The Poems of Goethe Part 74

Yet no shady vale can stay him, Nor can flowers, Round his knees all-softly twining With their loving eyes detain him; To the plain his course he taketh, Serpent-winding,

Social streamlets Join his waters. And now moves he O'er the plain in silv'ry glory, And the plain in him exults, And the rivers from the plain, And the streamlets from the mountain, Shout with joy, exclaiming: "Brother, Brother, take thy brethren with thee, With thee to thine aged father, To the everlasting ocean, Who, with arms outstretching far, Waiteth for us; Ah, in vain those arms lie open To embrace his yearning children; For the thirsty sand consumes us In the desert waste; the sunbeams Drink our life-blood; hills around us Into lakes would dam us! Brother, Take thy brethren of the plain, Take thy brethren of the mountain With thee, to thy father's arms!

Let all come, then!-- And now swells he Lordlier still; yea, e'en a people Bears his regal flood on high!

And in triumph onward rolling, Names to countries gives he,--cities Spring to light beneath his foot.

Ever, ever, on he rushes, Leaves the towers' flame-tipp'd summits, Marble palaces, the offspring Of his fullness, far behind.

Cedar-houses bears the Atlas On his giant shoulders; flutt'ring In the breeze far, far above him Thousand flags are gaily floating, Bearing witness to his might.

And so beareth he his brethren, All his treasures, all his children, Wildly shouting, to the bosom Of his long-expectant sire.

1774.

----- SPIRIT SONG OVER THE WATERS.

THE soul of man Resembleth water: From heaven it cometh, To heaven it soareth.

And then again To earth descendeth, Changing ever.

Down from the lofty Rocky wall Streams the bright flood, Then spreadeth gently In cloudy billows O'er the smooth rock, And welcomed kindly, Veiling, on roams it, Soft murmuring, Tow'rd the abyss.

Cliffs projecting Oppose its progress,-- Angrily foams it Down to the bottom, Step by step.

Now, in flat channel, Through the meadowland steals it, And in the polish'd lake Each constellation Joyously peepeth.

Wind is the loving Wooer of waters; Wind blends together Billows all-foaming.

Spirit of man, Thou art like unto water!

Fortune of man, Thou art like unto wind!

1789.*

----- MY G.o.dDESS.

SAY, which Immortal Merits the highest reward?

With none contend I, But I will give it To the aye-changing, Ever-moving Wondrous daughter of Jove.

His best-beloved offspring.

Sweet Phantasy.

For unto her Hath he granted All the fancies which erst To none allow'd he Saving himself; Now he takes his pleasure In the mad one.

She may, crowned with roses, With staff twined round with lilies, Roam thro' flow'ry valleys, Rule the b.u.t.terfly-people, And soft-nourishing dew With bee-like lips Drink from the blossom:

Or else she may With fluttering hair And gloomy looks Sigh in the wind Round rocky cliffs, And thousand-hued.

Like morn and even.

Ever changing, Like moonbeam's light, To mortals appear.

Let us all, then, Adore the Father!

The old, the mighty, Who such a beauteous Ne'er-fading spouse Deigns to accord To perishing mortals!

To us alone Doth he unite her, With heavenly bonds, While he commands her, in joy and sorrow, As a true spouse Never to fly us.

All the remaining Races so poor Of life-teeming earth.

In children so rich.

Wander and feed In vacant enjoyment, And 'mid the dark sorrows Of evanescent Restricted life,-- Bow'd by the heavy Yoke of Necessity.

But unto us he Hath his most versatile, Most cherished daughter Granted,--what joy!

Lovingly greet her As a beloved one!

Give her the woman's Place in our home!

And oh, may the aged Stepmother Wisdom Her gentle spirit Ne'er seek to harm!

Yet know I her sister, The older, sedater, Mine own silent friend; Oh, may she never, Till life's lamp is quench'd, Turn away from me,-- That n.o.ble inciter, Comforter,--Hope!

1781.

----- WINTER JOURNEY OVER THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS.

[The following explanation is necessary, in order to make this ode in any way intelligible. The Poet is supposed to leave his companions, who are proceeding on a hunting expedition in winter, in order himself to pay a visit to a hypochondriacal friend, and also to see the mining in the Hartz mountains. The ode alternately describes, in a very fragmentary and peculiar manner, the naturally happy disposition of the Poet himself and the unhappiness of his friend; it pictures the wildness of the road and the dreariness of the prospect, which is relieved at one spot by the distant sight of a town, a very vague allusion to which is made in the third strophe; it recalls the hunting party on which his companions have gone; and after an address to Love, concludes by a contrast between the unexplored recesses of the highest peak of the Hartz and the metalliferous veins of its smaller brethren.]

LIKE the vulture Who on heavy morning clouds With gentle wing reposing Looks for his prey,-- Hover, my song!

For a G.o.d hath Unto each prescribed His destined path, Which the happy one Runs o'er swiftly To his glad goal: He whose heart cruel Fate hath contracted, Struggles but vainly Against all the barriers The brazen thread raises, But which the harsh shears Must one day sever.

Through gloomy thickets Presseth the wild deer on, And with the sparrows Long have the wealthy Settled themselves in the marsh.

Easy 'tis following the chariot That by Fortune is driven, Like the baggage that moves Over well-mended highways After the train of a prince.

But who stands there apart?

In the thicket, lost is his path; Behind him the bushes Are closing together, The gra.s.s springs up again, The desert engulphs him.

Ah, who'll heal his afflictions, To whom balsam was poison, Who, from love's fullness, Drank in misanthropy only?

First despised, and now a despiser, He, in secret, wasteth All that he is worth, In a selfishness vain.

If there be, on thy psaltery, Father of Love, but one tone That to his ear may be pleasing, Oh, then, quicken his heart!

Clear his cloud-enveloped eyes Over the thousand fountains Close by the thirsty one In the desert.

Thou who createst much joy, For each a measure o'erflowing, Bless the sons of the chase When on the track of the prey, With a wild thirsting for blood, Youthful and joyous Avenging late the injustice Which the peasant resisted Vainly for years with his staff.

But the lonely one veil Within thy gold clouds!

Surround with winter-green, Until the roses bloom again, The humid locks, Oh Love, of thy minstrel!

With thy glimmering torch Lightest thou him Through the fords when 'tis night, Over bottomless places On desert-like plains; With the thousand colours of morning Gladd'nest his bosom; With the fierce-biting storm Bearest him proudly on high; Winter torrents rush from the cliffs,-- Blend with his psalms; An altar of grateful delight He finds in the much-dreaded mountain's Snow-begirded summit, Which foreboding nations Crown'd with spirit-dances.

Thou stand'st with breast inscrutable, Mysteriously disclosed, High o'er the wondering world, And look'st from clouds Upon its realms and its majesty, Which thou from the veins of thy brethren Near thee dost water.

1777.

----- TO FATHER* KRONOS.

[written in a post-chaise.]

(* In the original, Schwager, which has the twofold meaning of brother-in-law and postilion.)