I. TO WERTHER.
[This poem, written at the age of seventy-five, was appended to an edition of 'Werther,' published at that time.]
ONCE more, then, much-wept shadow, thou dost dareBoldly to face the day's clear light, To meet me on fresh blooming meadows fair,And dost not tremble at my sight.
Those happy times appear return'd once more.
When on one field we quaff'd refreshing dew, And, when the day's unwelcome toils were o'er,The farewell sunbeams bless'd our ravish'd view;Fate bade thee go,--to linger here was mine,--Going the first, the smaller loss was thine.
The life of man appears a glorious fate:
The day how lovely, and the night how great!
And we 'mid Paradise-like raptures plac'd, The sun's bright glory scarce have learn'd to taste.
When strange contending feelings dimly cover, Now us, and now the forms that round us hover;One's feelings by no other are supplied, 'Tis dark without, if all is bright inside;An outward brightness veils my sadden'd mood, When Fortune smiles,--how seldom understood!
Now think we that we know her, and with might A woman's beauteous form instils delight;The youth, as glad as in his infancy, The spring-time treads, as though the spring were he Ravish'd, amazed, he asks, how this is done?
He looks around, the world appears his own.
With careless speed he wanders on through space, Nor walls, nor palaces can check his race;As some gay flight of birds round tree-tops plays, So 'tis with him who round his mistress strays;He seeks from AEther, which he'd leave behind him, The faithful look that fondly serves to bind him.
Yet first too early warn'd, and then too late, He feels his flight restrain'd, is captur'd straight To meet again is sweet, to part is sad, Again to meet again is still more glad, And years in one short moment are enshrin'd;But, oh, the harsh farewell is hid behind!
Thou smilest, friend, with fitting thoughts inspired;By a dread parting was thy fame acquired, Thy mournful destiny we sorrow'd o'er, For weal and woe thou left'st us evermore, And then again the passions' wavering force Drew us along in labyrinthine course;And we, consumed by constant misery, At length must part--and parting is to die!
How moving is it, when the minstrel sings, To 'scape the death that separation brings!
Oh grant, some god, to one who suffers so, To tell, half-guilty, his sad tale of woe1824II. ELEGY.
When man had ceased to utter his lament,A god then let me tell my tale of sorrow.
WHAT hope of once more meeting is there now In the still-closed blossoms of this day?
Both heaven and hell thrown open seest thou;What wav'ring thoughts within the bosom play No longer doubt! Descending from the sky, She lifts thee in her arms to realms on high.
And thus thou into Paradise wert brought,As worthy of a pure and endless life;Nothing was left, no wish, no hope, no thought,Here was the boundary of thine inmost strife:
And seeing one so fair, so glorified, The fount of yearning tears was straightway dried.
No motion stirr'd the day's revolving wheel,In their own front the minutes seem'd to go;The evening kiss, a true and binding seal,Ne'er changing till the morrow's sunlight glow.
The hours resembled sisters as they went.
Yet each one from another different.
The last hour's kiss, so sadly sweet, effac'dA beauteous network of entwining love.
Now on the threshold pause the feet, now haste.
As though a flaming cherub bade them move;The unwilling eye the dark road wanders o'er, Backward it looks, but closed it sees the door.
And now within itself is closed this breast,As though it ne'er were open, and as though, Vying with ev'ry star, no moments blestHad, in its presence, felt a kindling glow;Sadness, reproach, repentance, weight of care, Hang heavy on it in the sultry air.
Is not the world still left? The rocky steeps,Are they with holy shades no longer crown'd?
Grows not the harvest ripe? No longer creepsThe espalier by the stream,--the copse around?
Doth not the wondrous arch of heaven still rise, Now rich in shape, now shapeless to the eyes?
As, seraph-like, from out the dark clouds' chorus,With softness woven, graceful, light, and fair, Resembling Her, in the blue aether o'er us,A slender figure hovers in the air,--Thus didst thou see her joyously advance, The fairest of the fairest in the dance.
Yet but a moment dost thou boldly dareTo clasp an airy form instead of hers;Back to thine heart! thou'lt find it better there,For there in changeful guise her image stirs What erst was one, to many turneth fast, In thousand forms, each dearer than the last.
