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Goethe's Works illustrated by the best German artists

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Title:
Goethe's Works illustrated by the best German artists
Creator:
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von
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Philadelphia, Penn.
Publisher:
G. Barrie
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Language:
English
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5 v. in 10 : ill. ; 30 cm.

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General Note:
v. 1. The life of Goethe / by Hjalmar H. Boyesen ; Poems (Songs ; Familiar songs ; From Wilhelm Meister ; Ballads ; Antiques ; Elegies ; Epigrams ; The four seasons ; Sonnets ; Miscellaneous poems ; Art ; Parables ; Epigrams ; God und world ; West-Eastern Divan ; Hermann und Dorothea) -- v. 2. Faust ; Egmont ; The natural daughter ; The sorrows of young Werther -- v. 3. Goetz von Berlichingen ; Iphigenia in Tauris ; Torquato Tasso ; Clavigo ; Stella; The brother and sister ; A tale ; The good women ; Reynard the Fox -- v. 4. The recreations of the German emigrants ; Wilhelm Meister's apprenticeship -- v. 5. , pt. 1. Wilhelm Meister's travels --Elective affinities.

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COPYRIGHT, 1885, BY GEORGE BARRIE.


The Life of Goethe
BY
HJALMAR H. BOYESEN, PH.D.


THE LIFE OF GOETHE,
BY
HJALMAR H. BOYESEN, PH. D.
T is told of the philosopher Hegel that he once complained
because so few understood his writings. Of all living- men,
he said, there is but one who has understood me ; and, he
| added, after a moments reflection, he misunderstood me.
The common judgment of a man who spoke thus would be
that he was himself at fault, that his utterance was needlessly obscure if it
failed to appeal to ordinary human intelligence. In Hegels case such a
judgment would not have been far wrong. German philosophers, as a
rule, cultivate involved obscurity of diction, and perhaps even pride them-
selves on their unintelligibility. But for all that it is not to be denied that
there is a region of thought which lies beyond the range of the ordinary
intellect, and which is none the less exalted and beautiful, because of its
inaccessibility to the multitude. The fact that you or I do not see anything
in works of this or that poet does not, of necessity, prove that there is noth-
ing in them. That which you or I do not understand is not on that account
unintelligible. If the second part of Faust fails to convey any meaning to
the ordinary omniscient critic of the daily papers, it is generally supposed
that the second part of Faust stands thereby condemned. That Goethe
has opened a new realm of thought to which even a college degree is not
necessarily a passport, that he has in Faust expounded a deep philosophy


of life, for the comprehension of which a more than ordinary largeness of
vision and grasp of intellect are required, is scarcely dreamed of by the
herd of shallow, nimble-witted critics who pat him kindly on the shoulder
and compare him blandly with Byron, Coleridge and Wordsworth.
Of English writers, only Carlyle seems to have had an adequate con-
ception of Goethes greatness, although he, too, was certainly at variance
with the fundamental principles which underlay his heros life and poetic
activity. That he unconsciously distorted the meaning of Faust is very
obvious to any student of Goethe who reads his essay on Helena." And yet
he said to Bayard Taylor, when the latter asked him what he thought of
Goethe: That man, sir, was my salvation!an answer which struck
Taylor as being in no wise paradoxical. If Carlyle had been an exact
thinker, to whom a rational solution of the riddle of existence had been an
urgent need, it would have been easier to comprehend in what sense he
owed his salvation to Goethe. It was the direct purpose of Goethe to be
the intellectual deliverer of his age, as he distinctly avowed to Eckermann
when he said that the name which he would prefer to all others was Befreier.
The tendency of his life and his writings, after his return from Italy, is all
in the same direction. They all teach, even where no didactic purpose is
apparent, that liberty is attainable, not by defiance of moral and physical
law, but by obedience to it; that happiness is to be found only in a cheerful
acquiescence in the rationality of existence. In this lesson there is deliver-
ance to him who properly estimates and apprehends it. Thus barrenly
stated it sounds commonplace enough to us of the nineteenth century; but
it is largely due to Goethes influence that it has become so generally ac-
cepted. Before Faust was written there were few who would have been
able to defend such a proposition, even though they might profess to
accept it.
Johann Wolfgang Goethe was born in Frankfort-on-the-Main, August
28th, 1749. His family, a few generations back, had been plain artisans,
and had by dint of talent and energy risen to prosperity and social import-
ance. Goethes father had inherited a respectable fortune, enjoyed a good
education, and had travelled considerably in his own country and in Italy.
He was a stern and methodical man, rigidly upright, impatient of all irregu-
larities and somewhat pedantic in his habits and opinions. His bearing was
dignified, his disposition despotic. At the age of thirty-eight he married
Katharine Elizabeth, daughter of the Magistrate Textor, and bought the
title of imperial counsellor. There were no duties connected with this
VI


ARTIST: EUGEN KLIMSCH.
CORNELIA PROCLAIMING FROM KLOPSTOCKS MESSIAH.


office, but it conferred a social rank which in those days was highly prized.
The young wife whom the counsellor installed in his spacious house in the
Hirschgraben was a contrast to him in almost everything. She was genial
and full of wholesome mirth. Her culture was probably moderate enough,
but she possessed a nature which readily compensated for all deficiencies of
education. An exuberant fancy, inexhaustible good-humor, and an ever-
ready mother-wit made her the most delightful of companions; and no one
valued more highly her many charming gifts than her son Johann Wolfgang.
As he grew out of infancy she became his playmate and friend, and the
confidant of all his boyish sorrows. She listened with delight to his improv-
isations, and secretly took his part in his occasional rebellion against the
paternal authority.
Goethe was a precocious child, richly endowed physically and mentally.
He absorbed knowledge spontaneously and without effort. His fancy, too,
was active, and he took delight in relating the most marvelous tales, which
he himself invented, to a company of admiring friends. The two fairy tales,
The New Paris'1 and The New Melusinewhich he reprinted in a some-
what improved shape in his autobiography, belong to this period.
A charming anecdote is related of his fondness for Klopstocks biblical
epic, The Messiahbefore he had yet emerged from the nursery. Frau
Aja, his mother, had surreptitiously borrowed this book, and went about with
it in her pocket, because her husband highly disapproved of Klopstocks
wild and rebellious rhapsodies. Goethe and his younger sister Cornelia,
sharing their mothers predilections, therefore committed the precious verses
to memory, and amused themselves with personating the enraged Satan and
his subordinate fiends. Standing on chairs in the nursery they would hurl
the most delightfully polysyllabic maledictions at each other. One Saturday
evening, while their father was receiving a professional visit from his barber,
the two children (who were always hushed and subdued in his presence)
were seated behind the stove whispering sonorous curses in each others
ears. Cornelia, however, carried away by the impetus of her inspiration,
forgot her fathers presence, and spoke with increasing violence:
Help me help! I implore thee, and if thou demandst it
Worship thee, outcast! Thou monster and black malefactor!
Help me! I suffer the torments of death, the eternal avenger! etc.
The barber, frightened out of his wits by such extraordinary language,
poured the soap-lather over the counsellors bosom. The culprits were
vii


summoned for trial, and Klopstock was placed upon the index expur-
gatorius.
In 1765 Goethe was sent to the University of Leipsic, where he was
matriculated as a student of law. It was his fathers wish that he should fit
himself for the legal profession, and in time inherit the paternal dignity as
a counsellor and honored citizen of the free city of Frankfort. Agreeably
to this plan Goethe attended lectures on logic and Roman law, but soon
grew so heartily tired of these barren disciplines that he absented himself
from lectures altogether. A brief and innocent love affair with Kathchen
Schonkopf, the daughter of the lady with whom he took his dinners, may
have tended to distract his attention. Loving your landladies daughters
is as a rule antagonistic both to law and logic. A serious illness further
interfered with his studies, and in 1768, after three years sojourn at the
university, Goethe was called home to Frankfort, where he spent two years,
regaining his health.
Goethes earliest sojourn in Leipsic brought him into contact with the
French rococo culture, which then predominated in all the higher circles of
Germany. The periwig period, with its elaborately artificial manners and
elegant sentiments, had set its monuments in German literature as in
that of France. Gottschedd, who was a servile imitator of the authors of the
age of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., was a professor in Leipsic while Goethe
was there, though his influence as the dictator of taste was greatly on the
wane. Nevertheless the tone of Leipsic society remained French, and it
was natural that an impressible young poet like Goethe should assume the
tone of his surroundings. We therefore see that his first literary efforts, a
volume of poems published as texts for musical compositions, bear the rococo
stamp and are as frivolous and full of artificial conceits as if they had been
addressed to one of the beauties of Versailles. A youthful drama, The
Accomplices' (Die Mitschtddigen"'), is in the same strain, only more inge-
nious and more radically alien to German morality.
In April, 1770, Goethe was sufficiently restored to health to resume his
studies. He did not, however, return to Leipsic, but went to the University
of Strassburg, where the faculty of law was then in a flourishing condition.
The city of Strassburg was then, as it has ever since remained, essentially
German, though there was an infusion of Gallic life from the French
officials who governed the conquered province. It was here, where Gallic
and Teutonic life ran in friendly parallelism, that Goethe first discovered the
distinctive features of each. It was here he met Herder, whose oracular
viii


utterances on the subjects of poetry, religion and society powerfully affected
him. Herder was a disciple of Rousseau, and had declared war, not
against civilization in general, but against that phase of it which was repre-
sented by France. He detested the entire periwig spirit, and denounced
in vigorous rhetoric the hollow frivolity which it had imparted to the
literature of the day. He clamored for a return to nature, and selected
from the literature of all nations certain books in which he detected the
strong and uncorrupted voice of nature. Among these were the Bible,
Homer, Shakespere, Ossian and the ballad literature of all nations. It is
curious, indeed, to find Ossian in such a company, but it must be remem-
bered that MacPhersons fraud had not then been exposed.
Goethe drank in eagerly these new and refreshing doctrines. He
began to read the writers Herder recommended, and in his enthusiasm for
Shakespere soon went beyond his teacher. He condemned his own
frivolous imitations of French models, and wrestled with gigantic plans for
future productions which should infuse new vigor into the enervated
literature of the Fatherland. It was during this period of Titanic enthu-
siasm that he conceived the idea of Faust, for the complete embodiment
of which he labored, though with many interruptions, for sixty years, until a
few months before his death. A lively interest in natural science also began
to develop itself in him, while his disinclination for the law showed no signs
of abating. At lectures he was not a frequent guest; but for all that his
intellectual life was thoroughly aroused and he was by no means idle.
With his great absorptive capacity he assimilated a large amount of the
most varied knowledge, but insisted upon exercising his choice as to the
kind of learning which his nature and faculties craved. The result was
that when the time came for taking the doctors degree. Johann Wolfgang
Goethe, unquestionably the most brilliant intellect Germany has produced,
failed to pass his examinations. He was, however, not ignominiously
flunked, but was permitted to depart with the more modest title of
Licentiate of the Law. This was not what the old gentleman in Frank-.
fort had looked forward to, and it is presumable that the reception he gave
his son, when he returned in 1771 to the city of his fathers, was not over
cordial. He was probably not wise enough to see that he himself was to
blame for having compelled the boy to devote himself to a study for which
he had neither taste nor inclination.
An incident of Goethes life in Strassburg, which greatly influenced
his literary activity, was his meeting with Frederika Brion, the daughter of
IX



The Life of Goethe.
the parson at Sesenheim. The parsonage was about six hours journey
from the city, and Goethe was in the habit of visiting there with his friend
Weigand, who was a relative of the family. The parson was a plain, God-
fearing man, who went about in dressing-gown and slippers and with a long
pipe in his mouth. His daughters Salome and Frederika were what the
daughters of country clergymen are apt to be,nice, domestic girls, who
would make charming wives for almost anybody who would have the good
sense to propose to them. Frederika was pretty, and moreover she had an
unfortified heart. She possessed a few artless accomplishmentssuch as
playing and singingbut when she was to show these off before company,
everything went wrong. Her portrait, as drawn by Goethe in his autobiog-
raphy, is one of the loveliest things in literature. Her simple talk and
strictly practical interests, far removed from all sentimentality, seemed to be
in perfect accord with her little tip-tilted nose and her half-rustic Alsatian
costume. It is obvious that she appealed to Goethes artistic nature; that
he gloried in the romantic phases of his simple life at the parsonage. He
had already then the keenest appreciation of what one might call the literary
aspect of his experiences. He knew at once, and probably anticipated in
spirit, how they would look in a book. But he was at the same time an in-
flammable youth, whose heart was readily touched through the medium of his
fancy. By degrees, as he established himself in the favor of every member
of the Brion family, his relation to Frederika became that of a lover. The
father and the mother accepted him in this capacity, and Frederika herself
was overflowing with deep and quiet happiness. By an unlucky chance,
however, the two Brion sisters were invited to spend some time with friends
in Strassburg. Goethe was charmed at the prospect. But, strange to say,
torn out of the idyllic frame in which he had been wont to see her,
Frederika seemed no longer so miraculous. She needed the rural par-
sonage and the yellow wheat-fields for a setting; amid the upholstered
furniture and gilded conventionalities of the city she seemed only a simple-
hearted country girl, perhaps, a little deficient in manners. From that time
the charm was broken. Frederika returned to her home; Goethe, too,
soon left Strassburg. Frederika waited for him month after month, but he
did not come. He lacked courage to tell her of the changed state of his
feelings, and left her to pine away between hope and cruel disappointment.
A serious illness was the result, which came near costing her her life.
Eight years later Goethe, then a world-renowned man, revisited Sesen-
heim and found her yet unmarried. She was as frank and friendly as


ARTIST: EUGEN KLIMSCK.
YOUNG GOETHE IN PRIVATE THEATRICALS.


ever, but her youthful gayety was gone; she was pale, hushed and subdued.
She made no allusion to the relation which had once existed between them,
but she conducted him silently to the arbor in the garden where they had
spent so many rapturous hours together. There they sat down and talked
of indifferent things; but many strange thoughts arose in the minds of both.
Frederika died of consumption in 1813.
After his return to Frankfort, in 1771, Goethe made an earnest effort
to please his father by laying the foundation of a legal practice. The coun-
sellor himself aided him in every possible way, looked up his authorities,
and acted as a private referee in all doubtful questions. For all that, it was
literature and not law which filled Goethes mind and fashioned his visions
of the future. In the intervals of "business he paid visits to the city of
Darmstadt, where he made the acquaintance of Herders fiancee, Caroline
Flachsland, and of Merck, who became his model for Mephistopheles. It
was an interesting society which he here encountered, a society animated by
an exalted veneration of poetic and intellectual achievements and devoted
to a kind of emotional extravagancean artificial heightening of every fine
feeling and sentiment. Caroline Flachsland and her circle, recognizing
Goethes extraordinary endowment, and feeling, perhaps, doubly inclined in
his favor by his beautiful exterior, accepted him, as it were, on trust, and
honored him for what he was going to do rather than for anything which he
had actually accomplished. His love affair with Frederika, which was here
sentimentally discussed, also added to the interest with which he was
regarded. A man who is known to have broken many hearts is naturally
invested with a tantalizing charm to women who have yet hearts to be
broken. At all events the great expectations which were entertained of
him in the Darmstadt circle, stimulated him to justify the reputation which
had been thrust upon him. In 1772 he published the drama, ltGd£zvou
Berhchingenwhich at one stroke established his position as the foremost
among German poets. It must be remembered, however, that Germany
had at that time no really great creative poet. Lessing was, indeed, alive,
and had written dramas which, in point of theatrical effectiveness and
brilliancy, were superior to GotzBut Lessing disclaimed the title
of poet, and his prominence as a critic and polemic defender of ration-
alism overshadowed, in the minds of his contemporaries, his earlier
activity in the service of the muses. Moreover, it is not to be denied
that Gotz with all its crudity of construction, is a warmer and more
full-blooded production than any of the plays which Lessing had written
xi


for the purpose of demonstrating the soundness of his canons of dramatic
criticism.
As a stage play Gotz is unquestionably very bad. It violates,
whether purposely or not, every law of dramatic construction. It is a
touching and poetical story, told in successive acts and scenes, full of deep
psychological insight and vigorous characterization. But it takes a nimble
fancy to keep up with the perpetual changes of scene; and even the
tendency and morale of the piece are open to criticism. Goethe enlists the
readers sympathies in behalf of the law-breaker, whose sturdy manhood and
stubborn independence bring him into conflict with the state. Gotz, in spite
of his personal merits, represents the wild and disorderly individualism of
the Middle Ages, at war with the forces of order and social progress,
represented by the Emperor and the free cities. Therefore it is scarcely
proper to apostrophize him as the martyr of a noble cause.
After having practiced law in a leisurely fashion in Frankfort, Goethe
removed, at his fathers recommendation, to Wetzlar, where he was
admitted as a practitioner at the Imperial Chamber of Justice. This
removal took place in May, 1774. Among the first acquaintances which he
made in this city were a young jurist named Kestner and his fiancee,
Charlotte Buff Kestner and Goethe became good friends, in spite of
differences of temperament and character, and their friendship soon came
to include Lotte. Kestner, who was a plain, practical man and the soul
of honor, could see no danger in the daily association of his betrothed with
a handsome and brilliant young poet, who confided to her his hopes and
ambitions, romped with her small brothers and sisters, and captivated the
entire family by the reckless grace and charm of his manners. Kestner did
not suspect that there were depths in Lottes nature which he had never
sounded, regions of sentiment and fancy which he could never hope to
explore. For Lotte, though she had a strong sense of duty, had by no
means as well-regulated and business-like a heart as her practical lover.
Thus the strange thing came to pass: Lotte fell in love with Goethe, and
Goethe with Lotte. They made no confession of their secret even to each
other, but they revelled in each others company, undisturbed by Kestners
presence. At last, however, a crisis occurred. Goethe began to see that
he was treading- on dangerous ground. One evening as he was lounging
at Lottes feet, playing with the flounces on her dress, and the talk had
taken a serious turn, he remarked, referring to a brief journey which he was
about to undertake, that he hoped they would meet jenseits (beyond),
xii




