The Poems of Goethe by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (10 best novels of all time .TXT) 📕

YE children of mortals The deities dread! The mastery hold they In hands all-eternal, And use them, unquestioned, What manner they like.

Let him fear them doubly, Whom they have uplifted! On cliffs and on clouds, oh, Round tables all-golden, he seats are made ready.

When rises contention, The guests are humid downwards With shame and dishonor To deep depths of midnight, And vainly await they, Bound fast in the darkness, A just condemnation.

But they remain ever In firmness unshaken Round tables all-golden. On stride they from mountain To mountain far distant: From out the abysses' Dark jaws, the breath rises Of torment-choked Titans Up tow'rds them, like incense In light clouds ascending.

The rulers immortal Avert from whole peoples Their blessing-fraught glances, And shun, in the children, To trace the once cherish'd, Still, eloquent features Their ancestors wore.

Thus chanted the Parae; The old man, the banish'd, In gloomy vault lying, Their song overheareth, Sons, grandsons remembereth, And shaketh his head.

FROM GOTZ VON BERLICHINGEN.

ACT II.

LIEBETRAUT plays and sings.

HIS bow and dart bearing, And torch brightly flaring,

Dan Cupid on flies; With victory laden, To vanquish each maiden

He roguishly tries.

Then finds he each bosom

Defenseless and bare; They gladly receive him

And welcome him there. The point of his arrows

He lights in the glow; They clasp him and kiss him

And fondle him so. He e o! Pap!

FROM EGMONT.

ACT I.

CLARA winds a skein, and sings with Brackenburg.

THE drum gives the signal!

Loud rings the shrill fife! My love leads his troops on

Full arm'd for the strife, While his hand grasps his lance As they proudly advance.

My bosom pants wildly! My blood hotly flows! Oh had I a doublet, A helmet, and hose!

Through the gate with bold footstep

I after him hied,-- Each province, each country

Explored by his side. The coward foe trembled Then rattled our shot: What bliss e'er resembled

A soldier's glad lot!

ACT III.

CLARA sings.

Gladness

And sadness And pensiveness blending

Yearning

And burning In torment ne'er ending;

Sad unto death, Proudly soaring above;

Happy alone Is the soul that doth love!

FROM "WILHELM MEISTER'S APPRENTICESHIP."

BOOK II., CHAP. XIII.

WHO never eat with tears his bread,

Who never through night's heavy hours Sat weeping on his lonely bed,--

He knows you not, ye heavenly powers!

Through you the paths of life we gain,

Ye let poor mortals go astray, And then abandon them to pain,--

E'en here the penalty we pay,

WHO gives himself to solitude,

Soon lonely will remain; Each lives, each loves in joyous mood,

And leaves him to his pain.

Yes! leave me to my grief! Were solitude's relief

E'er granted me,

Alone I should not be.

A lover steals, on footstep light,

To learn if his love's alone; Thus o'er me steals, by day and night,

Anguish before unknown, Thus o'er me steals deep grief. Ah, when I find relief

Within the tomb so lonely,

Will rest be met with only!

BOOK IV., CHAP. XI.

My grief no mortals know,

Except the yearning! Alone, a prey to woe,

All pleasure spurning, Up tow'rds the sky I throw

A gaze discerning.

He who my love can know

Seems ne'er returning; With strange and fiery glow

My heart is burning. My grief no mortals know,

Except the yearning!

BOOK V., CHAP. X.

SING no more in mournful tones

Of the loneliness of night; For 'tis made, ye beauteous ones,

For all social pleasures bright.

As of old to man a wife

As his better half was given, So the night is half our life,

And the fairest under heaven.

How can ye enjoy the day,

Which obstructs our rapture's tide? Let it waste itself away;

Worthless 'tis for aught beside.

But when in the darkling hours

From the lamp soft rays are glowing, And from mouth to mouth sweet showers,

Now of jest, now love, are flowing,--

When the nimble, wanton boy,

Who so wildly spends his days, Oft amid light sports with joy

O'er some trifling gift delays,�

When the nightingale is singing

Strains the lover holds so dear, Though like sighs and wailings ringing

In the mournful captive's ear,--

With what heart-emotion blest

Do ye hearken to the bell, Wont of safety and of rest

With twelve solemn strokes to tell!

Therefore in each heavy hour,

Let this precept fill your heart: O'er each day will sorrow loud,

Rapture ev'ry night impart.

EPILOGUE TO SCHILLER'S "SONG OF THE BELL."

[This fine piece, written originally in 1805, on Schiller's death, was altered and recast by Goethe in 1815, on the occasion of the performance on the stage of the Song of the Bell. Hence the allusion in the last verse.]

AND so it proved! The nation felt, ere long,

That peaceful signal, and, with blessings fraught, A new-born joy appear'd; in gladsome song

To hail the youthful princely pair we sought; While in a living, ever-swelling throng

Mingled the crowds from ev'ry region brought, And on the stage, in festal pomp array'd The HOMAGE OF THE ARTS * we saw displayed.

