The Poems of Goethe, Translated in the Original Metres · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
BOOK II., CHAP. XIII.
WHO never eat with tears his bread, Who never through night's heavy hours Sat weeping on his lonely bed,-- He knows you not, ye heavenly powers! Through you the paths of life we gain, Ye let poor mortals go astray, And then abandon them to pain,-- E'en here the penalty we pay, ----- WHO gives himself to solitude, Soon lonely will remain; Each lives, each loves in joyous mood, And leaves him to his pain. Yes! leave me to my grief! Were solitude's relief E'er granted me, Alone I should not be. A lover steals, on footstep light, To learn if his love's alone; Thus o'er me steals, by day and night, Anguish before unknown, Thus o'er me steals deep grief. Ah, when I find relief Within the tomb so lonely, Will rest be met with only! ----- BOOK IV., CHAP. XI. My grief no mortals know, Except the yearning! Alone, a prey to woe, All pleasure spurning, Up tow'rds the sky I throw A gaze discerning. He who my love can know Seems ne'er returning; With strange and fiery glow My heart is burning. My grief no mortals know, Except the yearning! ----- BOOK V., CHAP. X. SING no more in mournful tones Of the loneliness of night; For 'tis made, ye beauteous ones, For all social pleasures bright.
As of old to man a wife As his better half was given, So the night is half our life, And the fairest under heaven. How can ye enjoy the day, Which obstructs our rapture's tide? Let it waste itself away; Worthless 'tis for aught beside. But when in the darkling hours From the lamp soft rays are glowing, And from mouth to mouth sweet showers, Now of jest, now love, are flowing,-- When the nimble, wanton boy, Who so wildly spends his days, Oft amid light sports with joy O'er some trifling gift delays,─ When the nightingale is singing Strains the lover holds so dear, Though like sighs and wailings ringing In the mournful captive's ear,-- With what heart-emotion blest Do ye hearken to the bell, Wont of safety and of rest With twelve solemn strokes to tell! Therefore in each heavy hour, Let this precept fill your heart: O'er each day will sorrow loud, Rapture ev'ry night impart. ----- EPILOGUE TO SCHILLER'S "SONG OF THE BELL." [This fine piece, written originally in 1805, on Schiller's death, was altered and recast by Goethe in 1815, on the occasion of the performance on the stage of the Song of the Bell. Hence the allusion in the last verse.] To this city joy reveal it! Peace as its first signal peal it!
(Song of the Bell--concluding lines.) AND so it proved! The nation felt, ere long, That peaceful signal, and, with blessings fraught, A new-born joy appear'd; in gladsome song To hail the youthful princely pair we sought; While in a living, ever-swelling throng Mingled the crowds from ev'ry region brought, And on the stage, in festal pomp array'd The HOMAGE OF THE ARTS * we saw displayed. (* The title of a lyric piece composed by Schiller in honour of the marriage of the hereditary Prince of Weimar to the Princess Maria of Russia, and performed in 1804.) When, lo! a fearful midnight sound I hear, That with a dull and mournful echo rings. And can it be that of our friend so dear It tells, to whom each wish so fondly clings? Shall death overcome a life that all revere? How such a loss to all confusion brings! How such a parting we must ever rue! The world is weeping,--shall not we weep too? He was our own! How social, yet how great Seem'd in the light of day his noble mind! How was his nature, pleasing yet sedate, Now for glad converse joyously incline, Then swiftly changing, spirit-fraught, elate, Life's plan with deep-felt meaning it design'd, Fruitful alike in counsel and in deed! This have we proved, this tasted, in our need.
Proudly once more his giant-race to run,-- Yet, e'en when set, a glow behind him leaving, Gladdening the spirit, which had else been grieving. Thus mayst thou feel, for thou to GOETHE only Baldest farewell, nor camest aught for me. Twofold my parting, leaving me all lonely,-- I now must part from GOETHE and from thee, Parting at once from comrade and from leader,-- Farewell, great minstrel! farewell, gentle reader! Hush'd is the harp, its music sunk in slumbers, Memory alone can waken now its numbers.
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