The Life of Goethe.
meaning beyond the mountains which he was going to cross. Lotte
misunderstood the allusion, and, quite forgetting Kestners presence,
answered, fervently, that she could well be reconciled to losing him in this
world, if she could only be sure of being united to him in the hereafter. It
was a sudden flash which revealed to Goethe the fact that Lotte loved him.
He was Kestners friend, was trusted by him, and could not act dishonorably.
So he took his leave, packed his trunks that very night, and wrote three
despairing letters to Kestner and Lottein which he avowed his love for the
latter, and gave this as the reason of his departure. He made it appear,
probably in order to shield Lotte, that his love was hopeless and that her
happiness was dearer to him than his own. That this is the true version of
the Wetzlar affair is made plain, beyond dispute, by the documents published
by Herman Grimm, in his Lectures on Goethe
This episode with Charlotte Buff and Kestner furnished Goethe with
the material for his celebrated romance, The Sorrows of Werther f which
he published in September, 1774. As was usual with him, and indeed with
every great poet, he did not copy the actual relation, but he borrowed from
it what was typical and immortal and left out what was accidental and
insignificant. Thus Lotte in Werther is not Charlotte Buff, though she
sat for her model and furnished the main features of the beautiful type. In
a still less degree is the pitiful Albert the authors friend Kestner, though
he is sufficiently like the latter to justify him in being offended. The char-
acter of Werther himself is more of a free creation, though his external fate
was borrowed from that of a young secretary named Jerusalem, who shot
himself for love of a married woman. In all other respects Werther is
Goethe himself in his Storm and Stress period, while all the vital juices
of his being were in ferment, while his youthful heart beat loudly in sym-
pathy with the worlds woe; while the tumultuous currents of emotion
swayed him hither and thither and would not be made to run in the safe
conventional channels. And yet, even in those days there was a still small
voice of reason in Goethes soul which restrained him from excessesan
undercurrent of sanity and sobriety which kept him always sound in his
innermost core. If Werther had been like his prototype in this respect
he would not have killed himselfin other words, he would not have been
Werther.
The amazing popularity which The Sorrows of Werther attained, not
only in Germany but throughout the civilized world, cannot be due to the
story as such, which is as simple as any episode of daily life. It is only
xiii


explainable on the supposition, that the book for the first time voiced a
sentiment which was well-nigh universal in Europe, during the eighteenth
century. The Germans call it Weltschmerz?>., world-woe. It takes
in IVerther the form of a tender melancholy, a sense of poetic sadness,
which, after the unhappy love affair, deepens into a gentle despair and leads
to self-destruction. Psychologically this is a very interesting phenomenon.
The pent-up energy of the nation, which was denied its natural sphere
of action in public and political life, takes a morbid turn and wastes itself in
unwholesome introspection, coddling of artificial sentiment, and a vague
discontent with the world in general.
During the year 1774 Goethe also published the tragedy Clavigo,
which was a great disappointment to his friends. Its plot is borrowed from
the Memoirs of Beaumarchais, and deals with the problem of faithlessness.
In poetic intensity and fervor it is inferior to Golz and Werther, while,
in point of dramatic construction, it marks a distinct advance. It is his own
faithlessness to Frederika which Goethe obviously has in mind and which
he is endeavoring psychologically to justify. But even from this point of
view the tragedy can scarcely be called a success; for the reader closes the
book with the conviction that Clavigo was, if not a villain, at all events a
weak poltroon, though as such a perfectly comprehensible one.
After his departure from Wetzlar Goethe once more took up his
residence in his native city, and, before long, was again involved in a tender
relation. This time, it was a rich and beautiful lady of society who attracted
him,quite a contrast to the rural Frederika and the amiable and domestic
Lotte. Anna Elizabeth Schonemann, generally known as Lilli, was about
sixteen years old, when Goethe fell a victim to her charms. She was a
spoiled child, wilful and coquettish, but high-bred and with a charm of
manner, when she chose to be agreeable, which fully explains the poet's
devotion to her. Moreover, there was nothing meek and abjectly admiring
about her. She teased her adorer, tormented him by her whims, and took
delight in exercising her power over him. This was quite a new experience
to a young man who had been accustomed to easy conquests and uncritical
adoration. He was now drawn into general society, and, after his engage-
ment with Lilli had been made public, was compelled to dance attendance
upon her, early and late, at balls and dinner-parties. As an experience this
might be valuable enough, but Goethe soon tired of it, and protested in
prose and verse against his servitude. Lilli, however, though she was
sincerely attached to him, could not be made to give up the youthful


ARTIST; EUGEN KLIMSCH.
GRETCHEN AND GOETHE.


gayety which seemed so attractive to her. Quarrels ensued, alienations
and reconciliations, and finally a complete rupture. In many poems from
this period Goethe chronicles the various stages of his love for Lilli and
laments her loss. There is no doubt she had the making of a noble woman
in her; her later life, and particularly her utterances concerning her relation
to Goethe, show that she was neither frivolous nor shallow-hearted. But
she was young and beautiful, and had a sense of power which it was but
natural she should exercise. The meek and submissive maiden is in undue
favor with men, and Goethes biographers, being all men, have done their
best to revile the memory of Lilli.
Among the friends who were warmly attached to Goethe at this time,
Fritz Jacobi and Lavater demand a passing notice. Both presented a
queer mixture of character, which accounts for their subsequent alienation
from the poet. It is worthy of remark that scarcely any of the associates
of Goethes youth maintained their intimate relations with him through life.
He valued a friend only as long as he was in sympathy with him, and as he
outgrew his youthful self, the friends who had been identified with this self
lapsed into the distance. He did not value fidelity in the ordinary sense of
the term, when it involved a perpetual strain upon the heartwhen it had
become a matter of duty rather than of affection. As regards Lavater, he
u'as, with all his ostentatious spirituality, a good deal of a charlatan, even so
much so as to justify Goethes epigram in the Xenien:'
Oh, what a pity that Nature but one man made out of you, friend !
Besides for an honest man, there was also the stuff for a knave.
He reminds one of Carlyles friend Irving, who also started as an
honest zealot and lapsed into emotional excesses, which leave one no choice
but to question either his sanity or his honesty. The so-called science of
physiognomy, which Lavater claimed to have discovered, at one time
interested Goethe greatly; but later, when he became familiar with scientific
methods of research, he could no longer accept Lavater as a guide.
Fritz Jacobi was an honest sentimentalist, who ardently revered Goethe
for his great powers of mind and intellect. They travelled together, and
revelled in the emotions of love and sympathy which welled forth from the
souls of both. Everything that they saw filled them with ecstatic wonder,
and furnished themes for extravagant discourses and poetic dreams.
Jacobi, even though the years sobered him, never completely outgrew this
XV


state, ancl when he published his sentimental romance "Woldemar" which
Goethe could not admire, their friendship began to cool. They drifted
slowly apart, though there was no rupture to signalize their estrangement.
In spite of all his efforts, Goethe could not obtain any lasting satisfac-
tion from his occupation with the law, and he grew lax in his attention to
professional duties. The counsellor was grievously disappointed, and the
relation between father and son grew so strained that all the diplomacy of
the mother was required to keep them from open disagreement. It was
therefore a godsend to Goethe when, in 1775, the two princes of Saxe-
Weimar arrived in Frankfort, and extended to him an invitation to visit
their court. The eldest of the brothers, Karl August, took a great fancy
to the author of Wertherand made every effort to keep him as a friend
and companion. To this end he conferred upon Goethe the title of Privy
Counsellor, with an annual salary of twelve hundred thalers and a vote in
the ducal cabinet. Goethe had thus at last got firm ground under his feet,
and could now, without fear of the future, give himself up to his favorite
pursuits. His arrival in Weimar made a great sensation. His fame, his
extraordinary beauty and his winning manners gave him at once a prestige,
which he maintained undiminished to the end of his days. The duke, who
was a blunt and honest fellow, fond of pleasure and yet zealous for the
welfare of his subjects, found in Goethe a firm support for his noblest
endeavors. As a boon-companion in pleasure he found the poet no less
attractive; though it is now conceded that the tales which were circulated
concerning the excesses of the two friends, at court festivals and rural
excursions, were greatly exaggerated. It is true, a pause occurs in Goethes
literary activity after his arrival in Weimar; but this was due not to pre-
occupation with pleasure but to the zeal with which he devoted himself to
his official duties. It was important to Goethe as a poet to gain a deeper
insight into practical reality, and he seized the present opportunity to
familiarize himself with many phases of life which hitherto had lain beyond
his horizon. Strange as it may seem to those who identify with the name
of poet everything that is fantastic and irregular, he made a model official
punctual and exact in all his dealings, painstaking, upright and inflexible.
During his early youth, Goethe had been identified with the school in
German literature known as the Storm and Stress (Sturm und
Drang"). The members of this school had clamored for a return to
Naturemeaning by Nature absence of civilization. Civilization was held
responsible for all the ills to which flesh is heir, and the remedy was held to
XVI


be the abolishment of all the artificial refinements of life which interfered
with the free expression of Nature. Goethe never went to the same length
in these doctrines as some of his associates (Klinger, Lenz, Leisewitz). but
he was for all that, like them, a disciple of Rousseau, and had, both in
Gotz and Werther made war upon civilized society. It is therefore
notable that, after his arrival in Weimar and his closer contact with the
actualities of life, a profound, change came over him, which amounted to a
revolution in his convictions. The wild ferment of his youth had found its
natural expression in the fervid, tumultuous diction of the Storm and
Stress, but his maturer manhood demanded a clearer, soberer and more
precise utterance. The change that took place in his style during the first
ten years of his sojourn in Weimar was therefore a natural one, and ought
to have caused no surprise to those who knew him.
A very exhaustive record of Goethes inner and outer life during this
period is contained in his correspondence with Frau von Stein, the wife of
Baron von Stein, a nobleman in the dukes service. She was seven years
older than the poet and the mother of seven children. Beautiful she was
not, but she was a woman of exceptional culture and finely attuned mind,
capable of comprehending subtle shades of thought and feeling. Her face,
as the portraits show, was full of delicacy and refinement. Her marriage
was unhappy, and, without any protest on the part of her husband, she
sought in daily intercourse with Goethe a consolation for the miseries of her
life. Whether the relation was anything more than a bond of sympathy
and intellectual friendship it is difficult to determine. His letters, appoint-
ing interviews and overflowing with affectionate assurances, are those of a
lover. Unfortunately Frau von Steins own letters have not been pre-
served ; she took the precaution to demand them back and burn them, when
their friendship came to an end.
In September, 1786, Goethe started from Karlsbad for Italy, and
arrived in October in Rome. For many years it had been his dearest desire
to see the Eternal City, and to study with his own eyes the masterpieces of
ancient art. In his trunk he carried several unfinished manuscripts, and in
his head a number of literary plans which he here hoped to mature, in the
presence of the marble gods and heroes of the ancient world. He asso-
ciated chiefly with the artists Tischbein, Meyer, Philip Hackert and Angelica
Kaufmann, and revelled in art talk and criticism. He took up again the
study .of Homer, and began to meditate upon an Homeric drama, to be
called NausicaaItaly, with its bright sky, its gently sloping mountains,
xvn


clad with silvery olive trees, and its shores washed by the blue Mediter-
ranean waves, became a revelation to him, and he apprehended keenly her
deepest poetic meaning. A cheerful paganism henceforth animates his
writings, a delight in sensuous beauty and a certain impatience with the
Christian ideal of self-abnegation. The Hellenic ideal of harmonious
culturean even development of all the powers of body and soul
appealed powerfully to him. He Hung away his Gothic inheritance, under-
valuing, in his devotion to the Greeks, what was noble and beautiful in the
sturdy self-denying manhood of the North. His drama Ipkigenia,"
which he had first written in prose, he now rewrote in classical pentameters
and sent it home to his friends in Weimar, who were completely mystified,
and did not quite dare to say that they could make neither head nor tail of
it. For all that, this drama is a very remarkable production, uniting, as it
were, the Greek and the Germanic ideal, and being in spirit as close to the
latter as it is in form to the former. Goethe dealt with this old classic tale
as no Greek could ever have done it. He makes the gentle womanhood of
Iphigenia soften the maimers of the fierce Taurians, and by her noble
character act as a civilizing influence in die midst of the barbarous
race. The Greeks had not arrived at such an estimate of woman;
nor would Euripides, who dealt with the same legend, have understood
Goethes version of it any better than did Herder and his friends in
Weimar.
In June, 1788, Goethe again turned his face northward, after an
absence of nearly two years. One of the first effects of his Italian
experience was that he took a mistress, named Christiane Vulpius, whom
many years later he married. Christiane was a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked
girl, with an abundance of curly hair, in no wise intellectual, and belonging
to a family in which drunkenness was hereditary. She was of redundant
physical development, had always a bright smile, and was sufficiently
intelligent to take a mild interest in her lovers literary and scientific
pursuits. But that his liaison with her was, for all that, a deplorable mistake
can scarcely be questioned. In the first place she developed, as she grew
older, her hereditary vice, and was frequently unpresentable on account ol
intoxication. The son whom she bore to Goethe inherited the same failing,
and died suddenly in Rome, as has been surmised, from the effects of a
carouse. The young man, who was handsome in person and well endowed,
had been married some years before and was the father of two sons, both
of whom died unmarried. Walter von Goethe, who lived until April, 1885,


GOETHE DISCUSSING WITH THE SHOEMAKER


The Life of Goethe.
was a chamberlain at the Court of Weimar, and at one time cherished
poetical aspirations. With his death the race of Goethe became extinct
in the direct line. It is, indeed, true that the sins of the fathers avenge
themselves upon the children.
Christianes removal to Goethes house, where he henceforth claimed
for her the place and respect due to a wife, caused a grievous commotion in
Weimar. Frau von Stein was the first to take offence, and a rupture of
their former relation was the result. Herder also remonstrated, and soon
ceased to count himself among Goethes friends.
In 1789 Goethe completed a drama which, like the Iphigenia, had
existed in an earlier prose version. It was entitled Tasso, and dealt with
the history of the Italian poet of that name. Its purpose seems to be to
protest against the over-estimation of a poets calling, then in vogue, and to
assert the rights of practical reason as against those of the imagination.
Tasso is represented as an impulsive and warm-hearted man who is violently
swayed by his emotions, while the cool-headed man of the world, Antonio,
represents the opposite type. In the contest which arises between them
Tasso is worsted ; and it is Goethes purpose to convince the reader that he
deserves his fate. In this, however, he is not entirely successful. Antonio,
the adroit and sagacious diplomat, is an unattractive character as compared
with the noble and generous Tasso, who errs from inability to restrain his
passionate adoration of the Princess Leonora. The world is apt to sym-
pathize more with generous folly than with far-seeing sagacity and nicely-
adjusted calculation. And yet, when we have advanced another century.
I am inclined to think that we shall agree that Goethes judgment was
right.
As an acting play Tasso is even less effective than G'dtz and
Iphigeniaf being rather a poetic and admirably conceived story, told in
dramatic form, than a drama in the ordinary acceptation of the term.
If further proof were needed that Goethe was not a dramatist,
Egmont furnishes the most conclusive evidence. Here were again a
series of delightful characterizations, subtle, and yet vigorous; and pictur-
esquely effective scenes, strung together most entertainingly, but only
with remote reference to the requirements of the stage. There is no
perceptible acceleration of the action, as it progresses, no sharp accentua-
tion of motives and effects, and no inexorable necessity, either interna! or
external, which hurries the hero on to his destruction. No poet however
great, can emancipate himself from these laws, if he wishes to produce a
XIX


successful tragedy. As a mere literary production, Egmont" is fully
worthy of the author of Gotz and Werther," and deserves the immor-
tality which it has earned. The types of Clarchen and Egmont have a
perennial beauty, of which no critic can deprive them. The great elemental
passion, which is the mainspring of their speech and action, appeals to all
hearts alike, and invests them with a charm which can never grow old.
The critic who first expressed substantially the above opinion of
Egmont was a young man named Frederick Schiller, who was just then
glorying in his first fame as the author of The Robbers and other sensa-
tional dramas. He had had a great desire to make the acquaintance of
Goethe, whom he profoundly revered; though he was probably aware of
the dislike which Goethe entertained of the violent and declamatory school
which he represented. At a meeting which took place in September, 1788,
Schiller was quite grieved at the coolness with which the elder poet received
him; and at a subsequent interview he likewise failed to make any advance
in the latters favor. It was not until six years later that a literary enter-
prise (Die Horen), which Schiller had started, brought them into closer
contact; and Goethe learned to value the genius of the man whom he had
politely repelled. From this time forth they saw much of each other, and
remained in correspondence whenever chance separated them. A beautiful
friendship, founded upon mutual respect and community of interests,
sprung up between them, and deepened with every year, until death sepa-
rated them. Literature has no more perfect relation to show between two
great men than this between Goethe and Schiller. No jealousy, no passing
disagreement, clouded the beautiful serenity of their intercourse. They
met, as it were, only upon the altitudes of the soul, where no small and
petty passions have the power to reach. Their correspondence, which has
been published, is a noble monument to the worth of both. The earnest-
ness with which they discuss the principles of their art, the profound
conscientiousness and high-bred courtesy with which they criticize each
others works, and their generous rivalry in the loftiest excellence have no
parallel in the entire history of literature.
It was chiefly due to the influence of Schiller that Goethe determined
to resume work upon the fragment of "Faust'' which he had kept for many
years in his portfolio, and finally published incomplete in the edition of
1790. Schiller saw at once the magnificent possibilities of this theme, and
the colossal dimensions of the thought which underlay the daring concep-
tion. Goethe, being preoccupied with the classical fancies which the
XX