(* The title of a lyric piece composed by Schiller in honour of the marriage of the hereditary Prince of Weimar to the Princess Maria of Russia, and performed in 1804.)

When, lo! a fearful midnight sound I hear,

That with a dull and mournful echo rings. And can it be that of our friend so dear

It tells, to whom each wish so fondly clings? Shall death overcome a life that all revere?

How such a loss to all confusion brings! How such a parting we must ever rue! The world is weeping,--shall not we weep too?

He was our own! How social, yet how great

Seem'd in the light of day his noble mind! How was his nature, pleasing yet sedate,

Now for glad converse joyously incline, Then swiftly changing, spirit-fraught, elate,

Life's plan with deep-felt meaning it design'd, Fruitful alike in counsel and in deed! This have we proved, this tasted, in our need.

He was our own! O may that thought so blest

Overcome the voice of wailing and of woe He might have sought the Lasting, safe at rest

In harbour, when the tempest ceased to blow. Meanwhile his mighty spirit onward press'd

Where goodness, beauty, truth, for ever grow; And in his rear, in shadowy outline, lay The vulgar, which we all, alas, obey!

Now doth he deck the garden-turret fair

Where the stars' language first illuded his soul, As secretly yet clearly through the air

On the eterne, the living sense it stole; And to his own, and our great profit, there

Exchangeth he the seasons as they roll; Thus nobly doth he vanquish, with renown, The twilight and the night that weigh us down.

Brighter now glow'd his cheek, and still more bright.

With that unchanging, ever-youthful glow,-- That courage which overcomes, in hard-fought fight,

Sooner or later, ev'ry earthly foe-- That faith which, soaring to the realms of light,

Now boldly Presseth on, now bendeth low, So that the good may work, wax, thrive amain, So that the day the noble may attain.

Yet, though so skill'd, of such transcendent worth,

This boarded scaffold doth he not despise; The fate that on its axis turns the earth

From day to night, here shows he to our eyes, Raising, through many a work of glorious birth,

Art and the artist's fame up tow'rd the skies. He fills with blossoms of the noblest strife, With life itself, this effigy of life.

His giant-step, as ye full surely knew,

Measured the circle of the will and deed, Each country's changing thoughts and morals too,

The darksome book with clearness could he read; Yet how he, breathless 'midst his friends so true,

Despaired in sorrow, scarce from pain was freed,-- All this have we, in sadly happy years, For he was ours, bewailed with feeling tears.

When from the agonizing weight of grief

He raised his eyes upon the world again, We show'd him how his thoughts might find relief

From the uncertain present's heavy chain, Gave his fresh-kindled mind a respite brief,

With kindly skill beguiling ev'ry pain, And e'en at eve, when setting was his sun, From his wan cheeks a gentle smile we won.

Full early had he read the stern decree,

Sorrow and death to him, alas, were known; Ofttimes recovering, now departed he,--

Dread tidings, that our hearts had fear'd to own! Yet his transfigured being now can see

Itself, e'en here on earth, transfigured grown. What his own age reproved, and deem'd a crime, Hath been ennobled now by death and time.

And many a soul that with him strove in fight,

And his great merit grudged to recognise, Now feels the impress of his wondrous might,

And in his magic fetters gladly lies; E'en to the highest bath he winged his flight,

In close communion link'd with all we prize. Extol him then! What mortals while they live But half receive, posterity shall give.

Thus is he left us, who so long ago,--

Ten years, alas, already!--turn'd from earth; We all, to our great joy, his precepts know,

Oh may the world confess their priceless worth! In swelling tide tow'rd every region flow

The thoughts that were his own peculiar birth; He gleams like some departing meteor bright, Combining, with his own, eternal light.

L'ENVOl.

Now, gentle reader, is our journey ended,

Mute is our minstrel, silent is our song; Sweet the bard's voice whose strains our course attended,

Pleasant the paths he guided us along. Now must we part,--Oh word all full of sadness, Changing to pensive retrospect our gladness!

Reader, farewell! we part perchance for ever,

Scarce may I hope to meet with thee again; But e'en though fate our fellowship may sever,

Reader, will aught to mark that tie remain? Yes! there is left one sad sweet bond of union,-- Sorrow at parting links us in communion.

But of the twain, the greater is my sorrow,--

Reader, and why?--Bethink thee of the sun, How, when he sets, he waiteth for the morrow,

Proudly once more his giant-race to run,-- Yet, e'en when set, a glow behind him leaving, Gladdening the spirit, which had else been grieving.

Thus mayst thou feel, for thou to GOETHE only

Baldest farewell, nor camest aught for me. Twofold my parting, leaving me all lonely,--

I now must part from GOETHE and from thee, Parting at once from comrade and from leader,-- Farewell, great minstrel! farewell, gentle reader!

Hush'd is the harp, its music sunk in slumbers, Memory alone can waken now its numbers.

End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Poems of Goethe, Bowring, Tr.