The Poems of Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe [e novels for free .txt] 📗

1782. -----

THE CHOSEN CLIFF.

HERE in silence the lover fondly mused on his loved one;

Gladly he spake to me thus: "Be thou my witness, thou stone! Yet thou must not be vainglorious, thou hast many companions;

Unto each rock on the plain, where I, the happy one, dwell, Unto each tree of the wood that I cling to, as onward I ramble,

'Be thou a sign of my bliss!' shout I, and then 'tis ordain'd. Yet to thee only I lend a voice, as a Muse from the people

Chooseth one for herself, kissing his lips as a friend."

1782. -----

THE CONSECRATED SPOT.

WHEN in the dance of the Nymphs, in the moonlight so holy assembled,

Mingle the Graces, down from Olympus in secret descending, Here doth the minstrel hide, and list to their numbers enthralling,

Here doth he watch their silent dances' mysterious measure. All that is glorious in Heaven, and all that the earth in her beauty

Ever hath brought into life, the dreamer awake sees before him; All he repeats to the Muses, and lest the gods should be anger'd,

How to tell of secrets discreetly, the Muses instruct him.

1789.* -----

THE INSTRUCTORS.

WHEN Diogenes quietly sunn'd himself in his barrel,

When Calanus with joy leapt in the flame-breathing grave, Oh, what noble lessons were those for the rash son of Philip,

Were not the lord of the world e'en for instruction too great!

1789.* -----

THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE,

EVEN this heavenly pair were unequally match'd when united:

Psyche grew older and wise, Amor remain'd still a child,

1789.* -----

EXCUSE.

THOU dost complain of woman for changing from one to another?

Censure her not: for she seeks one who will constant remain.

1789.* -----

SAKONTALA.

WOULDST thou the blossoms of spring, as well as the fruits of the autumn,

Wouldst thou what charms and delights, wouldst thou what

plenteously, feeds, Would thou include both Heaven and earth in one designation,

All that is needed is done, when I Sakontala name.

1792. -----

THE MUSE'S MIRROR.

EARLY one day, the Muse, when eagerly bent on adornment, Follow'd a swift-running streamlet, the quietest nook by it seeking. Quickly and noisily flowing, the changeful surface distorted Ever her moving form; the goddess departed in anger. Yet the stream call'd mockingly after her, saying: "What, truly! Wilt thou not view, then, the truth, in my mirror so clearly depicted?" But she already was far away, on the brink of the ocean, In her figure rejoicing, and duly arranging her garland.

1799.* -----

PHOEBUS AND HERMES.

DELOS' stately ruler, and Maia's son, the adroit one,

Warmly were striving, for both sought the great prize to obtain. Hermes the lyre demanded, the lyre was claim'd by Apollo,

Yet were the hearts of the foes fruitlessly nourish'd by hope. For on a sudden Ares burst in, with fury decisive,

Dashing in twain the gold toy, brandishing wildly his sword. Hermes, malicious one, laughed beyond measure; yet deep-seated sorrow

Seized upon Phoebus's heart, seized on the heart of each Muse.

1799.* -----

THE NEW AMOR.

AMOR, not the child, the youthful lover of Psyche, Look'd round Olympus one day, boldly, to triumph inured; There he espied a goddess, the fairest amongst the immortals,-- Venus Urania she,--straight was his passion inflamed. Even the holy one powerless proved, alas! 'gainst his wooing,-- Tightly embraced in his arm, held her the daring one fast. Then from their union arose a new, a more beauteous Amor, Who from his father his wit, grace from his mother derives. Ever thou'lt find him join'd in the kindly Muses' communion, And his charm-laden bolt foundeth the love of the arts.

1792. -----

THE GARLANDS.

KLOPSTOCK would lead us away from Pindus; no longer for laurel May we be eager--the homely acorn alone must content us; Yet he himself his more-than-epic crusade is conducting High on Golgotha's summit, that foreign gods he may honour! Yet, on what hill he prefers, let him gather the angels together, Suffer deserted disciples to weep o'er the grave of the just one: There where a hero and saint hath died, where a bard breath'd his numbers, Both for our life and our death an ensample of courage resplendent And of the loftiest human worth to bequeath,--ev'ry nation There will joyously kneel in devotion ecstatic, revering Thorn and laurel garland, and all its charms and its tortures.

1815.* -----

THE SWISS ALPS.

YESTERDAY brown was still thy head, as the locks of my loved one,

Whose sweet image so dear silently beckons afar. Silver-grey is the early snow to-day on thy summit,

Through the tempestuous night streaming fast over thy brow. Youth, alas, throughout life as closely to age is united

As, in some changeable dream, yesterday blends with to-day.

Uri, October 7th, 1797.

DISTICHS.