Italian journey had revived, was at first unwilling to listen to his friends
advice, and spoke disparagingly of the fragment as something too
closely allied with his Gothic Storm and Stress period, which he had now
outgrown. So long, however, did Schiller persevere, that Goethes interest
was reawakened, the plan widened and matured, and for the rest of his life
Goethe reserved his best and noblest thought for this work, fully conscious
that upon it his claim to immortality would rest. Still, it was not until
1808 that the First Part finally appeared in its present form. In the mean-
while several works of minor consequence occupied Goethes mind besides
the romance Wilhelm Meisterl' the fundamental thought of which is kindred
to that of FaustThe satirical poem Reynard the Fox," founded upon
an older popular model, was published in 1794 and made some passing stir,
and a rather prolix and uninteresting romance, entitled The Conversations
of German Emigrants, also engaged his attention. In 1795 the first two
volumes of Wilhelm Meister were published, and were received with
enthusiasm by some and with censure by many. The public at large, being
unable to comprehend the philosophical purpose of the work, were puzzled.
As a story the book was sufficiently entertaining, but it hinted everywhere
at meanings which it did not fully reveal. It was obvious that it was this
hidden significance which the author had at heart amid this bewildering
panorama of shifting scenes and persons. The plot is altogether too
complex to be unravelled here, but the philosophy of the book may be
briefly stated.
Wilhelm Meister aims at nothing less than to portray the disintegra-
tion of feudal society, then visibly commencingthe transition from a feudal
to an industrial civilization. The noblemans prerogatives cannot endure
unless they are founded upon qualities of mind and character which make
him indispensable to the state. In other words, it is a man's utility which
in the end must establish his place in society. All other distinctions are
artificial and evanescent. That society had not yet reached this state
Goethe was well aware, but he merely wished to indicate the direction which
the development of the future must inevitably take. The quest for the
ideal which drives Wilhelm from the routine of the paternal counting-house
into a life of wild adventure, is merely the individual manifestation of the
restless discontent which animates society at large, and is slowly revolution-
izing it, in accordance with the changed conditions of modern life. The
worlds ideal, like that of Wilhelm Meister, is perpetually changing, and
each achievement in social reform is but a stepping-stone to still nobler
XXI


achievements. Wilhelm when young seeks his ideal in a free and
unrestrained life among actors and strolling vagabonds; then the freedom
from care and the commanding position of a nobleman seem to offer the
highest felicity, and at last, after having had this illusion dispelled, he finds
happiness in self-forgetful devotion to duty. Not in freedom from labor but
in devotion to labor; not in unrestrained pursuit of pleasure, but in a well-
defined sphere of daily utility, can man alone find happiness. This is the
lesson of Wilhelm Meister, and a most noble lesson it is. The Second
Part of the book, which was not completed until 1821, only emphasizes this
same moral, though the moral is concealed under a mass of more or less
obscure symbols, which often seem needlessly perplexing.
The first fruit of Goethes union with Schiller was a series of satirical
epigrams, called Die Xenien(1797). These were intended in part to
punish the enemies and detractors of the literary firm of Goethe and
Schiller, but, though they do not spare persons who are exponents of false
and dangerous tendencies, they seem chiefly intended to attack pretence,
charlatanism and unsound canons of criticism. They do not only tear
down, they also build up. They praise what is noble and chastise what is
ignoble. Witty in the French sense are but few of them; but all of them
have a weighty meaning.
Immediately in the wake of the Xenien followed the rural idyl
Hermann and Dorothea" (1797), which suddenly revived Goethes popu-
larity with the mass of readers, who since his Italian journey had gradually
drifted away from him. It was as if Goethe had meant to show them that
he could be as simple and popular as anybody, if he chose. Here was a
story of German rural life in which no one had seen any poetry before,
except Voss, who in his Luise had delivered a turgid homily in
hexameters on the rural virtues. Goethe well knew this poem, but he was
not afraid of incurring the charge of having imitated Voss, because he
knew that a literary subject belongs, not to him who deals with it first, but
to him who deals with it best. There is a delightful Homeric flavor in his
hexameters; they roll and march along with splendid resonance. In the
characterization of the Landlord of the Golden Lion and his wife and
neighbors, the same easy mastery is visible which gave the vivid form and
color to the features of Egmont, Gotz and Werther.
Far less successful, both in point of popularity and literary excellence,
was the tragedy, The Natural Daughter, which owed its origin to
Goethes excessive admiration of Sophocles and iEschylus. The types are
XXII


ARTIST: K. KOGIER.
CHARLOTTE, GOETHE AND KESTNER.


here quite colorlessnot because Goethe could not individualize them, but
from conscientious motivesbecause the Greek poets deal merely with
general types and avoid a too vivid individualization. Far more worthy
specimens of Graeco-Germanic art are the beautiful classical elegies
Alexis and Dora'' Euphrosyne and Amyntor. Also a host of fine,
spirited ballads, vigorous in tone and exquisite in color, date from this period.
Goethe had long ago discovered the charm of the German folk-song, and
had estimated the poetic force of this simple national strain.
In 1805 Schiller died, and Goethe was once more alone; for among his
neighbors and townsmen he found no more congenial companions. Scien-
tific pursuits began more and more to occupy him, and the opinion became
prevalent that he had now ceased to be a poet, and that his absurd ambition
to be a scientist had disqualified him for further literary production. Goethe
was not in the least disturbed by these rumors, but pursued his investiga-
tions in botany, geology and optics with undiminished zeal. All the while
he worked quietly on Faust and his Doctrine of Color and made
experiments with the sun spectrumin which he believed he had discovered
phenomena which were at variance with the Newtonian theory of color.
That he was here on a wrong track we may now freely admit, but Professor
Tyndale asserts that his very mistakes afford evidences of his genius. The
fact is, he was in advance of his age in the value he attached to scientific
education; and having had no opportunities for such education in his youth,
he made up for what he had missed by an increased zeal during his mature
years. He saw Nature in her grand unity, and his penetrating vision saw
the great causal chain which unites her most varied phenomena. In this,
and in this alone, consisted his greatness as a scientist. He was the Faust
who by a daring synthesis brought order into the chaos of dispersed facts,
which a hundred pedantic and pains-taking Wagners had accumulated.
The Wagners therefore did not love him, and their hpstile opinions made
enough noise in their day to have even reached as a faint echo down to the
present. Nevertheless the scientists of to-day have recognized the value
of Goethes theory of the typical plant, and of the leaf as the typical organ
of plant life, which he has fully developed in his book on The Metamor-
phoses of PlantsA kindred thought, applied to the animal kingdom, led
to the discovery of the intermaxillary bone, which finally established the
identity of the human skeleton with that of other mammals; and in geology
to his championing the so-called Neptunic theory of the development of the
earth against Humboldts Vulcanism, which attributed to volcanic agencies
xxiii


the principal influence in fashioning the globes surface. In all these con-
troversies he emphasized the essential identity of Nature in all her phe-
nomena; the unity and organic coherence of all her varied life; and he did
not, in the end, hesitate to draw the logical conclusion from these premises,
and declare himself a believer in the theory of evolution, half a century
before Darwin had advanced the same doctrine.
All these heterogeneous studies became tributary to Goethes greatest
work, Fausi (1790 and 1808), in which the highest results of his colossal
knowledge are deposited. It is his philosophy of life which he has here
expounded, under a vvealdi of symbols and images which dazzle the eye,
and to the superficial reader often obscure the profounder meaning. To
the majority of English and American critics Faust" is but a touching and
beautiful love-story, and the opinion is unblushingly expressed by hoary
wiseacres that the Second Part is a mistake of Goethes old age, and in no
wise worthy of the First. If nothing is worth saying except that which
appeals to the ordinary intellect, trained in the common schools, then this
criticism is not to be cavilled with; but Goethe had during the latter part of
his life entered a realm of thought, where he was hidden from the multi-
tude; where but a few congenial minds could follow him. To these I would
endeavor to demonstrate what Faust means if the space permitted.* All
I can do here is briefly to indicate the fundamental thought.
Goethe borrowed from Spinoza the daring proposition that God is
responsible for evil. He undertook to demonstrate that evil was not an
afterthought on the part of God, which stole into his system of the universe
by an unforeseen chance, but an essential part of that system from the
beginning. In other words, as it is expressed in the Prologue in Heaven
God gave Mephistopheles as a companion to Faust. Selfishness, which is
merely another form of the instinct of self-preservation, is the lever of the
worlds history, and if a man were born who was entirely free from it he
would be unable to maintain his place in the world as it is now constituted.
He would be trampled down, and would perish. The unrestrained egoism
of barbaric times has gradually been limited, as civilization has advanced, by
laws, which in each age expresses the average moral sense, and are
intended to secure the preservation of society. But egoism, though
variously disguised and turned into useful channels, is yet the leading
* I may refer any one who is interested in the subject to my book, Goethe and Schiller,n
in which will be found an exhaustive commentary on Fat/st."
XXIV


motive in mens actionsMephistopheles, though a most civilized gentle-
man, still is at Fausts elbow, and stimulates him to daring enterprise
of which, without this unlovely companion, he would never have dreamed.
Faust, then, is meant to symbolize mankind, and Mephistopheles the
devil, the principle of selfishness or of evil, in whatever way disguised.
In the symbolic fable, Mephistopheles makes a wager with the Lord, that if
the Lord will give him the right to accompany Faust, Faust will in the end
be the devils. This wager is accepted, and Mephistopheles proceeds to
introduce Faust to all phases of sensual pleasure, in the hope of corrupting
him. Faust, however, though he sins, is in no wise corrupted. The love
affair and the subsequent tragedy with Margaret are merely episodes in
Fausts development, from the authors point of view, cruel as it may seem.
Faust, in his typical capacity, rises above the error which came near crip-
pling him, to higher phases of being. His ideal changes; he goes in search
of culture and intellectual achievement. Mephistopheless attempts to lead
him astray are turned directly to useful purposes. The devil, who in the
sensual stage of his development had had a certain predominance over him.
becomes now more and more subservient to him. Fausts intellectual
powers are especially employed in statesmanship and political activity for
the welfare of the state. Then comes the pursuit of the beautiful, regarded
as an educational agency, symbolized in the quest of Helen of Troy and the
pilgrimage to Greece. Particularly in the classical Walpurgis Night are the
spiritual value and the ennobling influence of Greek art emphasized. The
last and concluding phase of mans development, which is logically derived
from the preceding ones, is altruisma noble devotion to humanity, and
self-forgetful labor for the common weal. In this activity Faust finds happi-
ness, and exclaims to the flying moment, Stay, thou art so fair.
It is scarcely necessary to add that Faust remained a sealed book to the
majority of Goethes contemporaries. Some few saw the scope and purpose
of the work and valued it accordingly; others pretended to understand
more than they did; and a whole literature of commentaries was supplied
by the learned ingenuity and zeal of the Fatherland. Goethe sat at home
and smiled at his critics, but never undertook either to confirm or to refute
their theories.
In 1809 he again published a book which was a puzzle both to his
admirers and his enemies. This was a novel entitled Elective Affinities.
He had at that time made the acquaintance of a young girl named Minna
Herzlieb, an adopted daughter of the bookseller Frommann in Jena. He
XXV


rap~c
T?ie Life of Goethe.
became greatly interested in her, addressed sonnets to her, and quite turned
her head. To be loved by Goethe, even though he was no longer young,
was a distinction which no girl could contemplate with indifference. More-
over he was, apart from his celebrity, a man of majestic presence and a kind
of serene Olympian beauty. Minna Herzliebs parents fearing that she
might lose her heart, as she already had her head, made haste to send her
beyond the reach of Goethes influence. Out of this relation, or rather out
of its possibilities, grew Elective Affinities. Goethe was married to
Christiane, whose unfortunate propensity for drink had then already
developed. Minna was young and fair, and attracted him strongly. Here
were the elements for a tragedy. In the book the situation is essentially
the same, though Charlotte, Edwards wife, is afflicted by no vice. It
might be described as a four-cornered attachment, in which everybody loves
the one he cannot have. These attachments are described by analogy, with
chemical laws, as entirely irresponsible natural forces which assert them-
selves in the individual without any guilty agency of his own. The conclu-
sion is, however, not that marriage, which interferes with the consummation
of these elective affinities, is wrong, and ought to be abolished. If there is
any moral at all (which is not perfectly obvious), it is that every man and
woman should be aware of encouraging such relations, as they are sure to
lead to unhappiness and disaster.
Christiane, Goethes wife, died in 1816, and he mourned her sincerely.
Habit had bred a certain attachment, of which, with all her failings, she was
not entirely undeserving. In her early youth, before she had yet assumed
the name of wife, she had inspired the immortal Roman Elegies, in which
her lover, with pagan unrestraint, had sung the delight of the senses. She
had been his associate, too, in his botanical studies, and had assisted him in
his search for the typical plant. But a wife in the noblest sensea friend
and a companion of her husbands higher lifeshe had not been and could
not have been.
In the last decades of his life, Goethe was largely absorbed in scientific
researches and in arranging and editing the labors of his early life. Of
particular importance is his autobiography, Fact and Fiction (Aus
Meinem Leben, Dichtung und Wahrheit), which relates with extraordinary
vividness that portion of his life which preceded his removal to Weimar.
The book is an historical document of the highest importance. It gives
the intellectual and moral complexion of the eighteenth century in Germany,
as no other work has ever done. Also his letters from Italy to Herder and
XXVI


ARTIST : K KOGLER.
GOETHE DESPATCHING THE MANUSCRIPT OF GOETZ


Frau von Stein he carefully edited and collected under the title Italian
Journey!' Then, as if by a miracle, came a poetic Indian summer, a fresh
flow of lyrical verse, full of youthful spontaneity and fervor. This collec-
tion, which was published in 1819 under the title The West-Eastern
Divany" was a free imitation of Oriental models, translated into German by
Hammer Purgstall (1813). The first half of the book is chiefly didactic,
while the latter half contains love lyrics, which in freshness of fancy and
sweetness of melody rival the productions of Goethes best years. A few
of these poems were written by Marianne Willemer, the wife of a merchant
in Frankfort, and with her consent included in the collection. She cherished
an ardent admiration for the old poet, and he highly valued her friendship.
She is supposed to be the beloved one whom he celebrates in the book
of Zuleika. The book of Timur" is a free poetic moralization, con-
cerning the rise and fall of Napoleon, disguised in Oriental forms. What
is particularly remarkable in these melodious meditations is the novelty of
their metres. Goethe discards, for the time, the classical measures in which
his genius had moved with such sovereign ease, and adopts the strangely
involved verse of an entirely alien civilization. It is the metrical forms
which Platen, Heine, Riickert and Bodenstedt have made so familiar to
German readers, and which German poets even to-day are assiduously
cultivating. Although Goethe did not go into any such minute study of
Oriental prosody as for instance Ruckert, yet he was in this field, as in
many other departments of literary labor, the path-breaking pioneer.
Another work which, though seemingly unassuming, gained, in the
course of time, much importance for the intellectual life of Germany was
the Italian Journeywhich was given to the public in 1817. Altogether
this collection of letters, containing only the simplest and most direct
descriptions of what the writer saw, differs widely from every other descrip-
tion of Italy which has ever been published. It has no fine writing, and
makes no pretentious display of knowledge. But for all that it is a model
of good style. The words are absolutely transparent, and serve no purpose
but to convey an accurate idea of the objects described. The marvelously
many-sided knowledge of the author, and, above all, his wholesome and
universal curiosity, are highly impressive. A fact, whether it belong to
the realm of art or of nature, or of political history, commands his imme-
diate interest. He has at all times and in all places a strong, healthful
appetite for facts. On the Lido, near Venice, he sits and contemplates with
a fascinated gaze the phenomena of marine life; with exactly the same


devotion lie listens to the responsive song of the fishermen across the
lagoons, or studies the architecture of Palladio and the paintings of Rafael
and Titian. The Adriatic, with its blue isles reflected in the sun-bathed
waves, furnishes him with a setting for the Homeric epics, and Homeric life
becomes clear to him, by analogy, from the study of the physical conditions
of the old Magna Gra^cia. In every direction his comment is pregnant
with new meaning. He throws out with heedless prodigality seed-corns
of thought, and they fall into good soil and bear fruit a hundred and a
thousand fold in the distant future.
Of Goethes other autobiographical works Fiction and Fact" is the
most important. The title is significant, because it implies that the author
does not mean to tie himself down to the narration of the mere barren
details of his life, but reserves for himself the right of artistic arrangement
and poetical interpretation. It has, indeed, been proved that he has now
and again reversed the sequence of events, where a more poetic effect
could be attained at the expense of the true chronology. It was his
purpose to emphasize the organic coherence of his life; its continuous and
unbroken development, according to certain laws which presided over his
destiny. His father and mother (upon whom he bestows the minutest
description) being what they were, and the environment of his early life
(which he likewise depicts with the most pains-taking exactness) being what
it was, it was natural and necessary that he should become what he was.
This seems to be the sum and moral of the whole. Law and organic
evolution were the watchwords of his life. All that was accidental and
appeared miraculous interested him only as an incentive to find in it the
hidden law. So in every science which he approached his touch seemed
creativeit brought order out of chaos. The slow and beautiful processes
of the earths cooling and preparation for the habitation of living creatures,
the gradual growth and decay of the mountains, and the uses of all these
agencies in the grand cosmic economythese were things which in the
latter half of his career most profoundly absorbed him. He loved to
gather about him scientific specialists, and to hear from them the latest results
of their investigations. As his isolation in Weimar grew more complete,
he came to depend almost entirely upon such company as he could find in
travelling artists and scientists. As an instance of his interest in scientific
questions, an anecdote related by his friend Soret is highly characteristic.
In the first days of August, 1830, Weimar was agitated by the intelligence
which had just arrived from Paris of the breaking out of the July Revolu-
xxviii


