The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01 · Chapter 3Poems
This chapter is not translated yet. You are reading the original.
My heart throbbed high: to horse, away then! Swift as a hero to the fight! Earth in the arms of evening lay then, And o'er the mountains hung the night, Now could I see like some huge giant The haze-enveloped oak-tree rise, While from the thicket stared defiant The darkness with its hundred eyes.
The cloud-throned moon from his dominion Peered drowsily through veils of mist. The wind with gently-wafting pinion Gave forth a rustling strange and whist. With shapes of fear the night was thronging But all the more my courage glowed; My soul flamed up in passionate longing And hot my heart with rapture flowed.
I saw thee; melting rays of pleasure Streamed o'er me from thy tender glance, My heart beat only to thy measure, I drew my breath as in a trance. The radiant hue of spring caressing Lay rosy on thy upturned face, And love—ye gods, how rich the blessing! I dared not hope to win such grace.
To part—alas what grief in this is!— In every look thy heart spoke plain. What ecstasy was in thy kisses! What changing thrill of joy and pain! I went. One solace yet to capture, Thine eyes pursued in sweet distress. But to be loved, what holy rapture! To love, ah gods, what happiness!
[Illustration: THE HEATHROSE K. Kogler]
Once a boy a Rosebud spied, Heathrose fair and tender, All array'd in youthful pride,— Quickly to the spot he hied, Ravished by her splendor. Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Heathrose fair and tender! Said the boy, "I'll now pick thee Heathrose fair and tender!" Rosebud cried "And I'll prick thee, So thou shalt remember me, Ne'er will I surrender!" Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Heathrose fair and tender! But the wanton plucked the rose, Heathrose fair and tender; Thorns the cruel theft oppose, Brief the struggle and vain the woes, She must needs surrender. Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Heathrose fair and tender!
[This song was intended to be introduced in a dramatic poem entitled Mahomet, the plan of which was not carried out by Goethe. He mentions that it was to have been sung by Ali toward the end of the piece, in honor of his master, Mahomet, shortly before his death, and when at the height of his glory, of which it is typical.]
See the rock-born stream! Like the gleam Of a star so bright! Kindly spirits High above the clouds Nourished him while youthful In the copse between the cliffs.
Young and fresh, From the clouds he danceth Down upon the marble rocks; Then tow'rd heaven Leaps exulting.
Through the mountain-passes Chaseth he the color'd pebbles, And, advancing like a chief, Draws his brother streamlets with him In his course.
In the vale below 'Neath his footsteps spring the flowers, And the meadow In his breath finds life.
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.
Eager 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 agèd 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 fulness, 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.
Cover thy spacious heavens, Zeus, With clouds of mist, And, like the boy who lops The thistles' heads, Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks; Yet thou must leave
My earth still standing; My cottage too, which was not raised by thee, Leave me my hearth, Whose kindly glow By thee is envied.
I know nought poorer Under the sun, than ye gods! Ye nourish painfully, With sacrifices And votive prayers, Your majesty; Ye would e'en starve, If children and beggars Were not trusting fools. While yet a child, And ignorant of life, I turned my wandering gaze Up tow'rd the sun, as if with him There were an ear to hear my wailing, A heart, like mine To feel compassion for distress.
Who help'd me Against the Titans' insolence? Who rescued me from certain death, From slavery? Didst thou not do all this thyself, My sacred glowing heart? And glowedst, young and good, Deceived with grateful thanks To yonder slumbering one?
I honor thee! and why? Hast thou e'er lighten'd the sorrows Of the heavy laden? Hast thou e'er dried up the tears
[Illustration: PROMETHEUS Titian.]
Of the anguish-stricken? Was I not fashion'd to be a man By omnipotent Time, And by eternal Fate, Masters of me and thee?
Didst thou e'er fancy That life I should learn to hate, And fly to deserts, Because not all My blossoming dreams grew ripe?
Here sit I, forming mortals After my image; A race resembling me, To suffer, to weep, To enjoy, to be glad, And thee to scorn, As I!
