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THE GOD AND THE BAYADERE. An Indian Legend. - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Goethe’s Works, vol. 1 (Poems) [1885]

Edition used:

Goethe’s Works, illustrated by the best German artists, 5 vols. (Philadelphia: G. Barrie, 1885). Vol. 1.

Part of: Goethe’s Works, 5 vols.

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Liberty Fund, Inc. is a private, educational foundation established to encourage the study of the ideal of a society of free and responsible individuals.


THE GOD AND THE BAYADERE.

An Indian Legend.

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    • MAHADEVA, Lord of earth,
    • For the sixth time comes below,
    • As a man of mortal birth,—
    • Like him, feeling joy and woe.
    • Hither loves he to repair,
    • And his power behind to leave;
    • If to punish or to spare,
    • Men as man he’d fain perceive.
    • And when he the town as a trav’ller hath seen,
    • Observing the mighty, regarding the mean,
    • He quits it, to go on his journey, at eve.
    • He was leaving now the place,
    • When an outcast met his eyes,—
    • Fair in form, with painted face,—
    • Where some straggling dwellings rise.
    • “Maiden, hail!”—“Thanks! welcome here!
    • Stay!—I’ll join thee in the road.”—
    • “Who art thou!”—“A Bayadere,
    • And this house is love’s abode.”
    • The cymbal she hastens to play for the dance,
    • Well skill’d in its mazes the sight to entrance,
    • Then by her with grace is the nosegay bestow’d.
    • Then she draws him, as in play,
    • O’er the threshold eagerly:
    • “Beauteous stranger, light as day
    • Thou shalt soon this cottage see.
    • I’ll refresh thee, if thou’rt tir’d,
    • And will bathe thy weary feet;
    • Take whate’er by thee’s desir’d,
    • Toying, rest, or rapture sweet.”—
    • She busily seeks his feign’d suff’rings to ease;
    • Then smiles the Immortal; with pleasure he sees
    • That with kindness a heart so corrupted can beat.
    • And he makes her act the part
    • Of a slave; he’s straight obey’d.
    • What at first had been but art,
    • Soon is nature in the maid.
    • By degrees the fruit we find,
    • Where the buds at first obtain;
    • When obedience fills the mind,
    • Love will never far remain.
    • But sharper and sharper the maiden to prove,
    • The Discerner of all things below and above,
    • Feigns pleasure, and horror, and maddening pain.
    • And her painted cheeks he kisses,
    • And his vows her heart enthral;
    • Feeling love’s sharp pangs and blisses,
    • Soon her tears begin to fall.
    • At his feet she now must sink,
    • Not with thoughts of lust or gain,—
    • And her slender members shrink,
    • And devoid of power remain.
    • And so the bright hours with gladness prepare
    • Their dark, pleasing veil of a texture so fair,
    • And over the couch softly, tranquilly reign.
    • Late she falls asleep, thus bless’d,—
    • Early wakes, her slumbers fled,
    • And she finds the much-lov’d guest
    • On her bosom lying dead.
    • Screaming falls she on him there,
    • But, alas, too late to save!
    • And his rigid limbs they bear
    • Straightway to their fiery grave.
    • Then hears she the priests and the funeral song,
    • Then madly she runs, and she severs the throng:
    • “Why press tow’rd the pile thus? Why scream thus, and rave?”
    • Then she sinks beside his bier,
    • And her screams through air resound:
    • “I must seek my spouse so dear,
    • E’en if in the grave he’s bound.
    • Shall those limbs of grace divine
    • Fall to ashes in my sight?
    • Mine he was! Yes, only mine!
    • Ah, one single blissful night!”
    • The priests chaunt in chorus: “We bear out the old,
    • When long they’ve been weary, and late they’ve grown cold;
    • We bear out the young, too, so thoughtless and light.
    • “To thy priests’ commands give ear!
    • This one was thy husband ne’er;
    • Live still as a Bayadere,
    • And no duty thou need’st share.
    • To death’s silent realms from life,
    • None but shades attend man’s frame,
    • With the husband, none but wife,—
    • That is duty, that is fame.
    • Ye trumpets, your sacred lament haste to raise!
    • Oh, welcome, ye gods, the bright lustre of days!
    • Oh, welcome to heaven the youth from the flame!”
    • Thus increas’d her torments are
    • By the cruel, heartless quire;
    • And with arms outstretching far
    • Leaps she on the glowing pyre.
    • But the youth divine outsprings
    • From the flame with heav’nly grace,
    • And on high his flight he wings,
    • While his arms his love embrace.
    • In the sinner repentant the Godhead feels joy;
    • Immortals delight thus their might to employ,
    • Lost children to raise to a heavenly place.