The Life of Goethe.
tion. Soret hurried to Goethe to discuss the political situation with him.
The moment Goethe saw him he exclaimed, Well, what do you think of
this great event? The volcano has at last come to eruption ; everything is
in flames, and there is no longer any question of debate behind closed
doors.
It is a terrible story, answered Soret, but what was to be expected
under such conditions and with such a ministry, except that it would have to
end with the expulsion of the royal family.
Goethe stared in the utmost astonishment. We seem to misunder-
stand each other, my dear, he said after a moments pause; I am not
talking of those people. What interests me is quite a different affair. I
am referring to the quarrel which has just broken out in the Academy
between Cuvier and Geoffroy St. Hillaire, which is of the utmost significance
to science. The matter is of the highest importance, he continued after
another pause, and you can have no idea of the feelings which the session
of July 19th has aroused in me. We have now in St. Hillaire a mighty ally
for a long time to come. . . . The best of all, however, is that the
synthetic treatment of nature, introduced by him in France, can now no
more be overthrown.
It is to me a most sublime trait, this lofty scientific absorption. Wars
and revolutions and expulsions of kings are of small consequence com-
pared to the great eternal laws which hold the planets in their spheres, and
guide the progressive march of Gods vast creation. Cuvier held that a
series of violent catastrophes had taken place in the earths history, sharply
separating each geologic age from the subsequent and the preceding one.
St. Hillaire, on the other hand, defended Goethes proposition that the
development of the earth and its life had been an uninterrupted sequence
of progressive stages. How deeply Goethe felt upon this subject is further
evident from his remark to Chancellor von Muller: About aesthetic
matters everyone may think and feel as he likes, but in natural science the
false and the absurd are absolutely unendurable. This friend, he
remarked on the same occasion, referring to Alexander von Humboldt,
who, as he thought, had given undue weight to volcanic agencies, has, in
fact, never had any higher method; only much common sense, zeal and
persistence.
Goethes attitude toward politics, and particularly toward the efforts of
his countrymen to throw off the Napoleonic yoke, has been the subject of
much heated controversy. The fact is, he was a German only in name;
xxix


because the German nationality was in his day not yet resuscitated. In the
free city of Frankfort, where Goethe spent his childhood and early youth,
there existed no such feeling as national pride and patriotism. A kind of
local town-feeling was quite pronounced, and Goethe had his share of it.
But the miserable separatistic policy of the petty German princes had
begun to bear fruit long ago, and had extinguished all sense of responsi-
bility to the empire at large and all devotion for the common nationality.
Where there is no national life there can be no patriotism. It is responsi-
bility which engenders devotion. When, finally, Napoleons tyranny
awakened this sentiment in the hearts of the scattered and dismembered
nation, Goethe was too old to be affected by it. Shake your fetters, he
exclaimed to his struggling countrymen, you cannot break them. The
man is too strong for you.
That such language was resented by a bleeding people, fighting for
its existence, is not to be wondered at. At the same time the apparent
indifference of Goethe was not as serious a reflection upon his character as
his friends then assumed. He was essentially a child of the eighteenth
century, and had imbibed its individualism. All he demanded of the state
was the right to pursue his own avocations in peace; and anything that
broke in upon his literary and scientific meditation (even though it were a
war of liberation) he was apt to resent as an intrusion. In 1813, when,
after the battle of Jena, the French plundered Weimar and the grenadiers
even stormed into his bed-room, he had a taste of the tribulations of war,
and a deep horror of its terrific waste of life and barbarizing influence took
possession of him. He stood no longer then, as he did in the campaign in
France in 1792, watching the bursting shells with a purely scientific
interest, taking down his observations in his note-book. The fiery rain was
no longer a mere experiment in optics.
Goethe has somewhere remarked, that all his writings are one con-
tinued confessionhis life entered into his work; every experience became
transfused into the very life-blood of his thought, and gained in time its
poetic expression. Only war remained so repugnant to him that he
nowhere felt called upon to interpret the emotion which it aroused.
How could I take up arms, he said to Soret, without hatred; and
how could I hate without youth? If such an emergency had befallen
me when I was twenty years old, I should certainly not have been the
last. ... To write military songs and sit in my room! That, for
sooth, was my duty! To have written them in the bivouac, while the
XXX


GOETHE AT CARLSRUHE


outposts of the enemys horses are heard neighing in the night, would have
been well enough! . . . But I am no warlike nature, and have no
warlike sense; war-songs would have been a mask which would have
fitted my face badly. I have never affected anything in poetry. I have
never uttered anything which I have not experienced and which has not
urged me to production. I have composed love-songs when I loved!
How could I write songs of hate without hating? And, between ourselves,
I did not hate the French; a]thought I thanked God when we were rid of
them. How could I, to whom culture and barbarism alone are of import-
ance, hate a nation which is among the most cultivated of the earth, and to
which I owe so much of my own culture. Altogether, national hatred is a
peculiar thing, and you will always find it strongest at the lowest stage of
culture.
I have already alluded to the fact that Goethe in his old age found
himself isolated from the society of friends and neighbors. Altogether, his
relations with his great contemporaries need a word of comment. His
friendship with Schiller, as we have seen, remained uninterrupted to the
end; and with Wieland, who was a cheerful, easy-going epicurean, he also
remained on amicable terms. But Wieland had never been very near to
him; and a friendly acquaintance will take care of itself much more easily
than a closer intimacy. With Herder, on the other hand, who in natural
endowment was a worthier rival to Goethe than the prolific author of
Oberon, he had many misunderstandings which, finally, after the Vulpius
affair, led to a lasting alienation. Herder was, with all his great qualities,
testy and irritable, and could not conquer a certain envy of Goethe. He
had largely influenced Goethes intellectual life, and therefore resented his
pupils tendency to grow above his head. That he protested against
Goethes liaison is certainly to his honor; and Goethe would have saved
himself and his posterity much unhappiness had he heeded Herders advice.
On the whole, it is obvious that Goethe, as he grew to his full intellectual
stature, no longer desired relations of personal intimacy. He valued this
friend for his proficiency in this branch of knowledge, and that friend for his
proficiency in another; but he took pains, as it were, to confine each man to
his own department in which he was likely to be useful and interesting.
Even men with blots upon their reputations he invited to his house, if he
had respect for their acquirements. But let them beware, if they desired
to continue on an amicable footing, not to stray beyond their respective
departments. Even in his relation to the duke, Karl August, Goethe
XXXI


maintained in later years a reserve, which so old and tried a friend might
have felt justified in resenting. But the duke understood Goethe, and
thought his attitude natural. He found him a useful and highly ornamental
figure in his small duchy; and did everything in his power to further the
objects for which he lived. Perhaps he even liked the stately reserve of the
old poet. As genuine grands seigneurs, says Grimm, they walked side
by side, and the distance which separated them was exactly to their tastes.
. . . From having been friends, Goethe and the duke became allies/
During the last years of his life it was chiefly the Second Part of
Faust and his periodical 'For Art and Antiquity which occupied
Goethe. Like the aged Faust, he marched serenely toward the Valley of
the Shadow of Death, cheerfully awaiting whatever fate there might be in
store for him:
Yes, let me dare those gates to fling asunder,
Which every man would fain go slinking by!
Tis time through deeds this word of truth to thunder:
That with the height of Gods mans dignity may vie!
Nor from that gloomy gulf to shrink affrighted
Where Fancy damns herself to self-wrought woes.
Upon this step with cheerful heart resolving,
If even into naught the risk were of dissolving. *
His activity was as many-sided and unwearied as in his most vigorous
manhood. Not only the scientific, but also die literary currents of thought
in all civilized lands he watched with the liveliest interest So great was
the elasticity of his mind, that he was in his old age capable of appreciating
what was good in the Romantic school, in spite of his former dislike and
his diametrically opposed intellectual tendency. The reactionary spirit of
the Romanticists, and their wild enthusiasm for the Middle Ages, remained
as repugnant to Goethe as ever; and their morbid mysticism and predilec-
tion for Catholicism did not commend them to one to whom the cheerful
sensuousness and innate saneness of the Greek civilization had always
strongly appealed. But the efforts of the Romantic authors to revive the
feeling for native art seemed to him praiseworthy ; and Sulpiz Boisseree,
who was laboring earnestly for the restoration of the Cologne Cathedral,
actually succeeded in convincing him of the national importance of his
* Faust, Part I.
xxxu


undertaking. The drawings and paintings of Albrecht Durer also began to
impress him, and his entire attitude toward the Middle Ages underwent a
gradual change.
As the years progressed, the effects of Goethes activity began to be
felt also in foreign lands, and he watched with interest and gratifica-
tion his growing influence in every domain of human knowledge. Particu-
larly in France, a school of rising authors, which also assumed the title of
Romantic, strove through its organ, The Globe, to establish his authority
beyond the Rhine. Although undoubtedly with the ulterior object of
gaining a mighty ally against their enemies at homethe Academicians
these men, among whom Quinet, Ampere and Prosper Merimee were the
most prominent, paid their enthusiastic homage to the German poet, and, in
spite of their defective comprehension of the spirit of his teachings, con-
tributed not a little toward bringing his writings to the notice of the French
public. In England also his writings were published, and commented upon
with more or less intelligence in newspapers and reviews. Carlyle translated
Wilhelm MeisterT Walter Scott Gotzvon Berlichingen' (1799), and Byron
borrowed his ideas with his usual nonchalance. In Italy, too, he gained
many admirers, and entertained a desultory correspondence with Manzoni.
The ready recognition which he thus found on all hands gradually devel-
oped in him the idea of a world literature, which, independently of race and
country, should appeal to the highest sense of excellence which the most
cultured in all countries have in common. He had himself gathered the
chief intellectual currents of his age, and made them pulsate through his
own being. National differences and conflicting interests, which drew the
peoples apart, seemed to him of small consequence compared to the great
and abiding interests which all mankind has in common. Truth has no
nationality, and a great thought is great in whatever language it is uttered.
In the upper regions of the intellect men meet merely as menas poets,
thinkers, scientistsand all accidental distinctions of party, rank and
nationality vanish. The ancient Greeks, who were the only people
whose culture had been founded upon this universally human basis, would
always remain authorities in matters of art. They were not to be
imitated, however, but the spirit of their work, if properly compre-
hended, would stimulate the modern poet and artist to noble and inde-
pendent creation.
Thus, in brief, was Goethe's poetic creed. His prophecy of the world-
literature is, however, yet far from fulfilment.
XXXIII


During the last years of Goethes life death reaped a rich harvest
amoncr those who were dearest to him. In June, 1828, died his oldest
friend, Duke Karl August. Frau von Stein had died a few years before
(1825). Hut the hardest blow of all was the loss of his only son, August
von Goethe, who died in Rome in 1830. His daughter-in-law Ottilia
remained his faithful companion and did the honors of his household. She
read aloud to him from Plutarchwho was one of his favorite authors.
To Eckermann he said as he sealed the package containing the completed
MS. of Faust, Henceforth I look upon my life purely as a gift; it is
now really of little consequence what I do.
A few months later (March 22d, 1832), as he was seated in his cosy-
chair, suffering from a slight cold, he expired quietly and without a
struggle. His last words were: Light! more light!
The morning after Goethes death, says Eckermann, a deep desire
seized me to look upon his earthly remains. His faithful servant Frederick
opened for me the chamber where he was lying. Stretched upon his back,
he reposed as if asleep; profound peace and firmness reigned in the
features of his sublime, noble countenance. The mighty brow seemed yet
to harbor thoughts. . . . The body lay naked, only wrapped in a
winding-sheet. . . . The servant drew aside the sheet, and I marveled
at the divine magnificence of those limbs. The breast was extraordinarily
powerful, broad and arched; the arms and thighs were full and softly
muscular; the feet shapely and of the purest form; nowhere on the whole
body was there any trace of fat, or leanness, or decay. A perfect man lay
in great beauty before me; and the rapture occasioned by this sight made
me forget for a moment that the immortal spirit had left such an abode. I
placed my hand on his heart; there was a deep stillness, and I turned away
to give free vent to my suppressed tears.
It is difficult to overestimate the value of Goethes work to humanity.
The bequest which he left to the world in his writings, and in the whole
intellectual result of his life, is not as yet appreciated at its full worth;
because, intellectually, the world has not yet caught up with him. His
influence to-day asserts itself in a hundred minute wayseven where no
one suspects it. The century has received the stamp and impress of his
mighty personality. The intellectual currents of the age, swelled and
amplified by later tributaries, flow to-day in the directions which Goethe
indicated.
XXXIV




DEDICATION.
THE morn arrivd; his footstep quickly
scard
The gentle sleep that round my senses clung,
And I, avvakning, from my cottage fard,
And up the mountains side with light heart
sprung;
At evry step I felt my gaze ensnard
By new-born flowrs that full of dewdrops hung;
The youthful day awoke with ecstasy,
And all things quickend were, to quicken me.
And as I mounted, from the valley rose
A streaky mist, that upward slowly spread,
Then bent, as though my form it would en-
close,
Then, as on pinions, soard above my head:
My gaze could now on no fair view repose,
In mournful veil conceald, the world seemd
dead;
The clouds soon closd around me, as a tomb,
And I was left alone in twilight gloom.
2
5


At once the sun his lustre seemd to pour.
And through the mist was seen a radiant light;
Here sank it gently to the ground once more,
'There parted it, and climbd oer wood and
height.
How did I yearn to greet him as of yore,
After the darkness waxing doubly bright!
The airy confli# ofttinies was renewd,
Then blinded by a dazzling glow I stood.
Ere long an inward impulse prompted me
A hasty glance with boldness round to throw;
At first mine eyes had scarcely strength to see,
For all around appeard to burn and glow.
Then saw I, on the clouds borne gracefully,
A godlike woman hovring to and fro.
In life I neer had seen a form so fair
She gazd at me, and still she hoverd there.
Dost thou not know me? were the words
she said
In tones where love and faith were sweetly
bound;
Knowest thou not Her who oftentimes hath
shed
The purest balsam in each earthly wound?
Thou knowst me well; thy panting heart I led
To join me in a bond with rapture crownd.
Did 1 not see thee, when a stripling, yearning
To welcome me with tears heartfelt and burn-
ing?
Yes! I exclaimd, whilst, overcome with joy,
I sank to earth : 1 long have worshippd thee;
Thou gavst me rest, when passions rackd the
boy,
Pervading evry limb unceasingly;
Thy heavnly pinions thou didst then employ
'The scorching sunbeams to ward off from me.
From thee alone Earths fairest gifts I gaind,
Through thee alone true bliss can be obtaind.
Thy name I know not; yet I hear thee namd
By many a one who boasts thee as his own;
Each eye believes that towrd thy form tis
aimd,
Yet to most eyes thy rays are anguish-sown.
Ah! whilst I errd, full many a friend I claimd,
Now that I know thee, I am left alone;
With but myself can I my rapture share,
1 needs must veil and hide thy radiance fair.
She smild, and answering said: Thouseest
how wise,
How prudent twas but little to unveil 1
Scarce from the clumsiest cheat are cleard
thine eyes,
Scarce hast thou strength thy childish bars to
scale,
When thou dost rank thee mongst the deities,
And so mans duties to perform wouldst fail!
How dost thou differ from all other men ?
Live with the world in peace, and know thee
then!
Oil, pardon me! I cried, I meant it well;
Not vainly didst thou bless mine eyes with light;
For in my blood glad aspirations swell,
The value of thy gifts I know aright!
Those treasures in my breast for others dwell,
'The buried pound no more Ill hide from sight.
Why did 1 seek the road so anxiously,
If hidden from my brethren twere to be?
And as I answerd, towrd me turnd her face,
With kindly sympathy, that godlike one;
Within her eye full plainly could I trace
What I had faild in, and what rightly done.
She smild, and curd me with that smiles
sweet grace,
To new-born joys my spirit soard anon;
With inward confidence I now could dare
To draw yet closer, and observe her there.
Through the light cloud she then stretchd
forth her hand,
As if to bid the streaky vapor fly :
At once it seemd to yield to her command,
Contracted, and no mist then met mine eye.
My glance once more surveyd the smiling land,
Unclouded and serene appeard the sky.
Nought but a veil of purest white she held,
And round her in a thousand folds it swelld.
I know thee, and I know thy wavTing will,
I know the good that lives and- glows in
thee!
Thus spake she, and methinks I hear her still
The prize long destind, now receive from
me;
That blessd one will be safe from evry ill,
Who takes this gift with soul of purity,
'The veil of Minstrelsy from Truths own hand,
Of sunlight and of morns sweet fragrance
plannd.
And when thou and thy friends at fierce
noonday
Are parchd with heat, straight cast it in the air!
Then Zephyrs cooling breath will round you
_p!ay_,
Distilling balm and flowers sweet incense there;
The tones of earthly woe will die away,
'The grave become a bed of clouds so fair,
To sing to rest lifes billows will be seen,
The day be lovely, and the night serene.
Come, then, my friends! and whensoeer ye find
Upon your way increase lifes heavy load;
If by fresh-wakend blessings flowers are twind
Around your path, and golden fruits bestowd,
Well seek the coming day with joyous mind !
Thus blessd, well live, thus wander on our road,
And when our grandsons sorrow oer our tomb,
Our love, to glad their bosoms, still shall bloom.
6