Thou who comest from on high, Who all woes and sorrows stillest, Who, for two-fold misery, Hearts with twofold balsam fillest, Would this constant strife would cease! What avails the joy and pain? Blissful Peace, To my bosom come again!
Many a day and night my bark stood ready laden; Waiting fav'ring winds, I sat with true friends round me, Pledging me to patience and to courage, In the haven.
And they spoke thus with impatience twofold: "Gladly pray we for thy rapid passage, Gladly for thy happy voyage; fortune In the distant world is waiting for thee, In our arms thou'lt find thy prize, and love too, When returning."
And when morning came, arose an uproar And the sailors' joyous shouts awoke us; All was stirring, all was living, moving, Bent on sailing with the first kind zephyr.
And the sails soon in the breeze are swelling, And the sun with fiery love invites us; Fill'd the sails are, clouds on high are floating, On the shore each friend exulting raises Songs of hope, in giddy joy expecting Joy the voyage through, as on the morn of sailing, And the earliest starry nights so radiant.
But by God-sent changing winds ere long he's driven Sideways from the course he had intended, And he feigns as though he would surrender, While he gently striveth to outwit them, To his goal, e'en when thus press'd, still faithful.
But from out the damp gray distance rising, Softly now the storm proclaims its advent, Presseth down each bird upon the waters, Presseth down the throbbing hearts of mortals. And it cometh. At its stubborn fury, Wisely ev'ry sail the seaman striketh; With the anguish-laden ball are sporting Wind and water.
And on yonder shore are gather'd standing, Friends and lovers, trembling for the bold one: "Why, alas, remain'd he here not with us! Ah, the tempest I Cast away by fortune! Must the good one perish in this fashion? Might not he perchance * * *. Ye great immortals!"
Yet he, like a man, stands by his rudder; With the bark are sporting wind and water, Wind and water sport not with his bosom: On the fierce deep looks he, as a master,— In his gods, or shipwreck'd, or safe landed, Trusting ever.
Bush and vale thou fill'st again With thy misty ray, And my spirit's heavy chain Casteth far away.
Thou dost o'er my fields extend Thy sweet soothing eye, Watching like a gentle friend, O'er my destiny.
Vanish'd days of bliss and woe Haunt me with their tone, Joy and grief in turns I know, As I stray alone.
Stream beloved, flow on! Flow on! Ne'er can I be gay! Thus have sport and kisses gone, Truth thus pass'd away.
Once I seem'd the lord to be Of that prize so fair! Now, to our deep sorrow, we Can forget it ne'er.
Murmur, stream, the vale along, Never cease thy sighs; Murmur, whisper to my song Answering melodies!
When thou in the winter's night Overflow'st in wrath, Or in spring-time sparklest bright, As the buds shoot forth.
He who from the world retires, Void of hate, is blest; Who a friend's true love inspires, Leaning on his breast!
That which heedless man ne'er knew, Or ne'er thought aright, Roams the bosom's labyrinth through, Boldly into night.
The waters rush'd, the waters rose, A fisherman sat by, While on his line in calm repose He cast his patient eye. And as he sat, and hearken'd there, The flood was cleft in twain, And, lo! a dripping mermaid fair Sprang from the troubled main.
She sang to him, and spake the while "Why lurest thou my brood, With human wit and human guile From out their native flood? Oh, couldst thou know how gladly dart The fish across the sea, Thou wouldst descend, e'en as thou art, And truly happy be!
Do not the sun and moon with grace Their forms in ocean lave? Shines not with twofold charms their face, When rising from the wave? The deep, deep heavens, then lure thee not,— The moist yet radiant blue,— Not thine own form,—to tempt thy lot 'Midst this eternal dew?"
The waters rush'd, the waters rose, Wetting his naked feet; As if his true love's words were those, His heart with longing beat. She sang to him, to him spake she, His doom was fix'd, I ween; Half drew she him, and half sank he, And ne'er again was seen.
[Illustration: THE FISHERMAN AND THE MERMAID Georg Papperitz]
[Written at night on the Kickelhahn, a hill in the forest of Ilmenau, on the walls of a little hermitage where Goethe composed the last act of his Iphigenie.]
