The Poems of Goethe, Translated in the Original Metres · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
In the plain her path she loses. Ne'er disturb her on her way! Seek her silently, ye Muses Shouts I hear, wherein the sound Of the waterfall is drown'd. From the grove loud clamours rise, Strange the tumult, strange the cries. See I rightly? Can it be? To the very sanctuary, Lo, an impious troop in-hies! O'er the land Streams the band; Hot desire, Drunken-fire In their gaze Wildly plays,-- Makes their hair Bristle there. And the troop, With fell swoop, Women, men, Coming then, Ply their blows And expose, Void of shame, All the frame. Iron shot, Fierce and hot, Strike with fear On the ear; All they slay On their way. O'er the land Pours the band; All take flight At their sight. Ah, o'er ev'ry plant they rush! Ah, their cruel footsteps crush All the flowers that fill their path! Who will dare to stem their wrath? Brethren, let us venture all! Virtue in your pure cheek glows. Phoebus will attend our call When he sees our heavy woes; And that we may have aright Weapons suited to the fight, He the mountain shaketh now-- From its brow Rattling down Stone on stone Through the thicket spread appear. Brethren, seize them! Wherefore fear? Now the villain crew assail, As though with a storm of hail, And expel the strangers wild From these regions soft and mild Where the sun has ever smil'd!
Will love's chalice wash away. All will haste your steps to meet, As ye come in majesty,-- Men your blessing will entreat;-- Ours ye thus will doubly be! 1798. (* Aganippe--A spring in Boeotia, which arose out of Mount Helicon, and was sacred to Apollo and the Muses.) ----- LILY'S MENAGERIE. [Goethe describes this much-admired Poem, which he wrote in honour of his love Lily, as being "designed to change his surrender of her into despair, by drolly-fretful images."] THERE'S no menagerie, I vow, Excels my Lily's at this minute; She keeps the strangest creatures in it, And catches them, she knows not how. Oh, how they hop, and run, and rave, And their clipp'd pinions wildly wave,-- Poor princes, who must all endure The pangs of love that nought can cure. What is the fairy's name?--Is't Lily?--Ask not me! Give thanks to Heaven if she's unknown to thee. Oh what a cackling, what a shrieking, When near the door she takes her stand, With her food-basket in her hand! Oh what a croaking, what a squeaking! Alive all the trees and the bushes appear, While to her feet whole troops draw near; The very fish within, the water clear Splash with impatience and their heads protrude; And then she throws around the food With such a look!--the very gods delighting (To say nought of beasts). There begins, then, a biting, A picking, a pecking, a sipping, And each o'er the legs of another is tripping, And pushing, and pressing, and flapping, And chasing, and fuming, and snapping, And all for one small piece of bread, To which, though dry, her fair hands give a taste, As though it in ambrosia had been plac'd.
Leap on her knee.--On a propitious day She suffers it; my ears then tickles she, And hits me a hard blow in wanton play; I growl with new-born ecstasy; Then speaks she in a sweet vain jest, I wot "Allons lout doux! eh! la menotte! Et faites serviteur Comme un joli seigneur." Thus she proceeds with sport and glee; Hope fills the oft-deluded beast; Yet if one moment he would lazy be, Her fondness all at once hath ceas'd. She doth a flask of balsam-fire possess, Sweeter than honey bees can make, One drop of which she'll on her finger take, When soften'd by his love and faithfulness, Wherewith her monster's raging thirst to slake; Then leaves me to myself, and flies at last, And I, unbound, yet prison'd fast By magic, follow in her train, Seek for her, tremble, fly again. The hapless creature thus tormenteth she, Regardless of his pleasure or his woe; Ha! oft half-open'd does she leave the door for me, And sideways looks to learn if I will fly or no. And I--Oh gods! your hands alone Can end the spell that's o'er me thrown; Free me, and gratitude my heart will fill; And yet from heaven ye send me down no aid-- Not quite in vain doth life my limbs pervade: I feel it! Strength is left me still.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.