Late resounds the early strain;
Weal and woe in sons remain.
SOUND, SWEET SONG.
OUND, sweet song, from some far land,
Sighing softly close at hand,
Now of joy, and now of woe !
Stars are wont to glimmer so.
Sooner thus will good unfold ;
Children young and children old
Gladly hear thy numbers flow.
TO THE KIND READER.
O one talks more than a Poet;
Fain hed have the people know it,
Praise or blame he ever loves ;
None in prose confess an error,
Yet we do so, void of terror,
In the Muses silent groves.
What I errd in, what corrected,
What I sufferd, what effected,
To this wreath as flowrs belong;
For the agd, and the youthful,
And the vicious, and the truthful,
All are fair when viewd in song.
7





THE NEW AMADIS.
IN my boyhoods days so drear
I was kept confind;
There I sat for many a year,
All alone I pind,
As within the womb.
Yet thou drovst away my gloom,
Golden phantasy!
I became a hero true,
Like the Prince Pipi,
And the world roamd through;
Many a crystal palace built,
Crushd them with like art,
And the Dragons life-blood spilt
With my glittring dart.
Yes I was a man !
Next I formd the knightly plan
Princess Fish to free;
She was much too complaisant,
Kindly' welcomd me,
And I was gallant.
Heavnly bread her kisses provd,
Glowing as the wine ;
Almost unto death I lovd.
Suns appeard to shine
In her dazzling charms.
Who hath torn her from mine arms?
Could no magic band
Make her in her flight delay ?
Say, where now her land ?
Where, alas, the way?
WHEN THE FOX DIES, HIS SKIN COUNTS
WE young people in the shade
Sat one sultry day;
Cupid came, and Dies the Fox
With us sought to play.
Each one of my friends then sat
By his mistress dear;
Cupid, blowing out the torch,
Said: The tapers here!
Then we quickly sent around
The expiring brand;
Each one put it hastily
In his neighbors hand.
Dorilis then gave it me,
With a scoffing jest;
Sudden into flame it broke,
By my fingers pressd.
And it singd my eyes and face,
Set my breast on fire ;
Then above my head the blaze
Mounted ever higher.
Vain I sought to put it out;
Ever burnd the flame;
Stead of dying, soon the Fox
Livelier still became.
8


ARTISTK. KOGIER.
1'HE HEATHROSE


THE HEATHROSE.
ONCE a boy a Rosebud spid,
Heathrose fair and tender,
All arrayd in youthful pride,
Quickly to the spot he hid,
Ravishd by her splendor.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender !
Said the boy, Ill now pick thee,
Heathrose fair and tender!
Said the rosebud, Ill prick thee,
So that thoult remember me,
Neer will I surrender!
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender !
Now the cruel boy must pick
Heathrose fair and tender:
Rosebud did her best to prick,
Vain twas gainst her fate to kick
She must needs surrender.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Heathrose fair and tender!
>'e>
BLINDMANS BUFF.
H, my Theresa dear !
Thine eyes I greatly fear
Can through the bandage see!
Although thine eyes are bound,
By thee Im quickly found,
And wherefore shouldst thou
catch but me?
Ere long thou heldst me fast,
With arms around me cast,
Upon thy breast I fell;
Scarce was thy bandage gone,
When all my joy was flown,
Thou coldly didst the blind repel.
He gropd on evry side,
His limbs he sorely tried,
While scoffs arose all round ;
If thou no love wilt give,
In sadness I shall live,
As if mine eyes remaind still bound

CHRISTEL.
MY senses ofttimes are oppressd,
Oft stagnant is my blood ;
But when by Christels sight Im blessd,
I feel my strength renewd.
I see her here, I see her there,
And really cannot tell
The manner how, the when, the where,
The why I love her well.
If with the merest glance I view
Her black and roguish eyes,
And gaze on her black eyebrows too,
My spirit upward flies.
Has any one a mouth so sweet,
Such love-round cheeks as she?
Ah, when the eye her beauties meet,
It neer content can be.
23
9


And when in airy German dance
I clasp her form divine,
So quick we whirl, so quick advance,
What rapture then like mine !
And when shes giddy, and feels warm,
1 cradle her, poor thing,
Upon my breast, and in mine arm,
Im then a very king !
And when she looks with love on me,
Forgetting all but this,
When pressd against my bosom, she
Exchanges kiss for kiss,
All through my marrow runs a thrill,
Runs een my foot along !
1 feel so well, 1 feel so ill,
X feel so weak, so strong I
Would that such moments neer would end !
The day neer long I find;
Could I the night loo with her spend,
Een that I should not mind.
If she were in mine arms but held,
To quench loves thirst Id try;
And could my torments not be quelld,
Upon her breast would die.
Of his lambs some two or three
Thyrsis offerd for a kiss;
First she eyd him roguishly,
Then for answer sang but this:
So, la, la le ralla, etc.
Ribbons did the next one offer
And the third, his heart so true *
Rut, as with the lambs, the scoffer
Laughd at heart and ribbons too,
Still twas la! le ralla, etc.
io


THE CONVERT.
EFORE sunset I was straying
Silently the wood along,
Damon on his flute was playing,
And the rocks gave back the song,
So la, la! etc.
Softly towrds him then he drew me;
Sweet each kiss he gave me then !
And I said, Flay once more to me !
And he kindly playd again,
So la, la etc.
All my peace for aye has fleeted,
All my happiness has flown ;
Yet my ears are ever greeted
With that olden, blissful tone,
So la, la! etc.
PRESERVATION.
MY maiden site provd false to me;
To hate all joys I soon began,
Then to a flowing stream I ran,
The stream ran past me hastily.
There stood I fixd, in mute despair;
My head swam round as in a dream ;
I well-nigh fell into the stream,
And earth seemd with me whirling there.
Sudden I heard a voice that cried
I had just turnd my face from thence-
It was a voice to charm each sense :
Beware, for deep is yonder tide !
| A thrill my blood pervaded now,
I lookd, and saw a beauteous maid ;
I askd her name-twas Kate, she said
Oh, lovely Kate how kind art thou !
From death I have been savd by thee,
Tis through thee only that I live;
Little twere life alone to give,
My joy in life then deign to be!
And then I told my sorrows oer,
Her eyes to earth she sweetly threw;
| I kissd her, and she kissd me too,
| Andthen I talkd of death no more.
---------
THE MUSES' SON.
THROUGH field and wood to stray,
And pipe my tuneful lay,
Tis thus my days are passd ;
And all keep tune with me,
And move in harmony,
And so on, to the last.
To wait I scarce have powr
The gardens earliest flowr,
The trees first bloom in Spring;
1 They hail my joyous strain,
I When Winter comes again,
j Of that sweet dream I sing.
i My song sounds far and near,
' Oer ice it echoes clear,
j Then Winter blossoms bright;
j And when his blossoms fly,
| Fresh raptures meet mine eye,
i Upon the well-tilld height.


When neath the linden tree,
Young folks I chance to see,
I set them moving soon;
His nose the dull lad curls,
The formal maiden whirls,
Obedient to my tune.
Wings to the feet ye lend,
O'er hill and vale ye send
The lover far from home;
When shall I, on your breast,
Ye kindly Muses, rest,
And cease at length to roam ?
FOUND.


I sought to pluck it,
It gently said:
Shall I be gatherd
Only to fade?
With all its roots
I dug it with care,
And took it home
To my garden fair,
In silent corner
Soon it was set;
There grows it ever,
There blooms it yet.
Wcv

LIKE AND LIKE.
ARLY a bell-flower
Sprang up from the ground ;
And sweetly its fragrance
It shed all around;
A bee came thither
And sippd from its bell;
That they for each other
Were made, we see well.
RECIPROCAL INVITATION TO THE DANCE.
The Indifferent.
COME to the dance with me, come with
me, fair one!
Dances a feast-day like this may well crown.
If thou my sweetheart art not, thou canst be so,
But if thou wilt not, we still will dance on.
Come to the dance with me, come with me,
fair one!
Dances a feast-day like this may well crown.
The Tender.
Lovd one, without thee, what then would all
feasts be?
Sweet one, without thee, what then were
the dance?
If thou my sweetheart wert not, I would
dance not,
If thou art still so, all life is one feast.
Lovd one, without thee, what then would all
feasts be ?
Sweet one, without thee, what then were
the dance?
The Indifferent.
Let them but love, then, and leave us the
dancing!
Languishing love cannot bear the glad
dance.
Let us whirl round in the waltzs gay measure,
And let them steal to the dim-lighted wood.
Let them but love, then, and leave us the
dancing!
Languishing love cannot bear the glad
dance.
The Tender.
Let them whirl round, then, and leave us to
wander!
Wandring to love is a heavenly dance.
Cupid, the near one, oerhears their deriding,
Vengeance takes suddenly, vengeance takes
soon.
Let them whirl round, then, and leave us to
wander!
Wandring to love is a heavenly dance.
24
*3


SELF-DECEIT
MY neighbors curtain, well I see,
Is moving to and fro.
No doubt shes listning eagerly,
If Im at home or no,
And if the jealous grudge I bore
And openly confessd,
Is nourishd by me as before,
Within my inmost breast.
Alas! no fancies such as these
Eer crossd the dear childs thoughts.
I see tis but the evning breeze
That with the curtain sports.
DECLARATION OF WAR.
OH, would I resembld
The country girls fair,
Who rosy-red ribbons
And yellow hats wear!
To believe I was pretty
I thought was allowd;
In the town I believd it
When by the youth vowd.
14


Now that Spring hath returnd,
All my joys disappear ;
The girls of the country
Have lured him from here.
To change dress and figure
Was needful I found;
My bodice is longer,
My petticoat round.
My hat now is yellow,
My bodice like snow;
The clover to sickle
With others I go.
Something pretty, ere long
Midst the troop he explores;
T he eager boy signs me
To go within doors.
I bashfully go,
Who I am, he cant trace;
He pinches my cheeks,
And he looks in my face.
The town girl now threatens
You maidens with war;
Her twofold charms pledges
Of victory are.
LOVER IN ALL SHAPES.
O be like a fish,
Brisk and quick, is my wish;
If thou camst with thy line,
Thou wouldst soon make me
thine.
To be like a fish,
Brisk and quick, is my wish.
Oh, were I a steed !
Thou wouldst love me indeed.
Oh, were I a car
Fit to bear thee afar'
Oh, were I a steed !
Thou wouldst love me indeed.
I would I were gold
That thy fingers might hold !
If thou boughtest aught then,
Id return soon again.
I would I were gold
That thy fingers might hold!
I would I were true,
And my sweetheart still new!
To be faithful Id swear,
And would go away neer.
I would I were true,
And my sweetheart still new!
I would I were old,
And wrinkled and cold,
So that if thou saidst No,
I could stand such a blow!
I would I were old,
And wrinkled and cold.
An ape I would be,
Full of mischievous glee;
If aught came to vex thee
Id plague and perplex thee.
An ape I would be,
Full of mischievous glee.
As a lamb Id behave,
As a lion be brave,
As a lynx clearly see,
As a fox cunning be.
As a lamb Id behave,
As a lion be brave.
Whatever I were,
All on thee Id confer ;
With the gifts of a prince
My afiedtion evince.
Whatever I were,
All on thee Id confer.
As nought different can make me,
As I am thou must take me !
If Im not good enough,
Thou must cut thine own stuff.
As nought diffrent can make me,
As I am thou must take me!
*5


MY neighbor, none can eer deny,
Is a most beauteous maid;
Her shop is ever in mine eye
AVhen working at my trade.
To ring and chain I hammer then
The wire of gold assayd,
And think the while : For Kate, oh, when
Will such a ring be made?
And when she takes her shutters down,
Her shop at once invade,
To buy and haggle, all the town,
For all thats there displayd.
I file, and maybe overfile
The wire of gold assayd;
Mv master grumbles all the while,
Her shop the mischief made.
To ply her wheel she straight begins,
When not engagd in trade;
I know full well for what she spins,
Tis hope guides that dear maid.
Her leg, while her small foot treads on,
Is in my mind portrayd;
Her garter I recall anon,
/ gave it that dear maid.
Then to her lips the finest thread
Is by her hand conveyd.
Were I there only in its stead,
How I would kiss the maid !
, -S'
? ,\n/j '
26




.'

' -/

;
;
: i
. f
. >
V £


JOY AND SORROW.
A S a fisher-boy I fard
To the black rock in the sea,
And, while false gifts I prepard,
Listend and sang merrily.
Down descended the decoy,
Soon a fish attackd the bait;
One exulting shout of joy,
And the fish was capturd straight.
Ah on shore, and to the wood
Past the cliffs, oer stock and stone,
One foots traces I pursud,
And the maiden was alone.
Lips were silent, eyes downcast
As a clasp-knife snaps the bait,
j With her snare she seizd me fast,
| And the boy was capturd straight.
j Heavn knows whos the happy swain
That she rambles with anew !
I must dare the sea again,
Spite of wind and weather too.
i When the great and little fish
Wail and flounder in my net,
f Straight returns my eager wish
I In her arms to revel yet!
When all springs beauteous flowers, |
When all springs beauteous flowers, I
Our hearts with joy shall fill. *
With lustre false and fleeting
The suns bright rays are thrown;
The swallows self is cheating,
The swallows self is cheating:
And why? He conies alone!
Can I eer feel delighted
Alone, though spring is near?
Yet when we are united,
Yet when we are united,
The summer will be here.
ANSWERS IN A GAME OF QUESTIONS.
The Lady.
IN the small and great world too,
What most charms a womans heart?
It is doubtless what is new,
For its blossoms joy impart;
Nobler far is what is true,
For fresh blossoms it can shoot
Even in the time of fruit.
The Young Gentleman.
With the Nymphs in wood and cave
Paris was acquainted well,
Till Zeus sent, to make him rave,
Three of those in heavn who dwell;
And the choice more trouble gave
Than eer fell to mortal lot,
Whether in old times or not.
25


The Experienced.
Tenderly a woman view,
And thoult win her, take my word;
He whos quick and saucy too,
Will of all men be preferrd;
Who neer seems as if he knew
If he pleases, if he charms,
He tis injures, he tis harms.
The Contented.
Manifold is human strife,
Human passion, human pain;
Many a blessing yet is rife,
Many pleasures still remain.
Yet the greatest bliss in life,
And the richest prize we find,
Is a good, contented mind.
The Merry Counski..
He by whom mans foolish will
Is each day reviewd and blamd,
Who, when others fools arc still,
Is himself a fool proclaimd,
Neer at mill was beasts back press'd
With a heavier load than he.
What 1 feel within my breast
'Thai in truth's the thing for me !
DIFFERENT EMOTIONS ON THE SAME SPOT.
Tiif. Maiden.
VE seen him before me !
What rapture steals oer me!
Oh, heavenly sight!
Hes coming to meet me;
Perplexd, I retreat me,
With shame take to flight.
My mind seems to wander!
Ye rocks and trees yonder,
Conceal ye my rapture,
Conceal my delight!
The Youth.
Tis here I must find her,
Twas here she enshrind her,
Here vanishd from sight.
She came, as to meet me,
Then fearing to greet me,
With shame took to flight.
Isthope? Do I wander?
Ye rocks and trees yonder,
Disclose ye the lovd one,
Disclose my delight!
The Lancutshinc.
Oer my sad fate I sorrow,
To each dewy morrow,
Veild here from mans sight.
By the many mistaken,
Unknown and forsaken,
Here wing I my flight!
Compassionate spirit 1
Let none ever hear it,
Conceal my affliction,
Conceal thy delight!
The Hunter.
To-day Im rewarded;
Rich bootys afforded
By Fortune so bright.
My servant the pheasants
And hares fit for presents
Takes homeward at night;
Here see I enrapturd
In nets the birds capturd !
Long life to the hunter!
Long live his delight!