Hush'd on the hill Is the breeze; Scarce by the zephyr The trees Softly are press'd; The woodbird's asleep on the bough. Wait, then, and thou Soon wilt find rest.
Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear? The father it is, with his infant so dear; He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm, He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
"My son, wherefore seek's thou thy face thus to hide?" "Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side! Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?" "My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."
"Oh come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me! Full many a game I will play there with thee; On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold, My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?" "Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives; 'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."
"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there? My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care; My daughters by night their glad festival keep, They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."
"My father, my father, and dost thou not see, How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?" "My darling, my darling, I see it aright, 'Tis the agèd gray willows deceiving thy sight."
"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy! And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ." "My father, my father, he seizes me fast, Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."
The father now gallops, with terror half wild, He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child; He reaches his court-yard with toil and with dread,— The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.
Noble be man, Helpful and good! For that alone Distinguisheth him From all the beings Unto us known.
Hail to the beings, Unknown and glorious, Whom we forebode! From his example Learn we to know them!
For unfeeling Nature is ever On bad and on good The sun alike shineth; And on the wicked, As on the best, The moon and stars gleam.
Tempest and torrent, Thunder and hail, Roar on their path, Seizing the while, As they haste onward, One after another.
Even so, fortune Gropes 'mid the throng— Innocent boyhood's Curly head seizing,— Seizing the hoary Head of the sinner.
After laws mighty, Brazen, eternal, Must all we mortals Finish the circuit Of our existence.
Man, and man only Can do the impossible He 'tis distinguisheth, Chooseth and judgeth; He to the moment Endurance can lend.
He and he only The good can reward, The bad can he punish, Can heal and can save; All that wanders and strays Can usefully blend.
And we pay homage To the immortals As though they were men, And did in the great, What the best, in the small, Does or might do.
Be the man that is noble, Both helpful and good, Unweariedly forming The right and the useful, A type of those beings Our mind hath foreshadow'd!
[This universally known poem is also to be found in Wilhelm Meister.]
Know'st thou the land where the fair citron blows, Where the bright orange midst the foliage glows, Where soft winds greet us from the azure skies, Where silent myrtles, stately laurels rise, Know'st thou it well?
'Tis there, 'tis there, That I with thee, beloved one, would repair.
Know'st thou the house? On columns rests its pile, Its halls are gleaming, and its chambers smile, And marble statues stand and gaze on me: "Poor child! what sorrow hath befallen thee?" Know'st thou it well?
'Tis there, 'tis there, That I with thee, protector, would repair!
Know'st thou the mountain, and its cloudy bridge? The mule can scarcely find the misty ridge; In caverns dwells the dragon's olden brood, The frowning crag obstructs the raging flood. Know'st thou it well?
'Tis there, 'tis there, Our path lies—Father—thither, oh repair!
I think of thee, whene'er the sun his beams O'er ocean flings; I think of thee, whene'er the moonlight gleams In silv'ry springs.
I see thee, when upon the distant ridge The dust awakes; At midnight's hour, when on the fragile bridge The wanderer quakes.
I hear thee, when yon billows rise on high, With murmur deep. To tread the silent grove oft wander I, When all's asleep.
I'm near thee, though thou far away mayst be— Thou, too, art near! The sun then sets, the stars soon lighten me, Would thou wert here!
Up yonder on the mountain, I dwelt for days together; Looked down into the valley, This pleasant summer weather.
My sheep go feeding onward, My dog sits watching by; I've wandered to the valley, And yet I know not why.
The meadow, it is pretty, With flowers so fair to see; I gather them, but no one Will take the flowers from me.
The good tree gives me shadow, And shelter from the rain; But yonder door is silent, It will not ope again!
I see the rainbow bending, Above her old abode, But she is there no longer; They've taken my love abroad.
They took her o'er the mountains, They took her o'er the sea; Move on, move on, my bonny sheep, There is no rest for me!