CHORDS are touch'd by Apollo,--the death-laden bow, too, he bendeth;

While he the shepherdess charms, Python he lays in the dust.

WHAT is merciful censure? To make thy faults appear smaller?

May be to veil them? No, no! O'er them to raise thee on high!

DEMOCRATIC food soon cloys on the multitude's stomach; But I'll wager, ere long, other thou'lt give them instead.

WHAT in France has pass'd by, the Germans continue to practise,

For the proudest of men flatters the people and fawns.

WHO is the happiest of men? He who values the merits of others, And in their pleasure takes joy, even as though 'twere his own.

NOT in the morning alone, not only at mid-day he charmeth;

Even at setting, the sun is still the same glorious planet.

VENETIAN EPIGRAMS. (Written in 1790.)

URN and sarcophagus erst were with life adorn'd by the heathen

Fauns are dancing around, while with the Bacchanal troop Chequerd circles they trace; and the goat-footed, puffy-cheekd player

Wildly produceth hoarse tones out of the clamorous horn. Cymbals and drums resound; we see and we hear, too, the marble.

Fluttering bird! oh how sweet tastes the ripe fruit to thy bill! Noise there is none to disturb thee, still less to scare away Amor,

Who, in the midst of the throng, learns to delight in his torch. Thus doth fullness overcome death; and the ashes there cover'd

Seem, in that silent domain, still to be gladdend with life. Thus may the minstrel's sarcophagus be hereafter surrounded

With such a scroll, which himself richly with life has adorn'd.

CLASP'D in my arms for ever eagerly hold I my mistress,

Ever my panting heart throbs wildly against her dear breast, And on her knees forever is leaning my head, while I'm gazing

Now on her sweet-smiling mouth, now on her bright sparkling eyes. "Oh thou effeminate!" spake one, "and thus, then, thy days thou

art spending?"

Ah, they in sorrow are spent. List while I tell thee my tale: Yes! I have left my only joy in life far behind me,

Twenty long days hath my car borne me away from her sight. Vettrini defy me, while crafty chamberlains flatter,

And the sly Valet de place thinks but of lies and deceit. If I attempt to escape, the Postmaster fastens upon me,

Postboys the upper hand get, custom-house duties enrage. "Truly, I can't understand thee! thou talkest enigmas! thou seemest

Wrapp'd in a blissful repose, glad as Rinaldo of yore: Ah, I myself understand full well; 'tis my body that travels,

And 'tis my spirit that rests still in my mistress's arms.

I WOULD liken this gondola unto the soft-rocking cradle,

And the chest on its deck seems a vast coffin to be. Yes! 'tween the cradle and coffin, we totter and waver for ever

On the mighty canal, careless our lifetime is spent.

WHY are the people thus busily moving? For food they are seeking,

Children they fain would beget, feeding them well as they can. Traveller, mark this well, and when thou art home, do thou likewise!

More can no mortal effect, work with what ardour he will.

I WOULD compare to the land this anvil, its lord to the hammer,

And to the people the plate, which in the middle is bent. Sad is the poor tin-plate's lot, when the blows are but given at random:

Ne'er will the kettle be made, while they uncertainly fall.

WHAT is the life of a man? Yet thousands are ever accustom'd Freely to talk about man,--what he has done, too, and how. Even less is a poem; yet thousands read and enjoy it, Thousands abuse it.--My friend, live and continue to rhyme!

MERRY'S the trade of a poet; but somewhat a dear one, I fear me

For, as my book grows apace, all of my sequins I lose.

Is' thou'rt in earnest, no longer delay, but render me happy; Art thou in jest? Ah, sweet love! time for all jesting is past.

ART thou, then, vex'd at my silence? What shall I speak of? Thou markest

Neither my sorrowful sigh, nor my soft eloquent look. Only one goddess is able the seal of my lips to unloosen,--

When by Aurora I'm found, slumbering calm on thy breast. Ah, then my hymn in the ears of the earliest gods shall be chaunted,

As the Memnonian form breath'd forth sweet secrets in song.

IN the twilight of morning to climb to the top of the mountain,--

Thee to salute, kindly star, earliest herald of day,-- And to await, with impatience, the gaze of the ruler of heaven,--

Youthful delight, oh oft lur'st thou me out in the night! Oh ye heralds of day, ye heavenly eyes of my mistress,

Now ye appear, and the sun evermore riseth too soon.

THOU art amazed, and dost point to the ocean. It seems to be burning, Flame-crested billows in play dart round our night-moving bark. Me it astonisheth not,--of the ocean was born Aphrodite,-- Did not a flame, too, proceed from her for us, in her son?

GLEAMING the ocean appear'd, the beauteous billows were smiling,

While a fresh, favouring wind, filling the sails, drove us on.