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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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LEGEND.

    • WATER-FETCHING goes the noble
    • Brahmin’s wife, so pure and lovely;
    • He is honor’d, void of blemish,
    • And of justice rigid, stern.
    • Daily from the sacred river
    • Brings she back refreshment precious;—
    • But where is the pail and pitcher?
    • She of neither stands in need.
    • For with pure heart, hands unsullied,
    • She the water lifts, and rolls it
    • To a wondrous ball of crystal;
    • This she bears with gladsome bosom,
    • Modestly, with graceful motion,
    • To her husband in the house.
    • She to-day at dawn of morning
    • Praying comes to Ganges’ waters,
    • Bends her o’er the glassy surface—
    • Sudden, in the waves reflected,
    • Flying swiftly far above her,
    • From the highest heavens descending,
    • She discerns the beauteous form
    • Of a youth divine, created
    • By the God’s primeval wisdom
    • In his own eternal breast.
    • When she sees him, straightway feels she
    • Wondrous, new, confus’d sensations
    • In her inmost, deepest being;
    • Fain she’d linger o’er the vision,
    • Then repels it,—it returneth,—
    • And, perplex’d, she bends her floodwards
    • With uncertain hands to draw it;
    • But, alas, she draws no more!
    • For the water’s sacred billows
    • Seem to fly, to hasten from her;
    • She but sees the fearful chasm
    • Of a whirlpool black disclos’d.
    • Arms drop down, and footsteps stumble,
    • Can this be the pathway homewards?
    • Shall she fly, or shall she tarry?
    • Can she think, when thought and counsel,
    • When assistance, all are lost?
    • So before her spouse appears she—
    • On her looks he—look is judgment—
    • Proudly on the sword he seizes,
    • To the hill of death he drags her,
    • Where delinquents’ blood pays forfeit.
    • What resistance could she offer?
    • What excuses could she proffer,
    • Guilty, knowing not her guilt?
    • And with bloody sword returns he,
    • Musing, to his silent dwelling,
    • When his son before him stands:
    • “Whose this blood? Oh, father! father!”
    • “The delinquent woman’s!”—“Never!
    • For upon the sword it dries not,
    • Like the blood of the delinquent;
    • Fresh it flows, as from the wound.
    • Mother! mother! hither hasten!
    • Unjust never was my father,
    • Tell me what he now hath done.”—
    • “Silence! silence! hers the blood is!”
    • “Whose, my father?”—“Silence! Silence!”
    • “What! oh, what! my mother’s blood!
    • What her crime? What did she? Answer!
    • Now, the sword! the sword now hold I;
    • Thou thy wife perchance might’st slaughter,
    • But my mother might’st not slay!
    • Through the flames the wife is able
    • Her beloved spouse to follow,
    • And his dear and only mother
    • Through the sword her faithful son.”
    • “Stay! oh, stay!” exclaim’d the father:
    • “Yet ’tis time, so hasten, hasten!
    • Join the head upon the body,
    • With the sword then touch the figure,
    • And, alive, she’ll follow thee.”
    • Hastening, he, with breathless wonder,
    • Sees the bodies of two women
    • Lying crosswise, and their heads too;
    • Oh, what horror! which to choose!
    • Then his mother’s head he seizes,—
    • Does not kiss it, deadly pale ’tis,—
    • On the nearest headless body
    • Puts it quickly, and then blesses
    • With the sword the pious work.
    • Then a giant form uprises.—
    • From the dear lips of his mother,
    • Lips all godlike—changeless—blissful,
    • Sound these words with horror fraught:
    • “Son, O son! what overhast’ning!
    • Yonder is thy mother’s body,
    • Near it lies the impious head
    • Of the woman who hath fallen
    • Victim to the judgment-sword!
    • To her body I am grafted
    • By thy hand for endless ages;
    • Wise in counsel, wild in action,
    • I shall be amongst the gods.
    • E’en the heav’nly boy’s own image,
    • Though in brow and eye so lovely,
    • Sinking downwards to the bosom
    • Mad and raging lust will stir.
    • “ ’Twill return again forever,
    • Ever rising, ever sinking,
    • Now obscur’d, and now transfigur’d,—
    • So great Brama hath ordain’d.
    • He ’twas sent the beauteous pinions,
    • Radiant face, and slender members
    • Of the only God-begotten,
    • That I might be prov’d and tempted;
    • For from high descends temptation,
    • When the gods ordain it so.
    • And so I, the Brahmin woman,
    • With my head in heaven reclining,
    • Must experience, as a Pariah,
    • The debasing power of earth.
    • “Son, I send thee to thy father!
    • Comfort him! Let no sad penance,
    • Weak delay, or thought of merit,
    • Hold thee in the desert fast;
    • Wander on through ev’ry nation,
    • Roam abroad throughout all ages,
    • And proclaim to e’en the meanest,
    • That great Brama hears his cry!
    • “None is in his eyes the meanest—
    • He whose limbs are lame and palsied,
    • He whose soul is wildly riven,
    • Worn with sorrow, hopeless, helpless,
    • Be he Brahmin, be he Pariah,
    • If tow’rd heaven he turns his gaze,
    • Will perceive, will learn to know it:
    • Thousand eyes are glowing yonder,
    • Thousand ears are calmly list’ning,
    • From which nought below is hid.
    • “If I to his throne soar upward,
    • If he sees my fearful figure
    • By his might transform’d to horror,
    • He forever will lament it,—
    • May it to your good be found!
    • And I now will kindly warn him,
    • And I now will madly tell him
    • Whatsoe’er my mind conceiveth,
    • What within my bosom heaveth.
    • But my thoughts, my inmost feelings—
    • Those a secret shall remain.”
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