Through gloomy thickets Presseth the wild deer on, And with the sparrows 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 leadNow 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 gloomy portal 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 IReturn 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.
And a Castalian spring Runs as a fellow-brook, Runs to the idle ones, Mortal, happy ones, Apart from thee, Who cov'rest me around, Jupiter Pluvius!