i$


WHO'LL BUY GODS OF LOVE?
OF all the beauteous wares
Exposd for sale at fairs,
None will give more delight
Than those that to your sight
From distant lands we bring.
Oh, hark to what we sing !
These beauteous birds behold,
Theyre brought here to be sold.
And first the big one see,
So full of roguish glee !
With light and merry bound
He leaps upon the ground ;
Then springs up on the bough.
We will not praise him now.
The merry bird behold,
Hes brought here to be sold.
And now the small one see !
A modest look has he,
And yet lies such another
As his big roguish brother.
Tis chiefly when alls still
He loves to show his will.
The bird so small and bold,
Hes brought here to be sold.
Observe this little love,
This darling turtle dove 1
All maidens are so neat,
So civil, so discreet!
Let them their charms set loose,
And turn your love to use ;
The gentle bird behold,
Shes brought here to be sold.
Their praises we wont tell;
Theyll stand inspection well.
Theyre fond of what is new,
And yet, to show theyre true,
Nor seal nor letters wanted;
To all have wings been granted.
The pretty birds behold,
Such beauties neer were sold !
S
If?§
THE MISANTHROPE.
19


TRUE ENJOYMENT.
VAINLY wouldst thou, to gain a heart,
Heap up a maidens, lap with gold;
The joys of love thou must impart,
Wouldst thou eer see those joys unfold.
The voices of the throng gold buys,
No single heart twill win for thee;
Wouldst thou a maiden make thy prize,
Thyself alone the bribe must be.
If by no sacred tie thourt bound,
O youth, thou must thyself restrain !
Well may true liberty be found,
Tho man may seem to wear a chain.
Let One alone inflame thee eer,
And if her heart with love oerflows,
Let tenderness unite you there,
If dutys self no fetter knows.
20


Soups.
First feel, 0 youth A girl then find
Worthy thy choice,let her choose thee,
In body fair, and fair in mind,
And then thou wilt be blessd, like me.
I who have made this art mine own,
A girl have chosen such as this;
The blessing of the priest alone
Is wanting to complete our bliss.
Nought but my rapture is her guide,
Only for me she cares to please,
Neer wanton save when by my side,
And modest when the world she sees;
That time our glow may never chill,
She yields no right through frailty;
Her favor is a favor still,
And I must ever grateful be.
Yet Im content, and full of joy,
If shell but grant her smile so sweet,
Or if at table shell employ,
To pillow hers, her lovers feet,
Give me the apple that she bit,
The glass from which she drank, bestow,
And when my kiss so orders it,
Her bosom, veild till then, will show.
And when she wills of love to speak,
In fond and silent hours of bliss,
Words from her mouth are all I seek,
Nought else I crave,not een a kiss.
With what a soul her mind is fraught,
Wreathd round with charms unceasingly !
Shes perfect,and she fails in nought,
Save in her deigning to love me.
My revrcnce throws me at her feet,
My longing throws me on her breast;
This, youth, is rapture true and sweet,
Be wise, thus seeking to be blessd.
When death shall take thee from her side,
To join th angelic choir above,
In heavens bl ight mansions to abide,
No diffrence at the change thoult prove.
HAPPINESS AND VISION.
'"TOGETHER at the altar we
l In vision oft were seen by thee,
Thyself as bride, as bridegroom I.
Oft from thy mouth full many a kiss
In an unguarded hour of bliss
I then would steal, while none were by.
The purest rapture wc then knew,
The joy those happy hours gave too,
When tasted, fled, as lime fleets on
What now avails my joy to me?
Like dreams the warmest kisses flee,
Like kisses, soon all joys are gone.
THE FAREWELL.
LET mine eye the farewell say,
That my lips can utter neer;
Fain Id be a man to-day,
Yet tis hard, oh, hard to bear!
Mournful in an hour like this
Is loves sweetest pledge, I ween ;
Cold upon thy mouth the kiss,
Faint thy fingers pressure een.
Oh, what rapture to my heart
Usd each stolen kiss to bring!
As the violets joy impart,
Gatherd in the early spring.
Now no garlands I entwine,
Now no roses pluck for thee.
Though tis springtime, Fanny mine,
Dreary autumn tis to me !
26
21


THE BEAUTIFUL NIGHT.
NOW I leave this cottage lowly,
Where my love hath made her home,
And with silent footstep slowly
Through the darksome forest roam.
Luna breaks through oaks and bushes,
Zephyr hastes her steps to meet,
And the waving birch tree blushes,
Scattering round her incense sweet.
Grateful are the cooling breezes
Of this beauteous summer night,
Here is felt the charm that pleases,
And that gives the soul delight.
Boundless is my joy; yet, Heaven,
Willingly Id leave to thee
Thousand such nights, were one given
By my maiden lovd to me!
2 2


APPARENT DEATH.
WEEP, maiden, weep here oer the tomb j
of Love;
He died of nothingby mere chance was
slain.
But is he really dead ?oh, that I cannot prove:
A nothing, a mere chancy, oft gives him life j
again. |
PROXIMITY.
1KNOW not, wherefore, dearest love,
Thou often art so strange and coy !
When mongst mans busy haunts we move,
Thy coldness puts to flight my joy.
But soon as night and silence round us reign,
I know thee by thy kisses sweet again !
LIVING REMEMBRANCE.
HALF vexd, half pleasd, thy love will feel,
Shouldst thou her knot or ribbon steal;
To thee theyre muchI wont conceal ;
Such self-deceit may pardond be;
A veil, a kerchief, garter, rings,
In truth are no mean trifling things,
But still theyre not enough for me.
She who is dearest to my heart,
Gave me, with well-dissembld smart,
Of her own life, a living part,
No charm in aught beside I trace ;
How do I scorn thy paltry ware !
A lock she gave me of the hair
That wantons oer her beauteous face.
If, lovd one, we must severd be,
Wouldst thou not wholly fly from me,
I still possess this legacy,
To look at, and to kiss in play.
Mv fate is to the hairs allid,
We used to woo her with like pride,
And now we both are far away.
Her charms with equal joy we pressd,
Her swelling cheeks anon caress'd,
Lurd onward by a yearning blessd,
Upon her heaving bosom fell.
Oh, rival, free from envys sway,
Thou precious gift, thou beauteous prey,
Remain my joy and bliss to tell!

THE BLISS
DRINK, O youth, joys purest ray
From thy lovd ones eyes all day,
And her image paint at night!
Better rule no lover knows,
Yet true rapture greater grows,
When far severd from her sight.
Powers eternal, distance, time,
Like the might of stars sublime,
Gently rock the blood to rest.
Oer my senses softness steals,
Yet my bosom lighter feels,
And I daily am more blessd.
OF ABSENCE.
Though I can forget her neer,
Yet my mind is free from care,
I can calmly live and move ;
i Unperceivd infatuation
Longing turns to adoration,
; Turns to reverence my love.
i
Neer can cloud, however light,
Float in ethers regions bright,
When drawn upwards by the sun,
As my heart in rapturous calm.
Free from envy and alarm,
Ever love I her alone !
23


TO LUNA.
SISTER of the first-born light,
Type of sorrowing gentleness!
Quivering mists in silvry dress
Eloat around thy features bright;
When thy gentle foot is heard,
From the day-closd caverns then
Wake the mournful ghosts of men,
I, too, wake, and each night-bird.
Oer a field of boundless span
Looks thy gaze both far and wide.
Raise me upwards to thy side!
Grant this to a raving man !
And to heights of rapture raisd,
Let the knight so crafty peep
At his maiden while asleep,
Through her lattice-window glazd.
Soon the bliss of this sweet view,
Pangs by distance causd allays;
And I gather all thy rays,
And my look I sharpen too.
Round her unveild limbs I see
Brighter still become the glow,
And she draws me down below,
As Endymion once drew thee.
THE WEDDING NIGHT.
WITHIN the chamber, far away
From the glad feast, sits Love in dread
Lest guests disturb, in wanton play,
The silence of the bridal bed.
His torchs pale flame serves to gild
The scene with mystic sacred glow ;
The room with incense-clouds is filld,
That ye may perfedt rapture know.
How beats thy heart, when thou dost hear
The chime that warns thy guests to fly!
How glowst thou for those lips so dear,
That soon are mute, and nought deny!
With her into the holy place
Thou hast'nest then, to perfedt all;
The fire the warders hands embrace
Grows, like a night-light, dim and small.
How heaves her bosom, and how burns
Her face at every fervent kiss!
Her coldness now to trembling turns,
Thy daring now a duty is.
Love helps thee to undress her fast,
But thou art twice as fast as he;
And then he shuts both eyes at last
With sly and roguish modesty.

24


MISCHIEVOUS JOY.
S a butterfly renewd,
When in life I breathd my last,
To the spots my flight I wing,
Scenes of heavnly rapture past,
Over meadows, to the spring,
Round the hill, and through the wood.
Soon a tender pair I spy,
And I look down from my seat
On the beauteous maidens head
When embodied there I meet
All I lost as soon as dead
Happy as before am I.
Him she clasps with silent smile,
And his mouth the hour improves,
Sent by kindly Deities;
First from breast to mouth it roves,
Then from mouth to hands it flies,
And I round him sport the while.
And she sees me hovring near ;
Trembling at her lovers rapture,
Up she springsI fly away.
Dearest! lets the insert capture !
Come! I long to make my prey
Yonder pretty little dear !
FAREWELL.
O break ones word is pleasure-fraught,
^ To do ones duty gives a smart;
/ While man, alas will promise nought,
That is repugnant to his heart.
Using some magic strains of yore,
Thou lurest him, when scarcely calm,
On to sweet follys fragile bark once more,
Renewing, doubling chance of harm.
Why seek to hide thyself from me ?
Fly not my sightbe open then !
Known late or early it must be,
And here thou hast thy word again.
My duty is fulfilld to-day,
No longer will I guard thee from surprise;
But, oh, forgive the friend who from thee turns away,
And to himself for refuge flies!
o-Jo.'S;
THE EXCHANGE.
THE stones in the streamlet I make my
bright pillow,
And open my arms to the swift-rolling billow,
That lovingly hastens to fall on my breast.
Then fickleness soon bids it onward be flow-
ing;
A second draws nigh, its caresses bestow-
ing,
And so by a twofold enjoyment Fin blessd.
And yet thou art trailing in sorrow and sadness
The moments that life, as it flies, gave for
gladness,
Because by thy love thourt rememberd no
more!
Oh, call back to mind former days and their
blisses!
The lips of the second will give as sweet kisses
As any the lips of the first gave before !
27
25


NOVEMBER SONG.
TO the great archernot to him
To meet whom flies the sun,
And who is wont his features dim
With clouds to overrun
Put to the boy be vowd these rhymes,
Who mongst the roses plays,
Who hears us, and at proper times
To pierce fair hearts essays.
Through him the gloomy winter night,
Of yore so cold and drear,
Brings many a lovd friend to our sight,
And many a woman dear.
Henceforward shall his image fair
Stand in yon starry shies,
And, ever mild and gracious there,
Alternate set and rise.
TO THE CHOSEN ONE.
HAND in hand and lip to lip:
Oh, be faithful, maiden dear!
Fare thee well! thy lovers ship
Past full many a rock must steer ;
But should he the haven see,
When the storm has ceasd to break,
And be happy, reft of thee,
May the Gods fierce vengeance take !
Boldly dard is well nigh won !
Half my task is solvd aright;
Evry stars to me a sun,
Only cowards deem it night.
I Stood I idly by thy side,
Sorrow still would sadden me;
i But when seas our paths divide,
Gladly toil I,toil for thee !
Now the valley I perceive,
Where together we will go,
And the streamlet watch each eve,
i Gliding peacefully below.
! Oh, the poplars on yon spot!
Oh, the beech trees in yon grove !
And behind well build a cot,
j Where to taste the joys of love!
26


FIRST LOSS.
H! wholl eer those days re- 1
store, I
Those bright days of early !
love! ;
Wholl one hour again con-
cede,
Of that time so fondly cherishd !
Silently my wounds I feed,
And with wailing evermore
Sorrow oer each joy now perishd.
Ah! wholl eer the days restore
Of that time so fondly cherishd !
AFTER-SENSATIONS.
WHEN the vine again is blowing,
Then the wine moves in the cask;
When the rose again is glowing,
Wherefore should I feel oppressd ?
Down my cheeks run tears all-burning,
If I do, or leave my task;
I but feel a speechless yearning,
That pervades my inmost breast.
But at length I see the reason,
When the question I would ask :
'Twas in such a beauteous season,
Doris glowd to make me blessd !
PROXIMITY OF THE BELOVED ONE.
THINK of thee, wheneer the sun his beams
Oer ocean flings;
I think of thee, wheneer the moonlight gleams
In silvry springs.
I see thee, when upon the distant ridge
The dust awakes;
At midnights hour, when on the fragile bridge
The watidrer quakes.
I hear thee, when yon billows rise on high,
With murmur deep.
To tread the silent grove oft wander I,
When alls asleep.
Im near thee, though thou far away rnayst be :
Thou, too, art near!
The sun then sets, the stars soon lighten me.
Would thou wert here 1
27


PRESENCE.
1 ,L tilings give token of thee !
As soon as the bright sun is shining,
Thou too wilt follow, I trust.
When in the garden thou walkest,
Thou then art the rose of all roses,
Lily of lilies as well.
When thou dost move in the dance,
Then each constellation moves also;
W'ith thee and round thee they move.
Night! oh, what bliss were the night!
For then thou oershadowst the lustre,
Dazzling and fair, of the moon.
Dazzling and beauteous art thou,
And flowers, and moon and the planets
Homage pay, Sun, but to thee.
Sun to me also be thou
Creator of days bright and glorious;
Life and Eternity this!
TO THE DISTANT ONE.
AND have I lost thee evermore ?
Hast thou, O fair one, from me flown ?
Still in mine ear sounds, as of yore,
Thine evry word, thine evry tone.
As when at morn the wandrers eye
Attempts to pierce the air in vain,
When, hidden in the azure sky,
The lark high oer him chants his strain
So do I cast my troubld gaze
Through bush, through forest, oer the lea;
Thou art invokd by all my lays ;
Oh, come then, lovd one, back to me!
BY THE RIVER.
FLOW on, ye lays so lovd, so fair,
On to Oblivions ocean flow !
May no rapt boy recall you eer,
No maiden in her beautys glow!
My love alone was then your theme,
But now she scorns my passion true.
Ye were but written in the stream ;
As it flows on, then, flow ye too !


NIGHT SONG.
WHEN on thy pillow lying,
Half listen, I implore,
And at my lutes soft sighing,
Sleep on what wouldst thou more?
For at my lutes soft sighing
The stars their blessings pour
On feelings never-dying;
Sleep on what wouldst thou more?
Those feelings never-dying
My spirit aid to soar
From earthly conflidls trying;
Sleep on what wouldst thou more?
From earthly conflidls trying
Thou drivst me to this shore ;
Through thee Im hither flying,
Sleep on what wouldst thou more?
Through thee Im hither flying,
Thou wilt not list before
In slumbers thou art lying :
Sleep on what wouldst thou more?
Iki:
29


artist; e. karolot.
WELCOME AND FAREWELL.