Nature and art asunder seem to fly, Yet sooner than we think find common ground; In place of strife, harmonious songs resound, And both, at one, to my abode draw nigh. In sooth but one endeavor I descry: Then only, when in ordered moments' round Wisdom and toil our lives to Art have bound, Dare we rejoice in Nature's liberty. Thus is achievement fashioned everywhere: Not by ungovernable, hasty zeal Shalt thou the height of perfect form attain. Husband thy strength, if great emprize thou dare; In self-restraint thy masterhood reveal, And under law thy perfect freedom gain.
How is it that thou art so sad When others are so gay? Thou hast been weeping—nay, thou hast! Thine eyes the truth betray.
"And if I may not choose but weep Is not my grief mine own? No heart was heavier yet for tears— O leave me, friend, alone!"
Come join this once the merry band, They call aloud for thee, And mourn no more for what is lost, But let the past go free.
"O, little know ye in your mirth, What wrings my heart so deep! I have not lost the idol yet, For which I sigh and weep."
Then rouse thee and take heart! thy blood Is young and full of fire; Youth should have hope and might to win, And wear its best desire.
"O, never may I hope to gain What dwells from me so far; It stands as high, it looks as bright, As yonder burning star."
Why, who would seek to woo the stars Down from their glorious sphere? Enough it is to worship them, When nights are calm and clear.
"Oh, I look up and worship too— My star it shines by day— Then let me weep the livelong night The while it is away."
[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.]
To this city joy reveal it! Peace as its first signal peal it!
(Song of the Bell—concluding lines).
And so it proved! The nation felt, ere long, That peaceful signal, and, with blessings fraught, A new-born joy appeared; in gladsome song To hail the youthful princely pair we sought; While in the living, ever-swelling throng Mingled the crowds from every region brought, And on the stage, in festal pomp arrayed, The HOMAGE OF THE ARTS[21] we saw displayed.
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 o'ercome 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 Seemed in the light of day his noble mind! How was his nature, pleasing yet sedate, Now for glad converse joyously inclined, Then swiftly changing, spirit-fraught elate, Life's plan with deep-felt meaning it designed, Fruitful alike in counsel and in deed! This have we proved, this tested, in our need.
He was our own! O may that thought so blest O'ercome the voice of wailing and of woe! He might have sought the Lasting, safe at rest In harbor, when the tempest ceased to blow. Meanwhile his mighty spirit onward pressed Where goodness, beauty, truth, forever 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 illumed 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 to the seasons as they roll; Thus nobly doth he vanquish, with renown, The twilight and the night that weigh us down.
Brighter now glowed his cheek, and still more bright, With that unchanging, ever-youthful glow,— That courage which o'ercomes, in hard-fought fight, Sooner or later, every 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 skilled, 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 toward the skies. He fills with blossoms of the noblest strife, With life itself, this effigy of life.
His giant-step, as ye full surely know, 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 showed 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 every 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 feared to own! Yet his transfigured being now can see Itself, e'en here on earth, transfigured grown. What his own age reproved, and deemed 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 recognize, Now feels the impress of his wondrous might, And in his magic fetters gladly lies; E'en to the highest hath he winged his flight, In close communion linked 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!—turned from earth; We all, to our great joy, his precepts know, Oh, may the world confess their priceless worth! In swelling tide toward every region flow The thoughts that were his own peculiar birth; He gleams like some departing meteor bright, Combining, with his own, eternal light.
For a praiseworthy object we're now gathered here, So, brethren, sing: ERGO BIBAMUS! Tho' talk may be hushed, yet the glasses ring clear, Remember then, ERGO BIBAMUS! In truth 'tis an old, 'tis an excellent word, With its sound befitting each bosom is stirred, And an echo the festal hall filling is heard, A glorious ERGO BIBAMUS!
I saw mine own love in her beauty so rare, And bethought me of: ERGO BIBAMUS; So I gently approached, and she let me stand there, While I helped myself, thinking: BIBAMUS! And when she's appeared, and will clasp you and kiss, Or when those embraces and kisses ye miss, Take refuge, till found is some worthier bliss, In the comforting ERGO BIBAMUS!
