelings by no other are supplied, 'Tis dark without, if all is bright inside; An outward brightness veils my sadden'd mood, When Fortune smiles,--how seldom understood! Now think we that we know her, and with might A woman's beauteous form instils delight; The youth, as glad as in his infancy, The spring-time treads, as though the spring were he Ravish'd, amazed, he asks, how this is done? He looks around, the world appears his own. With careless speed he wanders on through space, Nor walls, nor palaces can check his race; As some gay flight of birds round tree-tops plays, So 'tis with him who round his mistress strays; He seeks from AEther, which he'd leave behind him, The faithful look that fondly serves to bind him.

Yet first too early warn'd, and then too late, He feels his flight restrain'd, is captur'd straight To meet again is sweet, to part is sad, Again to meet again is still more glad, And years in one short moment are enshrin'd; But, oh, the harsh farewell is hid behind!

Thou smilest, friend, with fitting thoughts inspired; By a dread parting was thy fame acquired, Thy mournful destiny we sorrow'd o'er, For weal and woe thou left'st us evermore, And then again the passions' wavering force Drew us along in labyrinthine course; And we, consumed by constant misery, At length must part--and parting is to die! How moving is it, when the minstrel sings, To 'scape the death that separation brings! Oh grant, some god, to one who suffers so, To tell, half-guilty, his sad tale of woe

1824

II. ELEGY.

When man had ceased to utter his lament,

A god then let me tell my tale of sorrow.

WHAT hope of once more meeting is there now In the still-closed blossoms of this day? Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou; What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom play No longer doubt! Descending from the sky, She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high.

And thus thou into Paradise wert brought,

As worthy of a pure and endless life; Nothing was left, no wish, no hope, no thought,

Here was the boundary of thine inmost strife: And seeing one so fair, so glorified, The fount of yearning tears was straightway dried.

No motion stirr'd the day's revolving wheel,

In their own front the minutes seem'd to go; The evening kiss, a true and binding seal,

Ne'er changing till the morrow's sunlight glow. The hours resembled sisters as they went. Yet each one from another different.

The last hour's kiss, so sadly sweet, effac'd

A beauteous network of entwining love. Now on the threshold pause the feet, now haste.

As though a flaming cherub bade them move; The unwilling eye the dark road wanders o'er, Backward it looks, but closed it sees the door.

And now within itself is closed this breast,

As though it ne'er were open, and as though, Vying with ev'ry star, no moments blest

Had, in its presence, felt a kindling glow; Sadness, reproach, repentance, weight of care, Hang heavy on it in the sultry air.

Is not the world still left? The rocky steeps,

Are they with holy shades no longer crown'd? Grows not the harvest ripe? No longer creeps

The espalier by the stream,--the copse around? Doth not the wondrous arch of heaven still rise, Now rich in shape, now shapeless to the eyes?

As, seraph-like, from out the dark clouds' chorus,

With softness woven, graceful, light, and fair, Resembling Her, in the blue aether o'er us,

A slender figure hovers in the air,-- Thus didst thou see her joyously advance, The fairest of the fairest in the dance.

Yet but a moment dost thou boldly dare

To clasp an airy form instead of hers; Back to thine heart! thou'lt find it better there,

For there in changeful guise her image stirs What erst was one, to many turneth fast, In thousand forms, each dearer than the last.

As at the door, on meeting lingerd she,

And step by step my faithful ardour bless'd, For the last kiss herself entreated me,

And on my lips the last last kiss impress'd,-- Thus clearly traced, the lov'd one's form we view, With flames engraven on a heart so true,--

A heart that, firm as some embattled tower,

Itself for her, her in itself reveres, For her rejoices in its