HASTEN thee, Kronos!

On with clattering trot Downhill goeth thy path; Loathsome dizziness ever, When thou delayest, a.s.sails 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 mora.s.s, 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 h.e.l.l.

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 G.o.ds.

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 G.o.ds.

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.

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!

Not by the elm-tree Him didst thou visit, With the pair of doves Held in his gentle arm,-- With the beauteous garland of roses,-- Caressing him, so blest in his flowers, Anacreon, Storm-breathing G.o.dhead!

Not in the poplar grove, Near the Sybaris' strand, Not on the mountain's Sun-illumined brow Didst thou seize him, The flower-singing, Honey-breathing, Sweetly nodding Theocritus.

When the wheels were rattling, Wheel on wheel tow'rd the goal, High arose The sound of the lash Of youths with victory glowing, In the dust rolling, As from the mountain fall Showers of stones in the vale-- Then thy soul was brightly glowing, Pindar-- Glowing? Poor heart!

There, on the hill,-- Heavenly might!

But enough glow Thither to wend, Where is my cot!

1771.

----- THE SEA-VOYAGE.

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 pa.s.sage, Gladly for thy happy voyage; fortune In the distant world is waiting for thee, In our arms thoult 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 sh.o.r.e 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 G.o.d-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 grey 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 sh.o.r.e are gather'd standing, Friends and lovers, trembling for the bold one: "Why, alas, remain'd he here not with us!

Ah, the tempest! 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 G.o.ds, or shipwreck'd, or safe landed, Trusting ever.

1776.

----- THE EAGLE AND DOVE.

IN search of prey once raised his pinions An eaglet; A huntsman's arrow came, and reft His right wing of all motive power.

Headlong he fell into a myrtle grove, For three long days on anguish fed, In torment writhed Throughout three long, three weary nights; And then was cured, Thanks to all-healing Nature's Soft, omnipresent balm.

He crept away from out the copse, And stretch'd his wing--alas!

Lost is all power of flight-- He scarce can lift himself From off the ground To catch some mean, unworthy prey, And rests, deep-sorrowing, On the low rock beside the stream.

Up to the oak he looks, Looks up to heaven, While in his n.o.ble eye there gleams a tear.

Then, rustling through the myrtle boughs, behold, There comes a wanton pair of doves, Who settle down, and, nodding, strut O'er the gold sands beside the stream, And gradually approach; Their red-tinged eyes, so full of love, Soon see the inward-sorrowing one.

The male, inquisitively social, leaps On the next bush, and looks Upon him kindly and complacently.