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 grass 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.)
HASTEN thee, Kronos!
On with clattering trot
Downhill goeth thy path;
Loathsome dizziness ever,
When thou delayest, assails me.
Quick,
rattle along,
Over stock and stone let thy trot
Into life
straightway lead
Now once more
Up the toilsome ascent
Hasten, panting for breath!
Up, then, nor idle be,--
Striving and hoping, up, up!
Wide, high,
glorious the view
Gazing round upon life,
While from mount unto mount
Hovers the spirit eterne,
Life
eternal foreboding.
Sideways a roof's pleasant shade
Attracts thee,
And a look that promises coolness
On the maidenly threshold.
There
refresh thee! And, maiden,
Give me this foaming
draught also,
Give me this health-laden look!
Down, now! quicker still, down!
See where the sun sets
Ere he sets, ere old age
Seizeth me in the morass,
Ere my toothless jaws mumble,
And my
useless limbs totter;
While drunk with his
farewell beam
Hurl me,--a fiery sea
Foaming still in mine eye,--
Hurl me, while dazzled and reeling,
Down to the
gloomyportal of hell.
Blow, then,
gossip, thy horn,
Speed on with echoing trot,
So that Orcus may know we are coming;
So that our host may with joy
Wait at the door to receive us.
1774.
-----
THE WANDERER'S STORM-SONG.
[Goethe says of this ode, that it is the only one remaining out
of several strange hymns and dithyrambs
composed by him at a
period of great unhappiness, when the love-affair between him and
Frederica had been broken off by him. He used to sing them while
wandering wildly about the country. This particular one was
caused by his being caught in a
tremendous storm on one of these
occasions. He calls it a half-crazy piece (halkunsinn), and the
reader will probably agree with him.]
He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Feels no dread within his heart
At the
tempest or the rain.
He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Will to the rain-clouds,
Will to the hailstorm,
Sing in reply
As the lark sings,
Oh thou on high!
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt raise above the mud-track
With thy fiery pinions.
He will wander,
As, with
flowery feet,
Over Deucalion's dark flood,
Python-slaying, light,
glorious,
Pythius Apollo.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt place upon thy
fleecy pinion
When he sleepeth on the rock,--
Thou wilt shelter with thy
guardian wing
In the forest's
midnight hour.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt wrap up warmly
In the snow-drift;
Tow'rd the
warmth approach the Muses,
Tow'rd the
warmth approach the Graces.
Ye Muses, hover round me!
Ye Graces also!
That is water, that is earth,
And the son of water and of earth
Over which I wander,
Like the gods.
Ye are pure, like the heart of the water,
Ye are pure like the
marrow of earth,
Hov'ring round me, while I hover
Over water, o'er the earth
Like the gods.
Shall he, then, return,
The small, the dark, the fiery
peasant?
Shall he, then, return, waiting
Only thy gifts, oh Father Bromius,
And
brightly gleaming,
warmth-spreading fire?
Return with joy?
And I, whom ye attended,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Whom all awaits that ye,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Of circling bliss in life
Have glorified--shall I
Return dejected?
Father Bromius!
Thourt the Genius,
Genius of ages,
Thou'rt what
inward glow
To Pindar was,
What to the world
Phoebus Apollo.
Woe! Woe Inward
warmth,
Spirit-
warmth,
Central-point!
Glow, and vie with
Phoebus Apollo!
Coldly soon
His regal look
Over thee will
swiftly glide,--
Envy-struck
Linger o'er the cedar's strength,
Which, to flourish,
Waits him not.
Why doth my lay name thee the last?
Thee, from whom it began,
Thee, in whom it endeth,
Thee, from whom it flows,
Jupiter Pluvius!
Tow'rd thee streams my song.