The Poems of Goethe, Translated in the Original Metres · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
1802. ----- THE SPRING ORACLE.
OH prophetic bird so bright, Blossom-songster, cuckoo bight! In the fairest time of year, Dearest bird, oh! deign to hear What a youthful pair would pray, Do thou call, if hope they may: Thy cuck-oo, thy cuck-oo. Ever more cuck-oo, cuck-oo! Hearest thou? A loving pair Fain would to the altar fare; Yes! a pair in happy youth, Full of virtue, full of truth. Is the hour not fix'd by fate? Say, how long must they still wait? Hark! cuck-oo! hark! cuck-oo! Silent yet! for shame, cuck-oo! 'Tis not our fault, certainly! Only two years patient be! But if we ourselves please here, Will pa-pa-papas appear? Know that thou'lt more kindness do us, More thou'lt prophesy unto us. One! cuck-oo! Two! cuck-oo! Ever, ever, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, coo! If we've calculated clearly, We have half a dozen nearly. If good promises we'll give, Wilt thou say how long we'II live? Truly, we'll confess to thee, We'd prolong it willingly. Coo cuck-oo, coo cuck-oo, Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo! Life is one continued feast-- (If we keep no score, at least). If now we together dwell, Will true love remain as well? For if that should e'er decay, Happiness would pass away. Coo cuck-oo, coo cuck-oo, Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo! 1803.* (Gracefully in infinitum.) ----- THE HAPPY COUPLE.
With his own darling love? Beside yon precipice, Whence pent-up waters steal, And leaving the abyss, Fall foaming through the wheel, Though people often tell Of millers' wives so fair, Yet none can e'er excel Our dearest daughter there! Yet where the thick-set green Stands round yon church and sad, Where the old fir-tree's seen Alone tow'rd heaven to nod,-- 'Tis there the ashes lie Of our untimely dead; From earth our gaze on high By their blest memory's led. See how yon hill is bright With billowy-waving arms! The force returns, whose might Has vanquished war's alarms. Who proudly hastens here With wreath-encircled brow? 'Tis like our child so dear Thus Charles comes homeward now. That dearest honour'd guest Is welcom'd by the bride; She makes the true one blest, At the glad festal tide. And ev'ry one makes haste To join the dance with glee; While thou with wreaths hast graced The youngest children three. To sound of flute and horn The time appears renew'd, When we, in love's young morn, In the glad dance upstood; And perfect bliss I know Ere the year's course is run, For to the font we go With grandson and with son!
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.