THE
PROSPEROUS
VOYAGE.
^[SPELLD are the vapors,
And radiant is heaven,
Whilst Hollis loosens
Our anguish-fraught bond;
The zephyrs are sighing,
Alert is the sailor.
Quick! nimbly be plying!
The billows are riven,
The distance approaches;
I see land beyond !
COURAGE.
CARELESSLY over the plain away,
Where by the boldest man no
path
Cut before thee thou canst discern,
Make for thyself a path !
Silence, lovd one, my heart!
Cracking, let it not break!
Breaking, break not with thee !
ADMONITION.
WHEREFORE ever ramble on?
For the Good is lying near.
Fortune learn to seize alone,
For that Fortunes ever here.
WELCOME AND FAREWELL.
QUICK throbbd my heart: to horse! haste,
haste!
And lo twas done with speed of light;
The evening soon the world embracd,
And oer the mountains hung the night.
Soon stood, in robe of mist, the oak,
A towring giant in his size,
Where darkness through the thicket broke,
And glard with hundred gloomy eyes.
From out a hill of clouds the moon
With mournful gaze began to peer:
The winds their soft wings flutterd soon,
And murmurd in mine awe-struck ear;
The night a thousand monsters made,
Yet fresh and joyous was my mind ;
What fire within my veins then playd !
What glow was in my bosom shrind I
I saw thee, and with tender pride
Felt thy sweet gaze pour joy on me;
While all my heart was at thy side,
And evry breath I breathd for thee.
The roseate hues that Spring supplies
Were playing round thy features fair,
And love for meye Deities!
I hope it, I deservd it neer !
But when the morning sun returnd,
Departure filld with grief my heart:
Within thy kiss, what rapture burnd !
But in thy look, what bitter smart!
I wentthy gaze to earth first rovd
Thou followdst me with tearful eye :
And yet, what rapture to be lovd !
And, gods, to lovewhat ecstasy !
30



Songs.
NEW LOVE, NEW LIFE.
HEART! my heart! whatineansthisfeeling?
What oppresseth thee so sore?
What strange life is oer me stealing!
I acknowledge thee no more.
Fled is all that gave thee gladness,
Fled the cause of all thy sadness,
Fled thy peace, thine industry
Ah, why suffer it to be ?
Say, do beautys graces youthful,
Does this form so fair and bright,
Does this gaze, so kind, so truthful,
Chain thee with unceasing might ?
Would I tear me from her boldly,
Courage take, and fly her coldly,
Back to her Im forthwith led
By the path I seek to tread.
By a thread I neer can sever,
For tis twind with magic skill,
Doth the cruel maid forever
Hold me fast against my will.
While those magic chains confine me,
To her will I must resign me.
Ah, the change in truth is great!
Love kind love release me straight!
TO BELINDA.
WHEREFORE drag me to yon glittring
eddy,
With resistless might?
Was I, then, not truly blessd already
In the silent night ?
In my secret chamber refuge taking,
Neath the moons soft ray,
And her awful light around me breaking,
Musing there I lay.
And I dreamd of hours with joy oerflow-
1 n cr
lubj
Golden, truly blessd,
While thine image so belovd was glowing
Deep within my breast.
Now to the card-table hast thou bound me,
Midst the torches glare?
Whilst unhappy faces are around me,
Dost thou hold me there?
Spring-flowers are to me more rapture-giving,
Now conceald from view;
Where thou, angel, art, is Nature living,
Love and kindness too.
MAY SONG.
HOW fair doth Nature
Appear again !
How bright the sunbeams !
How smiles the plain !
The flowers are bursting
From evry bough,
And thousand voices
Each bush yields now.
And joy and gladness
Fill evry breast:
O earth !O sunlight!
Oh, rapture blessd!
O love O lovd one !
As golden bright,
As clouds of morning
On yonder height!
31


32


WITH A PAINTED RIBBON.
LITTLE leaves and flowrets too,
Scatter we with gentle hand,
Kind young spring-gods to the view,
Sporting on an airy band.
Zephyr, bear it on thy wing,
Twine it round my lovd ones dress;
To her glass then let her spring,
Full of eager joyousness.
Roses round her let her see,
She herself a youthful rose.
Grant, dear life, one look to me !
Twill repay me all my woes. .
What this bosom feels, feel thou,
Freely offer me thy hand ;
Let the band that joins us now
Be no fragile rosy band!
WITH A GOLDEN NECKLACE.
EVOTION a chain to bring thee burns,
That, traind to suppleness of old,
On thy fair neck to nestle, yearns,
In many a hundred little fold.
To please the silly thing consent!
'Tis harmless, and from boldness free !
By day a trifling ornament,
At night tis cast aside by thee.
But if the chain they bring thee ever,
Heavier, more fraught with weal or woe,
Id then, Lisette, reproach thee never
If thou shouldst greater scruples show.
TO CHARLOTTE.
9 A A IDST the noise of merriment and glee,
IVI Midst full many a sorrow, many a care,
Charlotte, I remember, we remember thee,
How, at evenings hour so fair,
Thou a kindly hand didst reach us,
When thou, in some happy place
Where more fair is Natures face,
Many a lightly-hidden trace
Of a spirit lovd didst teach us.
Well tis that thy worth I rightly knew,
That I, in the hour when first we met,
While the first impression filld me yet,
Calld thee then a girl both good and true.
Reard in silence, calmly, knowing nought,
On the world we suddenly are thrown;
Hundred thousand billows round us sport;
All things charm usmany please alone,
Many grieve us, and as hour on hour is steal-
ing,
To and fro our restless natures sway;
First we feel, and then we find each feeling
By the changeful world-stream borne away.
Well I know, we oft within us find
Many a hope and many a smart.
Charlotte, who can know our mind ?
Charlotte, who can know our heart ?
29
33


Ah! twould fain be understood, twould fain
oerflow
In some creatures fellow-feelings blessd,
And, with trust, in twofold measure know
All the grief and joy in Natures breast.
Then thine eye is oft around thee cast,
But in vain, for all seems closd forever;
Thus the fairest part of life is madly passd
Free from storm, but resting never;
To thy sorrow thourt to-day repelld
By what yesterday obeyd thee.
Can that world by thee be worthy held
Which so oft betrayd thee?
Which, mid all thy pleasures and thy pains,
Livd in selfish, unconcernd repose?
See, the soul its secret cells regains,
And the heartmakes haste to close.
Thus found I thee, and gladly went to meet
thee;
Shes worthy of all love I cried,
And prayd that Heaven with purest bliss might
greet thee,
Which in thy friend it richly hath sup-
plied.
ON THE LAKE.
1 DRINK fresh nourishment, new blood
From out this world more free;
The Nature is so kind and good
That to her breast clasps me !
The billows toss our bark on high,
And with our oars keep time,
While cloudy mountains towrd the sky
Before our progress climb.
Say, mine eye, why sinkst thou down?
Golden visions, are ye flown ?
Hence, thou dream, tho golden-twind:
Here, too, love and life I find.
Over the waters are blinking
Many a thousand fair star;
Gentle mists are drinking
Round the horizon afar.
Round the shady creek lightly
Morning zephyrs awake,
And the ripend fruit brightly
Mirrors itself in the lake.
0 ri- t.
FROM THE MOUNTAIN.
IF I, dearest Idly, did not love thee,
How this prospedt would enchant my
sight!
And yet if I, Lily, did not love thee,
Could I find, or here or there, delight?
THIS nosegay,twas / dressd it,
Greets thee a thousand times!
Oft stoopd I, and caressd it,
Ah full a thousand times,
And gainst my bosom pressd it
A hundred thousand times!
34


MAY
BETWEEN wheat field and corn,
Between hedgerow and thorn,
Between pasture and tree,
Wheres my sweetheart?
Tell it me 1
Sweetheart caught I
Not at home;
Shes then, thought I,
Gone to roam.
SONG.
; Fair and loving
Blooms sweet May;
Sweethearts roving,
Free and gay.
By the rock near the wave,
Where her first kiss she gave,
On the greensward, to me,
Something I see !
Is it she ?
PREMATURE SPRING.
DAYS full of rapture,
Are ye renewd ?
Smile in the sunlight,
Mountain and wood ?
Streams richer laden
Flow through the dale.
Are these the meadows?
Is this the vale ?
Coolness cerulean !
Heaven and height!
Fish crowd the ocean,
Golden and bright.
Gentle disturbance
Quivers in air,
Sleep-causing fragrance,
Motion so fair.
Soon with more power
Rises the breeze,
Then in a moment
Dies in the trees.
But to the bosom
Comes it again.
Aid me, ye Muses,
Biiss to sustain I
Say what has happend
Since yester een?
Oh, ye fair sisters,
Her I have seen !
35


FLOURISH greener, as ye clamber,
O ye leaves, to seek my chamber,
Up the trellisd vine on high!
May ye swell, twin-berries tender,
Juicier far,and with more splen-
dor
.Ripen, and more speedily !
Oer ye broods the sun at even
As lie sinks to rest, and heaven
Softly breathes into your ear
All its fertilizing fulness,
While the moons refreshing cool-
ness,
Magic-laden, hovers near;
And, alas! yere waterd ever
By a stream of tears that rill
From mine eyes,tears ceasing
never,
Tears of love that nought can
still!
RESTLESS LOVE.
THROUGH rain, through snow,
Through' tempest go!
Mongst steaming caves,
Oer misty waves,
On, on still on !
Peace, rest have flown !
Sooner through sadness
Id wish to be slain,
Than all the gladness
Of life to sustain ;
All the fond yearning
That heart feels for heart,
Only seems burning
To make them both smart!
How shall I fly ?
Forestwards hie ?
Vain were all strife !
Bright crown of life,
Turbulent bliss,
Love, thou art this!
THE SHEPHERDS LAMENT.
ON yonder lofty mountain
A thousand times I stand,
And on my staff reclining,
Look down on the smiling land.
My grazing flocks then I follow,
My dog protecting them well;
I find myself in the valley,
But how, I scarcely can tell.
The whole of the meadow is coverd
With flowers of beauty rare;
I pluck them, but pluck them unknowing
To whom the offering to bear.
In rain and storm and tempest,
I tarry beneath the tree,
But closd remaineth yon portal
Tis all but a vision to me.
36


High over yonder dwelling,
There rises a rainbow gay ;
But she from home hath departed,
And wanderd far, far away.
Yes, far away hath she wanderd,
Perchance een over the sea;
Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward
Full sad the shepherd must be.
COMFORT
HOW happens it that thou art sad,
While happy all appear?
Thine eye proclaims too well that thou
Hast wept full many a tear.
If I have wept in solitude,
None other shares my grief,
And tears to me sweet balsam are,
And give my heart relief.
Thy happy friends invite thee now,
Oh, come, then, to our breast!
And let the loss thou hast sustaind
Be there to us confessd !
Ye shout, torment me, knowing not
What tis afflidteth me;
Ah, no I have sustaind no loss,
Whateer may wanting be.
IN TEARS.
If so it is, arise in haste!
Thourt young and full of life.
At years like thine, man sblessd with strength
And courage for the strife.
Ah, no in vain twould be to strive,
The thing I seek is far;
It dwells as high, it gleams as fair
As yonder glittring star.
The stars we never long to clasp,
We revel in their light,
And with enchantment upward gaze,
Each clear and radiant night.
And I with rapture upward gaze,
On many a blissful day;
Then let me pass the night in tears,
Till tears are wipd away !

2--TO
37



LONGING.
I fain would be there 1
The sociable flight
Of the ravens comes back ;
I mingle amongst them,
And follow their track.
Round wall and round mountain
Together we fly;
She tarries below there,
I after her spy.
Then omvard she wanders,
My flight I wing soon
To the wood filld with bushes,
A bird of sweet tune.
She tarries and hearkens,
And smiling, thinks she :
How sweetly hes singing !
Hes singing to me !
The heights are illumd
By the fast setting sun ;
The pensive fair maiden
Looks thoughtfully on;
She roams by the streamlet,
Oer meadows she goes,
And darker and darker
The pathway fast grows.
I rise on a sudden,
A glimmering star;
What glitters above me,
So near and so far?
And when thou with wonder
Hast gazd on the light,
I fall down before thee,
Entrancd by thy sight!
TO MIGNON.
OVER vale and torrent far
Rolls along the suns bright car.
Ah he wakens in his course
Mine, as thy deep-seated smart
In the heart,
Evry morning with new force.
Scarce avails night aught to me;
Een the visions that I see
Come but in a mournful guise;
And I feel this silent smart
In my heart
With creative power arise.
During many a beauteous year
I have seen ships neath me steer,
As they seek the sheltring bay;
But, alas, each lasting smart
In my heart
Floats not with the stream away.
I must wear a gala dress,
Long stord up within my press,
For to-day to feasts is given;
None know with what bitter smart
Is my heart
Fearfully and madly riven.
Secretly I weep each tear,
Yet can cheerful een appear,
With a face of healthy red ;
For if deadly were this smart
In my heart,
Ah, I then had long been dead !
THE MOUNTAIN CASTLE.
THERE stands on yonder high mountain
A castle built of yore,
Where once lurkd horse and horseman
In rear of gate and of door.
Now door and gate are in ashes,
And all around is so still;
And over the fallen ruins
I clamber just as I will.


Below once lay a cellar,
With costly wines well stord;
No more the glad maid with her pitcher
Descends there to draw from the hoard.
No longer the goblet she places
Before the guests at the feast;
The flask at the meal so hallowd
No longer she fills for the priest.
No more for the eager squire
The draught in the passage is pourd ;
No more for the flying present
Receives she the flying reward.
For all the roof and the rafters,
They all long since have been burnd,
And stairs and passage and chapel
To rubbish and ruins are turnd.
Yet when with lute and with flagon,
When day was smiling and bright,
Ive watchd my mistress climbing
To gain this perilous height,
Then rapture joyous and radiant
The silence so desolate broke,
And all, as in days long vanishd,
Once more to enjoyment awoke;
As if for guests of high station
The largest rooms were prepard ;
As if from those times so precious
A couple thither had fard;
39


As if there stood in his chapel
The priest in his sacred dress,
And askd: Would ye twain be united?
And we, with a smile, answerd, Yes!
And songs that breathd a deep feeling,
That touchd the hearts innermost chord,
The music-fraught mouth of sweet echo,
Instead of the many, outpourd.
And when at eve all was hidden
In silence unbroken and deep,
The glowing sun then lookd upwards,
And gazd on the summit so steep.
And squire and maiden then glitter'd
As bright and gay as a lord,
She seizd the time for her present,
And he to give her reward.

THE SPIRITS SALUTE.
THE heros noble shade stands high
On yonder turret gray ;
And as the ship is sailing by,
He speeds it on his way.
See with what strength these sinews thrilld !
This heart, how firm and wild !
These bones, what knightly marrow filld !
This cup, how bright it smild !
Half of my life I strove and fought,
And half I calmly passd ;
And thou, oh, ship, with beings fraught,
Sail safely to the last!

TO A GOLDEN HEART THAT
HE WORE ROUND HIS
NECK.
OH, thou token lovd of joys now perishd
That I still wear from my neck sus-
pended,
Art thou stronger than our spirit-bond so
cherishd ?
Or canst thou prolong loves days untimely
ended ?
Lily, I fly from thee! I still am doomd to
range,
Thro countries strange,
Thro distant vales and woods, linkd on to
thee!
Ah, Lilys heart could surely never fall
So soon away from me!
j As when a bird hath broken from his thrall,
| And seeks the forest green,
Proof of imprisonment he bears behind him,
A morsel of the thread once used to bind
him;
The free-born bird of old no more is seen, *
For he anothers prey hath been.
THE BLISS OF SORROW.
NEVER dry, never dry,
Tears that eternal love sheddeth !
How dreary, how dead doth the world still
appear,
When only half-dried on the eye is the tear!
Never dry, never dry,
Tears that unhappy love sheddeth !
THE WANDERERS NIGHT-
SONG.
THOU who comest from on high,
Who all woes and sorrows stillest,
Who, for twofold misery,
Hearts with twofold balsam fillest,
Would this constant strife would cease !
What are pain and rapture now?
Blissful Peace,
To my bosom hasten thou !
40


THE SAME.
HUSHD on ihe hill
Is the breeze ;
Scarce by the zephyr
The trees
Softly are pressd;
The woodbirds asleep on the bough.
Wait, then, and thou
Soon wilt find rest.
Vanishd days of bliss and woe
Haunt me with their tone,
Joy and grief in turns I know,
As I stray alone.
Stream bclovd, flow on flow on !
Neer can 1 be gay !
Thus have sport and kisses gone,
'Truth thus passd away.
Once I seemd the lord to be
Of that prize so fair !
Now, to our deep sorrow, we
Can forget it neer.
to the: moon.
Murmur, stream, the vale along,
Never cease thy sighs;
Murmur, whisper to my song
Answering melodies!
When thou in the winters night
Overfiowst in wrath,
Or in spring-time sparkiest bright,
As the buds shoot forth.
He who from the world retires,
Void of hate, is blessd ;
Who a friends true love inspires,
Leaning on his breast!
That which heedless man neer knew,
Or neer thought aright,
Roams the bosoms labyrinth through,
Boldly into night.
THE HUNTERS EVEN-SONG.
TI-IE plain with still and wandring feet,
And gun full-chargd, I tread,
And hovring see thine image sweet,
Thine image dear, oerhead.
In gentle silence thou dost fare
'Through field and valley dear ;
But doth my fleeting image neer
'To thy minds eye appear?
His image, who, by grief oppressd,
Roams through the world forlorn,
And wanders on from east to west
Because from thee hes torn?
Thou dost oer my fields extend
Thy sweet soothing eye,
Watching like a gentle friend,
Oer my destiny.
When I would think of none but thee,
Mine eyes the moon survey;
A calm repose then steals oer me,
But how, twere hard to say.
41



///'
/ /y


MY ONLY PROPERTY.
I FEEL that Im possessd of nought,
Saving the free unfetterd thought
Which from my bosom seeks to flow,
And each propitious passing hour
That suffers me in all its power
A loving fate with truth to know.
TO LINA.
SHOULD these songs, love, as they fleet,
Chance again to reach thy hand,
At the piano take thy seat,
Where thy friend was wont to stand !
Sweep with finger bold the string,
Then the book one moment see :
But read not! do nought but sing !
And each page thine own will be !
Ah, what grief the song imparts
With its letters, black on white,
That, when breathd by thee, our hearts
Now can break and now delight!
42


Whal we sing in company
Soon from heart to heart will fly.
ON THE NEW YEAR.
ATE now allows us,
Twixt the departing
And the upstarting,
Happy to be;
And at the call of
Memory cherishd,
Future and perishd
Moments we see.
Seasons of anguish,
Ah, they must ever
Truth from woe sever,
Love and joy part;
Days still more worthy
Soon will unite us,
Fairer songs light us,
Strengthning the heart.
We, thus united,
Think of, with gladness,
Rapture and sadness,
Sorrow now flies.
Oh, how mysterious
Fortunes direction !
Old the connexion,
New-born the prize 1
Thank, for this, Fortune,
Wavering blindly!
Thank all that kindly
Fate may bestow!
Revel in changes
Impulses clearer,
Love far sincerer,
More heartfelt glow !
Over the old one,
Wrinkles colledted,
Sad and dejedted,
Others may view;
But, on us gently
Shineth a true one,
And to the new one
We, too, are new.
As a fond couple
Midst the dance veering,
First disappearing,
Then reappear,
So let affedtion
Guide thro lifes mazy
Pathways so hazy
Into the year!
43


