The Poems of Goethe Part 94

1776.*

----- THE WRANGLER.

ONE day a shameless and impudent wight Went into a shop full of steel wares bright, Arranged with art upon ev'ry shelf.

He fancied they were all meant for himself; And so, while the patient owner stood by, The shining goods needs must handle and try, And valued,--for how should a fool better know?-- The bad things high, and the good ones low, And all with an easy self-satisfied face; Then, having bought nothing, he left the place.

The tradesman now felt sorely vex'd, So when the fellow went there next, A lock of steel made quite red hot.

The other cried upon the spot: "Such wares as these, who'd ever buy?

the steel is tarnish'd shamefully,"-- Then pull'd it, like a fool about, But soon set up a piteous shout.

"Pray what's the matter?" the shopman spoke; The other scream'd: "Faith, a very cool joke!"

1815.*

----- THE YELPERS.

OUR rides in all directions bend,

For business or for pleasure, Yet yelpings on our steps attend,

And barkings without measure.

The dog that in our stable dwells,

After our heels is striding, And all the while his noisy yells

But show that we are riding.

1815.*

----- THE STORK'S VOCATION.

THE stork who worms and frogs devours

That in our ponds reside, Why should he dwell on high church-towers,

With which he's not allied?

Incessantly he chatters there,

And gives our ears no rest; But neither old nor young can dare

To drive him from his nest.

I humbly ask it,--how can he

Give of his t.i.tle proof, Save by his happy tendency

To soil the church's roof?

----- CELEBRITY.

[A satire on his own Sorrows of Werther.]

ON bridges small and bridges great Stands Nepomucks in ev'ry state, Of bronze, wood, painted, or of stone, Some small as dolls, some giants grown; Each pa.s.ser must worship before Nepomuck, Who to die on a bridge chanced to have the ill luck, When once a man with head and ears A saint in people's eyes appears, Or has been sentenced piteously Beneath the hangman's hand to die, He's as a noted person prized, In portrait is immortalized.

Engravings, woodcuts, are supplied, And through the world spread far and wide.

Upon them all is seen his name, And ev'ry one admits his claim; Even the image of the Lord Is not with greater zeal ador'd.

Strange fancy of the human race!

Half sinner frail, half child of grace We see HERR WERTHER of the story In all the pomp of woodcut glory.

His worth is first made duly known, By having his sad features shown At ev'ry fair the country round; In ev'ry alehouse too they're found.

His stick is pointed by each dunce "The ball would reach his brain at once!"

And each says, o'er his beer and bread: "Thank Heav'n that 'tis not we are dead!"

1815.*

----- PLAYING AT PRIESTS.

WITHIN a town where parity According to old form we see,-- That is to say, where Catholic And Protestant no quarrels pick, And where, as in his father's day, Each worships G.o.d in his own way, We Luth'ran children used to dwell, By songs and sermons taught as well.

The Catholic clingclang in truth Sounded more pleasing to our youth, For all that we encounter'd there, To us seem'd varied, joyous, fair.

As children, monkeys, and mankind To ape each other are inclin'd, We soon, the time to while away, A game at priests resolved to play.

Their ap.r.o.ns all our sisters lent For copes, which gave us great content; And handkerchiefs, embroider'd o'er, Instead of stoles we also wore; Gold paper, whereon beasts were traced, The bishop's brow as mitre graced.

Through house and garden thus in state We strutted early, strutted late, Repeating with all proper unction, Incessantly each holy function.

The best was wanting to the game;

We knew that a sonorous ring

Was here a most important thing; But Fortune to our rescue came, For on the ground a halter lay;

We were delighted, and at once

Made it a bellrope for the nonce, And kept it moving all the day;

In turns each sister and each brother

Acted as s.e.xton to another; All help'd to swell the joyous throng;

The whole proceeded swimmingly,

And since no actual bell had we, We all in chorus sang, Ding dong!

Our guileless child's-sport long was hush'd

In memory's tomb, like some old lay; And yet across my mind it rush'd

With pristine force the other day.

The New-Poetic Catholics In ev'ry point its aptness fix!

1815.*

----- SONGS.

SONGS are like painted window-panes!