I am called by my fate far away from each friend; Ye loved ones, then: ERGO BIBAMUS! With wallet light-laden from hence I must wend, So double our ERGO BIBAMUS! Whate'er to his treasure the niggard may add, Yet regard for the joyous will ever be had, For gladness lends ever its charms to the glad, So, brethren, sing: ERGO BIBAMUS!
And what shall we say of to-day as it flies? I thought but of: ERGO BIBAMUS! 'Tis one of those truly that seldom arise, So again and again sing: BIBAMUS! For joy through a wide-open portal it guides, Bright glitter the clouds as the curtain divides, And a form, a divine one, to greet us in glides, While we thunder our: ERGO BIBAMUS.
A child refused to go betimes To church like other people; He roamed abroad, when rang the chimes On Sundays from the steeple.
His mother said: "Loud rings the bell, Its voice ne'er think of scorning; Unless thou wilt behave thee well, 'Twill fetch thee without warning."
The child then thought: "High over head The bell is safe suspended—" So to the fields he straightway sped As if 'twas school-time ended.
The bell now ceased as bell to ring, Roused by the mother's twaddle; But soon ensued a dreadful thing!— The bell begins to waddle.
It waddles fast, though strange it seem; The child, with trembling wonder, Runs off, and flies, as in a dream; The bell would draw him under.
He finds the proper time at last, And straightway nimbly rushes To church, to chapel, hastening fast Through pastures, plains, and bushes.
Each Sunday and each feast as well, His late disaster heeds he; The moment that he hears the bell, No other summons needs he.
Once through the forest Alone I went; To seek for nothing My thoughts were bent.
I saw i' the shadow A flower stand there; As stars it glisten'd, As eyes 'twas fair.
I sought to pluck it,— It gently said: "Shall I be gather'd Only to fade?"
With all its roots I dug it with care, And took it home To my garden fair.
In silent corner Soon it was set; There grows it ever, There blooms it yet.
Locks of brown, still bind your captive In the circle of her face! I, beloved sinuous tresses, Naught possess that's worth your grace—
But a heart whose love enduring Swells in youthful fervor yet: Snow and mists envelop Etna, Making men the fire forget.
Yonder mountain's pride so stately Thou dost shame like dawn's red glow; And its spell once more bids Hatem Thrill of spring and summer know.
Once more fill the glass, the flagon! Let me drink to my desire. If she find a heap of ashes, Say, "He perished in her fire!"
Can it be, O star transcendent, That I fold thee to my breast? Now I know, what depths of anguish May in parting be expressed. Yes, 'tis thou, of all my blisses Lovely, loving partner—thou! Mindful of my bygone sorrows, E'en the present awes me now.
When the world in first conception Lay in God's eternal mind, In creative power delighting He the primal hour designed. When he gave command for being, Then was heard a mighty sigh Full of pain, as all creation Broke into reality.
Up then sprang the light; and darkness Doubtful stood apart to gaze; All the elements, dividing Swiftly, took their several ways. In confused, disordered dreaming Strove they all for freedom's range— Each for self, no fellow-feeling; Single each, and cold and strange.
Lo, a marvel—God was lonely! All was still and cold and dumb. So he framed dawn's rosy blushes Whence should consolation come— To refresh the troubled spirit Harmonies of color sweet: What had erst been forced asunder Now at last could love and meet.
Then, ah then, of life unbounded Sight and feeling passed the gates; Then, ah then, with eager striving Kindred atoms sought their mates. Gently, roughly they may seize them, So they catch and hold them fast: "We," they cry, "are now creators— Allah now may rest at last!"
So with rosy wings of morning Towards thy lips my being moves; Sets the starry night a thousand Glowing seals upon our loves. We are as we should be—parted Ne'er on earth in joy or pain; And no second word creative E'er can sunder us again!
