The Poems of Goethe Part 58

Awaiting a beating and scolding.

But see what they're tasting: the choicest of beer!

Though three times and four times they quaff the good cheer

The pitchers remain still unemptied.

The marvel it lasts till the dawning of day; All people who hear of it doubtless will say:

"What happen'd at length to the pitchers?"

In secret the children they smile, as they wait; At last, though, they stammer, and stutter, and prate,

And straightway the pitchers were empty.

And if, children, with kindness address'd ye may be, Whether father, or master, or alderman he,

Obey him, and follow his bidding!

And if 'tis unpleasant to bridle the tongue, Yet talking is bad, silence good for the young--

And then will the beer fill your pitchers!

1813.

----- THE DANCE OF DEATH.

THE warder looks down at the mid hour of night,

On the tombs that lie scatter'd below: The moon fills the place with her silvery light,

And the churchyard like day seems to glow.

When see! first one grave, then another opes wide, And women and men stepping forth are descried,

In cerements snow-white and trailing.

In haste for the sport soon their ankles they twitch,

And whirl round in dances so gay; The young and the old, and the poor, and the rich,

But the cerements stand in their way; And as modesty cannot avail them aught here, They shake themselves all, and the shrouds soon appear

Scatter'd over the tombs in confusion.

Now waggles the leg, and now wriggles the thigh,

As the troop with strange gestures advance, And a rattle and clatter anon rises high,

As of one beating time to the dance.

The sight to the warder seems wondrously queer, When the villainous Tempter speaks thus in his ear:

"Seize one of the shrouds that lie yonder!"

Quick as thought it was done! and for safety he fled

Behind the church-door with all speed; The moon still continues her clear light to shed

On the dance that they fearfully lead.

But the dancers at length disappear one by one, And their shrouds, ere they vanish, they carefully don,

And under the turf all is quiet.

But one of them stumbles and shuffles there still,

And gropes at the graves in despair; Yet 'tis by no comrade he's treated so ill

The shroud he soon scents in the air.

So he rattles the door--for the warder 'tis well That 'tis bless'd, and so able the foe to repel,

All cover'd with crosses in metal.

The shroud he must have, and no rest will allow,

There remains for reflection no time; On the ornaments Gothic the wight seizes now,

And from point on to point hastes to climb.

Alas for the warder! his doom is decreed!

Like a long-legged spider, with ne'er-changing speed,

Advances the dreaded pursuer.

The warder he quakes, and the warder turns pale,

The shroud to restore fain had sought; When the end,--now can nothing to save him avail,--

In a tooth formed of iron is caught.

With vanishing l.u.s.tre the moon's race is run, When the bell thunders loudly a powerful One,

And the skeleton fails, crush'd to atoms.

1813.

----- THE PUPIL IN MAGIC.

I AM now,--what joy to hear it!--

Of the old magician rid; And henceforth shall ev'ry spirit

Do whate'er by me is bid;

I have watch'd with rigour

All he used to do,