POEMS

GREETING AND DEPARTURE⁴ (1771)

 
  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!
 

THE HEATHROSE⁵ (1771)

 
  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!
 

MAHOMET'S SONG⁶ (1773)

[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.
 

PROMETHEUS⁷ (1774)

 
  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
 
 
  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!
 

THE WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONG⁸ (1776)

 
  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!
 

THE SEA-VOYAGE⁹ (1776)

 
  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.
 

TO THE MOON¹⁰ (1778)

 
  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 FISHERMAN¹¹ (1778)

 
  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.
 

THE WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONG¹² (1780)

[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.
 

THE ERL-KING¹³ (1782)

 
  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.
 

THE GODLIKE¹⁴ (1783)

 
  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!
 

MIGNON¹⁵ (1785)

[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!