ANNIVERSARY SONG.
WHY pacest thou, my neighbor fair,
'Hie garden all alone?
If house and land thou seekst to guard,
Id thee as mistress own.
My brother sought the cellar-maid,
And sufferd her no rest;
She gave him a refreshing draught,
A kiss, too, she impressd.
My cousin is a prudent wight,
The cooks by him adord ;
He turns the spit round ceaselessly,
To gain loves sweet reward.
We six together then began
A banquet to consume,
When lo! a fourth pair singing came,
And dancd into the room.
Welcome were they,and welcome too
Was a fifth jovial pair,
Brimful of news, and stord with tales
And jests both new and rare.
For riddles, spirit, raillery,
And wit, a place remaind ;
A sixth pair then our circle joind,
And so that prize was gaind.
And yet to make us truly blessd,
One missd we, and full sore;
A true and tender couple came,
We needed then no more.
The social banquet now goes on,
Unchequerd by alloy;
The sacred double-numbers then
Let all at once enjoy !
THE SPRING ORACLE.
OH, prophetic bird so bright,
Blossom-songster, cuckoo hight!
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 tire altar fare;
Yesl a pair in happy youth,
Full of virtue, full of truth.
Is the hour not fixd 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 thouIt more kindness do us,
More thouIt prophesy unto us.
One cuck-oo Two cuck-oo !
Ever, ever, cuck-oo, cuck-oo, coo!
If weve calculated clearly,
We have half a dozen nearly.
If good promises well give,
Wilt thou say how long well live?
Truly, well confess to thee,
Wed 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 eer decay,
Happiness would pass away.
Coo cuck-oo, coo cuck-oo,
Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo!
(Gracefully ad infinitum.')
44


THE HAPPY COUPLE.
AFTER these vernal rains
That we so warmly sought,
Dear wife, see how our plains
With blessings sweet are fraught!
We cast our distant gaze
Far in the misty blue;
Here gentle love still strays,
Here dwells still rapture true.



i 'Zrf'*1$ X'f
Thou seest whither go
Yon pair of pigeons white,
Where swelling violets blow
Round sunny foliage bright.
Twas there we gatherd first
A nosegay as we rovd;
There into flame first burst
The passion that we provd.
Yet when, with plighted troth,
The priest beheld us fare
Home from the altar both,
With many a youthful pair,
Then other moons had birth,
And many a beauteous sun,
Then we had gaind the earth
Whereon lifes race to run.
A hundred thousand fold
The mighty bond was seald;
In woods, on mountains cold,
In bushes, in the field,
Within the wall, in caves,
And on the craggy height,
And love, een oer the waves,
Bore in his tube the light.
Contented we remaind,
We deemd ourselves a pair;
Twas otherwise ordaind,
For, lo a third was there ;
A fourth, fifth, sixth appeard,
And sat around our board j
And now the plants weve reard
High oer our heads have soard !
How fair and pleasant looks,
On yonder beauteous spot,
Embracd by poplar-brooks,
The newly-finishd cot!
Who is it there that sits
In that glad home above ?
Ist not our darling Fritz
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 eer excel
Our dearest daughter there !
Yet where the thick-set green
Stands round yon church and sod,
Where the old fir trees seen
Alone towrd heaven to nod,
Tis there the ashes lie
Of our untimely dead ;
From earth our gaze on high
By their blessd memorys led.
See how yon hill is bright
With billowy-waving arms!
The force returns, whose might
Has vanquishd wars alarms.
Who proudly hastens here
With wreath-encircld brow?
Tis like our child so dear !
Thus Charles comes homeward now.
That dearest honord guest
Is welcomd by the bride;
She makes the true one blessd,
At the glad festal tide.
And evry one makes haste
To join the dance with glee;
While thou with wreaths hast gracd
The youngest children three.
To sound of flute and horn
The time appears renewd,
When we, in loves young morn,
In the glad dance upstood;
And perfect bliss I know
Ere the years course is run,
For to the font we go
With grandson and with son !
****=?!

46


SONG OF FELLOWSHIP.
IN evry hour of joy
That love and wine prolong,
The moments well employ
To carol forth this song !
Were gatherd in His name,
Whose power hath brought us here;
He kindled first our flame,
He bids it burn more clear.
Then gladly glow to-night,
And let our hearts combine!
Up! quaff with fresh delight
This glass of sparkling wine !
Up! hail the joyous hour,
And let your kiss be true ;
With each new bond of power
The old becomes the new 1
Who in our circle lives,
And is not happy there?
True liberty it gives,
And brothers love so fair.
Thus heart and heart through life
With mutual love are filld;
And by no causeless strife
Our union eer is chilld.
Our hopes a God has crownd
With life-discernment free,
And all we view around,
Renews our ecstasy.
Neer by caprice oppressd,
Our bliss is neer destroyd ;
More freely throbs our breast,
By fancies neer alloyd.
Whereer our foot we set,
I'he more lifes path extends,
And brighter, brighter yet
Our gaze on high ascends.
We know no grief or pain,
Though all things fall and rise;
Long may we thus remain!
Eternal be our ties I
CONSTANCY IN CHANGE.
COULD this early bliss but rest
Constant for one single hour !
But een now the humid West
Scatters many a vernal shower.
Should the verdure give me joy ?
Tis to it I owe the shade;
Soon will storms its bloom destroy,
Soon will Autumn bid it fade.
Eagerly thy portion seize,
If thou wouldst possess the fruit!
Fast begin to ripen these,
And the rest already shoot.
With each heavy storm of rain
Change comes oer thy valley fair ;
Once, alas but not again
Can the same stream hold thee eer.
And thyself, what erst at least
Firm as rocks appeard to rise,
Walls and palaces thou seest
But with ever-changing eyes.
Fled forever now the lip
That with kisses used to glow,
And the foot, that used to skip
Oer the mountain, like the roe.
And the hand, so true and warm,
Ever raisd in charity,
And the cunning-fashiond form,
All are now changd utterly.
And what used to bear thy name,
When upon yon spot it stood,
Like a rolling billow came,
Hastning on to join the flood.
Be then the beginning found
With the end in unison,
Swifter than the forms around
Are themselves now fleeting on !
Thank the merit in thy breast,
Thank the mould within thy heart
That the Muses favor blessd
Neer will perish, neer depart.


TABLE SONG.
OER me,bow I cannot say,
Heavnly raptures growing.
Will it help to guide my way
To yon stars all-glowing?
Yet that here Id sooner be,
To assert Im able,
Where, with wine and harmony,
I may thump the table.
Wonder not, my dearest friends,
What tis gives me pleasure;
For of all that earth eer lends,
Tis the sweetest treasure.
Therefore solemnly I swear,
With no reservation,
That maliciously Ill neer
Leave my present station.
Now that here were gatherd round,
Chasing cares and slumbers,
Let, methought, the goblet sound
To the bards glad numbers!
Many a hundred mile away,
Go those we love dearly;
Therefore let us here to-day
Make the glass ring clearly !
Heres His health, through Whom we live!
I that faith inherit.
To our king the next toast give,
Honor is his merit,
Gainst each in- and outward foe
Hes our rock and tower.
Of his maintenance thinks he though,
More that grows his power.
Next to her good health I drink,
Who has stirrd my passion;
Of his mistress let each think,
Think in knightly fashion.
If the beauteous maid but see
Whom tis I now call so,
Let her smiling nod to me:
Heres my loves health also!
To those friends,the two or three,
Be our next toast given,
In whose presence revel we,
In the silent even,
Who the gloomy mist so cold
Scatter gently, lightly;
To those friends, then, new or old,
Let the toast ring brightly.
48


Broader now the stream rolls on,
With its waves more swelling,
While in higher, nobler tone,
Comrades, we are dwelling,
We who with colledted might,
Bravely cling together,
Both in fortunes sunshine bright,
And in stormy weather.
Just as we are gatherd thus,
Others are colledted;
On them, therefore, as on us,
Be Fates smile directed !
From the springhead to the sea,
Many a mills revolving,
And the worlds prosperity
Is the task Im solving.
WONT AND DONE.
T HAVE lovd; for the first time with pas- :
1 sion I rave ! i
I then was the servant, but now am the slave; j
I then was the servant of all: |
By this creature so charming I now am fast |
bound, ;
To love and loves guerdon she turns all around,
And her my sole mistress I call.
Ive had faith; for the first time my faith is
now strong!
And though matters go strangely, though
matters go wrong,
To the ranks of the faithful Im true:
Though ofttimes twas dark and though oft-
times tvvas drear,
In the pressure of need, and when danger was
near,
Yet the dawning of light I now view.
I have eaten; but neer have thus relishd my
food !
For when glad are the senses, and joyous the
blood,
At table all else is effacd:
As for youth, it but swallows, then whistles an
air;
As for me, to a jovial resort Id repair,
Where to eat, and enjoy what I taste.
I have drunk; but have never thus relishd
the bowl!
For wine makes us lords, arid enlivens the
soul,
And loosens the trembling slaves tongue.
Lets seek not to spare then the heart-stirring
drink,
For though in the barrel the old wine may
sink,
In its place will fast mellow the young.
I have dancd, and to dancing am pledgd by
a vow !
Though no caper or wait/, may be ravd about
now,
In a dance thats becoming, whirl round.
And he who a nosegay of flowers has dressd,
I And cares not for one any more than the
rest,
With a garland of mirth is aye crownd.
Then once more be merry, and banish all
woes !
For he who but gathers the blossoming rose,
By its thorns will be tickld alone.
To-day still, as yesterday, glimmers the star;
Take care from all heads that hang down to
keep far,
And make but the future thine own.
49


GENERAL CONFESSION.
IN this noble ring to-day
Let my warning shame ye !
Listen to my solemn voice,
Seldom does it name ye.
Many a thing have ye intended,
Many a thing have badly ended,
And now I must blame ye.
At some moment in our lives
We must all repent us!
So confess, with pious trust,
All your sins momentous!
Errors crooked pathways shunning,
Let us, on the straight road running,
Honestly content us!
Yes! weve oft, when waking, dreamd,
Lets confess it rightly;
Left undrairid the brimming cup,
When it sparkld brightly ;
Many a shepherds-hours soft blisses,
Many a dear mouths flying kisses
Weve neglected lightly.
Mute and silent have we sat,
Whilst the blockheads prated,
And above een song divine
Have their babblings rated ;
To account weve even calld us
For the moments that enthralld us,
With enjoyment freighted.
If thoult absolution grant
To thy true ones ever,
We, to execute thy will,
Ceaseless will endeavor,
From half-measures strive to wean us,
Wholly, fairly, well demean us,
Resting, flagging never.
At all blockheads well at once
Let our laugh ring clearly,
And the pearly-foaming wine
Never sip at merely.
Neer with eye alone give kisses,
But with boldness suck in blisses
From those lips lovd dearly.

COPTIC SONG.
ANOTHER.
] EAVE we the pedants to quarrel and strive,
It Rigid and cautious the teachers to be!
All of the wisest men eer seen alive
Smile, nod, and join in the chorus with me :
Vain tis to wait till the dolt grows less silly!
Play then the fool with the fool, willy-nilly,
Children of wisdom,remember the word!
Merlin the old, from his glittering grave,
When I, a stripling, once spoke to him,gave
Just the same answer as that Ive preferrd :
Vain tis to wait till the dolt grows less silly!
Play then the fool with the fool, willy-nilly,
Children of wisdom,remember the word!
And 011 the Indian breeze as it booms,
And in the depths of Egyptian tombs,
Only the same holy saying Ive heard:
Vain tis to wait till the dolt grows less silly!
Play then the fool with the fool, willy-nilly,
Children of wisdom,remember the word!
10 obedient to my call,
Turn to profit thy young days,
Wiser make betimes thy
breast
In Fates balance as it sways,
Seldom is the cock at rest;
Thou must either mount or fall,
Thou must eitherrale and win
Or submissively give in,
Triumph, or else yield to clam-
or:
Be the anvil or the hammer.
5


I placd my trust in women next,
Hurrah !
But there in truth was sorely vexd,
Lack-a-day!
The False another portion sought,
The True with tediousness were fraught,
The Best could not be bought.
My trust in travels then I placd,
Hurrah!
And left my native land in haste,
Lack-a-day !
But not a single thing seemd good,
'The beds were bad, and strange the food.
And I not understood.
I placd my trust in rank and fame,
Hurrah !
Another put me straight to shame,
Lack-a-day!
And as I had been prominent,
All scowld upon me as I went,
I found not one content.
51


I placd my trust in war and fight,
Hurrah !
We gaind full many a triumph bright,
Hurrah!
Into the foeman's land we crossd,
We put our friends to equal cost,
And there a leg I lost.
My trust is placd in nothing now,
Hurrah !
At my command the world must bow,
Hurrah !
And as weve ended feast and strain,
The cup well to the bottom drain ;
| No dregs must there remain !
SWISS SONG.
UP in the mountain
I was a-siiting,
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.
FORTUNE
Oer 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 showd them
With glee,
Sipping, quaffing,
And he, laughing,
Sweet kisses
Gave me.
OF WAR.
NOUGHT more accursd in war I know j
Than getting off scot-free; !
Inurd to danger, on we go |
In constant vidlory;
We first unpack, then pack again, |
With only this reward, j
That when were marching, we complain.
And when in camp, are bord.
The time for billeting comes next,
The peasant curses it;
Each nobleman is sorely vexd,
'Tis hated by the cit.
Be civil, bad though be thy food,
The clowns politely treat;
If to our hosts were ever rude,
Jail-bread were forcd to eat.
And when the cannons growl around,
And small arms rattle clear,
And trumpet, trot, and drum resound,
We merry all appear ;
And as it in the fight may chance,
We yield, then charge amain,
And now retire, and now advance,
And yet a cross neer gain.
At length there comes a musket-ball,
And hits the leg, please Heaven;
And then our troubles vanish all,
For to the town were driven,
(Well coverd by the vigors force,)
Where we in wrath first came,
The women, frightend then, of course,
Are loving now and tame.
Cellar and heart are opend wide,
The cooks allowd no rest;
While beds with softest down supplid
Are by our members pressd.
The nimble lads upon us wait,
No sleep the hostess takes;
Her shift is torn in pieces straight,
What wondrous lint it makes !
52


If one has tended carefully
The heros wounded limb,
Her neighbor cannot rest, for she
Has also tended him.
A third arrives in equal haste,
At length they all are there,
And in the middle he is placd
Of the whole band so fair!
On good authority the king
Hears how we love the fight,
And bids them cross and ribbon bring,
Our coat and breast to dight.
Say if a better fate can eer
A son of Mars pursue !
Midst tears at length we go from there,
Belovd and honord too.
53


OPEN TABLE.
MANY a guest Id see to-day,
Met to taste my dishes !
Food in plenty is prepard,
Birds, and game, and fishes.
Invitations all have had,
All proposd attending.
Johnny, go and look around !
Are they hither wending?
Pretty girls I hope to see,
Dear and guileless misses,
Ignorant how sweet it is
Giving tender kisses.
Invitations all have had,
All proposd attending.
Johnny, go and look around !
Are they hither wending?
Women also I expetf,
Loving towrd their spouses,
Whose rude grumbling in their breasts
Greater love but rouses.
Invitations theyve had too,
All proposd attending!
Johnny, go and look around !
Are they hither wending?
Ive too askd young gentlemen,
Who are far from haughty,
And whose purses are well-stockd,
Well-behavd, not naughty.
These especially I askd,
All proposd attending.
Johnny, go and look around !
Are they hither wending?
Men I summond with respedt,
Who their own wives treasure;
Who in ogling other Fair
Never take a pleasure.
To my greetings they replied,
All proposd attending.
Johnny, go and look around !
Are they hither wending?
Then to make our joy complete,
Poets I invited,
Who love others songs far more
Than what they've indited.
All acceded to my wish,
All proposd attending.
Johnny, go and look around !
Are they hither wending?
Not a single one appears,
None seem this way posting.
All the soup boils fast away,
Joints are over-roasting.
Ah, I fear that we have been
Rather too unbending!
Johnny, tell me what you think !
None are hither wending.
Johnny, run and quickly bring
Other guests to me now!
Each arriving as he is
That's the plan, I see now.
In the town at once tis known,
Evry ones commending.
Johnny, open all the doors:
All are hither wending!
THE RECKONING.
Leader.
LET no cares now hover oer us !
Let the wine unsparing run !
Wilt thou swell our merry chorus?
Hast thou all thy duty done ?
Solo.
Two young folksthe thing is curious
Lovd each other; yesterday
Both quite mild, to-day quite furious,
Next day, quite the deuce to pay !
If her neck she there was stooping,
He must here needs pull his hair.
I revivd their spirits drooping,
And theyre now a happy pair.
Chorus.
Surely we for wine may languish !
Let the bumper then go round !
For all sighs and groans of anguish
Thou to-day in joy hast drownd
54