The Poems of Goethe Part 98

Wit had but dull sons for his lot; So for a season it appear'd

Beauty was constant, Wit was not.

But Wit's a native of the soil,

So he return'd, work'd, strove amain, And found--sweet guerdon for his toil!--

Beauty to quicken him again.

1827.*

III.

RAIN AND RAINBOW.

DURING a heavy storm it chanced That from his room a c.o.c.kney glanced At the fierce tempest as it broke, While to his neighbour thus he spoke: "The thunder has our awe inspired, Our barns by lightning have been fired,-- Our sins to punish, I suppose; But in return, to soothe our woes, See how the rain in torrents fell, Making the harvest promise well!

But is't a rainbow that I spy Extending o'er the dark-grey sky?

With it I'm sure we may dispense, The colour'd cheat! The vain pretence!"

Dame Iris straightway thus replied: "Dost dare my beauty to deride?

In realms of s.p.a.ce G.o.d station'd me A type of better worlds to be To eyes that from life's sorrows rove In cheerful hope to Heav'n above, And, through the mists that hover here G.o.d and his precepts blest revere.

Do thou, then, grovel like the swine, And to the ground thy snout confine, But suffer the enlighten'd eye To feast upon my majesty."

1827.*

VALEDICTION.

I ONCE was fond of fools,

And bid them come each day; Then each one brought his tools

The carpenter to play; The roof to strip first choosing,

Another to supply, The wood as trestles using,

To move it by-and-by, While here and there they ran,

And knock'd against each other; To fret I soon began,

My anger could not smother, So cried, "Get out, ye fools!"

At this they were offended Then each one took his tools,

And so our friendship ended.

Since that, I've wiser been,

And sit beside my door; When one of them is seen,

I cry, "Appear no more!"

"Hence, stupid knave!" I bellow:

At this he's angry too: "You impudent old fellow!

And pray, sir, who are you?

Along the streets we riot,

And revel at the fair; But yet we're pretty quiet,

And folks revile us ne'er.

Don't call us names, then, please!"-- At length I meet with ease,

For now they leave my door-- 'Tis better than before!

1827.*

----- THE COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER.

I.

A MASTER of a country school Jump'd up one day from off his stool, Inspired with firm resolve to try To gain the best society; So to the nearest baths he walk'd, And into the saloon he stalk'd.

He felt quite. startled at the door, Ne'er having seen the like before.

To the first stranger made he now A very low and graceful bow, But quite forgot to bear in mind That people also stood behind; His left-hand neighbor's paunch he struck A grievous blow, by great ill luck; Pardon for this he first entreated, And then in haste his bow repeated.

His right hand neighbor next he hit, And begg'd him, too, to pardon it; But on his granting his pet.i.tion, Another was in like condition; These compliments he paid to all, Behind, before, across the hall; At length one who could stand no more, Show'd him impatiently the door.

May many, pond'ring on their crimes, A moral draw from this betimes!

II.

As he proceeded on his way He thought, "I was too weak to-day; To bow I'll ne'er again be seen; For goats will swallow what is green."

Across the fields he now must speed, Not over stumps and stones, indeed, But over meads and cornfields sweet, Trampling down all with clumsy feet.

A farmer met him by-and-by, And didn't 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!"