In His blest name, who was His own creation, Who from all time makes making His vocation; The name of Him who makes our faith so bright, Love, confidence, activity, and might; In that One's name, who, named though oft He be, Unknown is ever in Reality: As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim, Thou findest but the known resembling Him; How high soe'er thy fiery spirit hovers, Its simile and type it straight discovers; Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay, Where e'er thou goest, smiling is the way; No more thou numberest, reckonest no time, Each step is infinite, each step sublime. What God would outwardly alone control, And on His finger whirl the mighty Whole? He loves the inner world to move, to view Nature in Him, Himself in Nature, too, So that what in Him works, and is, and lives, The measure of His strength, His spirit gives. Within us all a universe doth dwell; And hence each people's usage laudable, That every one the Best that meets his eyes As God, yea, e'en his God, doth recognize; To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he, Fears Him, and loves Him, too, if that may be.
Called to a new employ in boundless space, The lonely monad quits its 'customed place And from life's weary round contented flees. No more of passionate striving, will perverse And hampering obligations, long a curse: Free self-abandonment at last gives peace.
Soul of the world, come pierce our being through! Across the drift of things our way to hew Is our appointed task, our noblest war. Good spirits by our destined pathway still Lead gently on, best masters of our will, Toward that which made and makes all things that are. To shape for further ends what now has breath, Let nothing harden into ice and death, Works endless living action everywhere. What has not yet existed strives for birth— Toward purer suns, more glorious-colored earth: To rest in idle stillness naught may dare. All must move onward, help transform the mass, Assume a form, to yet another pass; 'Tis but in seeming aught is fixed or still. In all things moves the eternal restless Thought; For all, when comes the hour, must fall to naught If to persist in being is its will.
[This curious imitation of the ternary metre of Dante was written at the age of seventy-seven.]
Within a gloomy charnel-house one day I viewed the countless skulls, so strangely mated, And of old times I thought that now were gray. Close packed they stand that once so fiercely hated, And hardy bones that to the death contended, Are lying crossed,—to lie forever, fated. What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended? No one now asks; and limbs with vigor fired, The hand, the foot—their use in life is ended. Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired; Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye're driven Back into daylight by a force inspired; But none can love the withered husk, though even A glorious noble kernel it contained.
To me, an adept, was the writing given Which not to all its holy sense explained. When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging, I saw a form that glorious still remained, And even there, where mould and damp were clinging, Gave me a blest, a rapture-fraught emotion, As though from death a living fount were springing. What mystic joy I felt! What rapt devotion! That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace! A look, how did it whirl me toward that ocean Whose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace! Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear! Even to grasp thee is my hand too base, Except to steal thee from thy prison here With pious purpose, and devoutly go Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear. What greater gain in life can man e'er know Than when God-Nature will to him explain How into Spirit steadfastness may flow, How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.
No living atom comes at last to naught! Active in each is still the eternal Thought: Hold fast to Being if thou wouldst be blest. Being is without end; for changeless laws Bind that from which the All its glory draws Of living treasures endlessly possessed.
Unto the wise of old this truth was known, Such wisdom knit their noble souls in one; Then hold thou still the lore of ancient days! To that high power thou ow'st it, son of man, By whose decree the earth its circuit ran And all the planets went their various ways. Then inward turn at once thy searching eyes;
Thence shalt thou see the central truth arise From which no lofty soul goes e'er astray; There shalt thou miss no needful guiding sign— For conscience lives, and still its light divine Shall be the sun of all thy moral day. Next shalt thou trust thy senses' evidence, And fear from them no treacherous offence While the mind's watchful eye thy road commands: With lively pleasure contemplate the scene And roam securely, teachable, serene, At will throughout a world of fruitful lands. Enjoy in moderation all life gives: Where it rejoices in each thing that lives Let reason be thy guide and make thee see. Then shall the distant past be present still, The future, ere it comes, thy vision fill— Each single moment touch eternity. Then at the last shalt thou achieve thy quest, And in one final, firm conviction rest: What bears for thee true fruit alone is true. Prove all things, watch the movement of the world As down the various ways its tribes are whirled; Take thou thy stand among the chosen few. Thus hath it been of old; in solitude The artist shaped what thing to him seemed good, The wise man hearkened to his own soul's voice. Thus also shalt thou find thy greatest bliss; To lead where the elect shall follow—this And this alone is worth a hero's choice.