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

ask him: how? or why? But with his fist saluted him.

"I feel new life in every limb!" Our traveller cried in ecstasy. "Who art thou who thus gladden'st me? May Heaven such blessings ever send! Ne'er may I want a jovial friend!"

1808.* -----

THE LEGEND OF THE HORSESHOE.

WHAT time our Lord still walk'd the earth, Unknown, despised, of humble birth, And on Him many a youth attended (His words they seldom comprehended), It ever seem'd to Him most meet To hold His court in open street, As under heaven's broad canopy One speaks with greater liberty. The teachings of His blessed word From out His holy mouth were heard; Each market to a fane turn'd He With parable and simile.

One day, as tow'rd a town He roved, In peace of mind with those He loved, Upon the path a something gleam'd; A broken horseshoe 'twas, it seem'd. So to St. Peter thus He spake: "That piece of iron prythee take!" St. Peter's thoughts had gone astray,-- He had been musing on his way Respecting the world's government, A dream that always gives content, For in the head 'tis check'd by nought; This ever was his dearest thought, For him this prize was far too mean Had it a crown and sceptre been! But, surely, 'twasn't worth the trouble For half a horseshoe to bend double! And so he turn'd away his head, As if he heard not what was said,

The Lord, forbearing tow'rd all men, Himself pick'd up the horseshoe then (He ne'er again like this stoop'd down). And when at length they reach'd the town, Before a smithy He remain'd, And there a penny for 't obtain'd. As they the market-place went by, Some beauteous cherries caught His eye: Accordingly He bought as many As could be purchased for a penny, And then, as oft His wont had been, Placed them within His sleeve unseen.

They went out by another gate, O'er plains and fields proceeding straight, No house or tree was near the spot, The sun was bright, the day was hot; In short, the weather being such, A draught of water was worth much. The Lord walk'd on before them all, And let, unseen, a cherry fall. St. Peter rush'd to seize it hold, As though an apple 'twere of gold; His palate much approv'd the berry; The Lord ere long another cherry Once more let fall upon the plain; St. Peter forthwith stoop'd again. The Lord kept making him thus bend To pick up cherries without end. For a long time the thing went on; The Lord then said, in cheerful tone: "Had'st thou but moved when thou wert bid, Thou of this trouble had'st been rid; The man who small things scorns, will next, By things still smaller be perplex'd."

1797. -----

A SYMBOL.

(This fine poem is given by Goethe amongst a small collection of what he calls Loge (Lodge), meaning thereby Masonic pieces.)

THE mason's trade Observe them well,

Resembles life, And watch them revealing

With all its strife,-- How solemn feeling Is like the stir made And wonderment swell

By man on earth's face. The hearts of the brave.

Though weal and woe The voice of the blest,

The future may hide, And of spirits on high

Unterrified Seems loudly to cry: We onward go "To do what is best,

In ne'er changing race. Unceasing endeavour!

A veil of dread "In silence eterne

Hangs heavier still. Here chaplets are twin'd,

Deep slumbers fill That each noble mind The stars over-head, Its guerdon may earn.--

And the foot-trodden grave. Then hope ye for ever!"

1827.* -----

ART.

Artist, fashion! talk not long! Be a breath thine only song!

THE DROPS OF NECTAR.

WHEN Minerva, to give pleasure To Prometheus, her well-loved 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 vigour.

To a happy end they tasted, They, and other gentle insects! For with mortals now divide they Art�that noblest gift of all.

1789.* -----

THE WANDERER.

[Published in the Gottingen Musen Almanach, having been written "to express his feelings and caprices" after his separation from Frederica.]

WANDERER.

YOUNG woman, may God bless thee, Thee, and the sucking 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 master-piece 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? Wouldst 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! Oh 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 nought 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 labour. 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 expired.-- 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, Oh man, a 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! Oh 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, Illumined by the setting sun, Let me embrace a wife like this, Her infant in her arms!

1772. Compare with the beautiful description contained in the subsequent lines, an account of a ruined temple of Ceres, given by Chamberlayne in his Pharonnida (published in 1659)

".... With mournful majesiy A heap of solitary ruins lie, Half sepulchred in dust, the bankrupt heir To prodigal antiquity...."

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 greyish texture, All things round, and all above it cover'd.

Suddenly a boy appear'd beside me, Saying