The Poems of Goethe, Translated in the Original Metres · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
1828. ----- THE BRIDEGROOM.*
(Not in the English sense of the word, but the German, where it has the meaning of betrothed.) I SLEPT,--'twas midnight,--in my bosom woke, As though 'twere day, my love-o'erflowing heart; To me it seemed like night, when day first broke; What is't to me, whate'er it may impart? She was away; the world's unceasing strife For her alone I suffer'd through the heat Of sultry day; oh, what refreshing life At cooling eve!--my guerdon was complete. The sun now set, and wand'ring hand in hand, His last and blissful look we greeted then; While spake our eyes, as they each other scann'd: "From the far east, let's trust, he'll come again!" At midnight!--the bright stars, in vision blest, Guide to the threshold where she slumbers calm: Oh be it mine, there too at length to rest,-- Yet howsoe'er this prove, life's full of charm! 1828. ----- SUCH, SUCH IS HE WHO PLEASETH ME. FLY, dearest, fly! He is not nigh! He who found thee one fair morn in Spring In the wood where thou thy flight didst wing. Fly, dearest, fly! He is not nigh! Never rests the foot of evil spy. Hark! flutes' sweet strains and love's refrains Reach the loved one, borne there by the wind, In the soft heart open doors they find. Hark! flutes' sweet strains and love's refrains, Hark!--yet blissful love their echo pains.
Erect his head, and firm his tread, Raven hair around his smooth brow strays, On his cheeks a Spring eternal plays. Erect his head, and firm his tread, And by grace his ev'ry step is led. Happy his breast, with pureness bless'd, And the dark eyes 'neath his eyebrows placed, With full many a beauteous line are graced. Happy his breast, with pureness bless'd, Soon as seen, thy love must be confess'd. His mouth is red--its power I dread, On his lips morn's fragrant incense lies, Round his lips the cooling Zephyr sighs. His mouth is red--its power I dread, With one glance from him, all sorrow's fled. His blood is true, his heart bold too, In his soft arms, strength, protection, dwells And his face with noble pity swells. His blood is true, his heart bold too, Blest the one whom those dear arms may woo! YE black and roguish eyes, If ye command. Each house in ruins lies, No town can stand. And shall my bosom's chain,-- This plaster wall,─ To think one moment, deign,-- Shall ii not fall? Up in th' mountain I was a-sitting, With the bird there As my guest, Blithely singing, Blithely springing, And building His nest. In the garden I was a-standing, And the bee there Saw as well, Buzzing, humming, Going, coming, And building His cell.
O'er the meadow I was a-going, And there saw the Butterflies, Sipping, dancing, Flying, glancing, And charming The eyes. And then came my Dear Hansel, And I show'd them With glee, Sipping, quaffing, And he, laughing, Sweet kisses Gave me. IF the loved one, the well-known one, Should return as he departed, On his lips would ring my kisses, Though the wolf's blood might have dyed them; And a hearty grasp I'd give him, Though his finger-ends were serpents. Wind! Oh, if thou hadst but reason, Word for word in turns thou'dst carry, E'en though some perchance might perish 'Tween two lovers so far distant. All choice morsels I'd dispense with, Table-flesh of priests neglect too, Sooner than renounce my lover, Whom, in Summer having vanquish'd, I in Winter tamed still longer.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.