The Poems of Goethe, Translated in the Original Metres · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
ALEXIS AND DORA.
Then, before all things, the grace filling thy motions was seen. Oft have I fear'd that the pitcher perchance was in danger of falling, Yet it ever remain'd firm on the circular cloth. Thus, fair neighbour, yes, thus I oft was wont to observe thee, As on the stars I might gaze, as I might gaze on the moon, Glad indeed at the sight, yet feeling within my calm bosom Not the remotest desire ever to call them mine own. Years thus fleeted away! Although our houses were only Twenty paces apart, yet I thy threshold ne'er cross'd. Now by the fearful flood are we parted! Thou liest to Heaven, Billow! thy beautiful blue seems to me dark as the night. All were now in movement; a boy to the house of my father Ran at full speed and exclaim'd: "Hasten thee quick to the strand Hoisted the sail is already, e'en now in the wind it is flutt'ring, While the anchor they weigh, heaving it up from the sand; Come, Alexis, oh come!"--My worthy stout-hearted father Press'd, with a blessing, his hand down on my curly-lock'd head, While my mother carefully reach'd me a newly-made bundle, "Happy mayst thou return!" cried they--" both happy and rich!" Then I sprang away, and under my arm held the bundle, Running along by the wall. Standing I found thee hard by, At the door of thy garden. Thou smilingly saidst then "Alexis!
Joyously would I devote all of the cargo to thee. Yet not trinkets and jewels alone is thy loved one procuring; With them he brings thee whate'er gives to a housewife delight. Fine and woollen coverlets, wrought with an edging of purple, Fit for a couch where we both, lovingly, gently may rest; Costly pieces of linen. Thou sittest and sewest, and clothest Me, and thyself, and, perchance, even a third with it too. Visions of hope, deceive ye my heart! Ye kindly Immortals, Soften this fierce-raging flame, wildly pervading my breast! Yet how I long to feel them again, those rapturous torments. When, in their stead, care draws nigh, coldly and fearfully calm. Neither the Furies' torch, nor the hounds of hell with their harking Awe the delinquent so much, down in the plains of despair, As by the motionless spectre I'm awed, that shows me the fair one Far away: of a truth, open the garden-door stands! And another one cometh! For him the fruit, too, is falling, And for him, also, the fig strengthening honey doth yield! Doth she entice him as well to the arbour? He follows? Oh, make me Blind, ye Immortals! efface visions like this from my mind! Yes, she is but a maiden! And she who to one doth so quickly Yield, to another ere long, doubtless, Will turn herself round. Smile not, Zeus, for this once, at an oath so cruelly broken!
Thunder more fearfully! Strike!--Stay--thy fierce lightnings withhold! Hurl at me thy quivering bolt! In the darkness of midnight Strike with thy lightning this mast, make it a pitiful wreck! Scatter the planks all around, and give to the boisterous billows All these wares, and let me be to the dolphins a prey Now, ye Muses, enough! In vain would ye strive to depicture How, in a love-laden breast, anguish alternates with bliss. Ye cannot heal the wounds, it is true, that love hath inflicted; Yet from you only proceeds, kindly ones, comfort and balm.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.