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Elegies - 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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Elegies

ROMAN ELEGIES.

    • I.

    • SPEAK, ye stones, I entreat! Oh, speak, ye palaces lofty!
    • Utter a word, O ye streets! Wilt thou not, Genius, awake?
    • All that thy sacred walls, eternal Rome, hold within them
    • Teemeth with life; but to me, all is still silent and dead.
    • Oh, who will whisper unto me,—when shall I see at the casement
    • That one beauteous form, which, while it scorcheth, revives?
    • Can I as yet not discern the road on which I forever
    • To her and from her shall go, heeding not time as it flies?
    • Still do I mark the churches, palaces, ruins and columns,
    • As a wise traveller should, would he his journey improve.
    • Soon all this will be past; and then will there be but one temple,
    • Amor’s temple alone, where the Initiate may go.
    • Thou art indeed a world, O Rome; and yet, were Love absent,
    • Then would the world be no world, then would e’en Rome be no Rome.

    • II.

    • DO not repent, mine own love, that thou so soon didst surrender!
    • Trust me, I deem thee not bold! reverence only I feel.
    • Manifold workings the darts of Amor possess; some but scratching,
    • Yet with insidious effect, poison the bosom for years.
    • Others mightily feather’d, with fresh and newly-born sharpness
    • Pierce to the innermost bone, kindle the blood into flame.
    • In the heroical times, when lov’d each god and each goddess,
    • Longing attended on sight; then with fruition was bless’d.
    • Think’st thou the goddess had long been thinking of love and its pleasures
    • When she, in Ida’s retreats, own’d to Anchises her flame?
    • Had but Luna delay’d to kiss the beautiful sleeper,
    • Oh, by Aurora, ere long, he had in envy been rous’d!
    • Hero Leander espied at the noisy feast, and the lover
    • Hotly and nimbly, ere long, plung’d in the night-cover’d flood.
    • Rhea Silvia, virgin princess, roam’d near the Tiber,
    • Seeking there water to draw, when by the god she was seiz’d.
    • Thus were the sons of Mars begotten! The twins did a she-wolf
    • Suckle and nurture,—and Rome call’d herself queen of the world.

    • III.

    • ALEXANDER, and Cæsar, and Henry, and Frederick, the mighty,
    • On me would gladly bestow half of the glory they earn’d,
    • Could I but grant unto each one night on the couch where I’m lying;
    • But they, by Orcus’s night, sternly, alas! are held down.
    • Therefore rejoice, O thou living one, bless’d in thy love-lighted homestead,
    • Ere the dark Lethe’s sad wave wetteth thy fugitive foot.

    • IV.

    • THESE few leaves, O ye Graces, a bard presents in your honor,
    • On your altar so pure, adding sweet rosebuds as well,
    • And he does it with hope. The artist is glad in his workshop,
    • When a Pantheon it seems round him forever to bring.
    • Jupiter knits his godlike brow,—hers, Juno uplifteth;
    • Phœbus strides on before, shaking his curly-lock’d head;
    • Calmly and dryly Minerva looks down, and Hermes, the light one,
    • Turneth his glances aside, roguish and tender at once.
    • But towards Bacchus, the yielding, the dreaming, raiseth Cythere
    • Looks both longing and sweet, e’en in the marble yet moist.
    • Of his embraces she thinks with delight, and seems to be asking:
    • “Should not our glorious son take up his place by our side?”

    • V.

    • AMOR is ever a rogue, and all who believe him are cheated!
    • To me the hypocrite came: “Trust me, I pray thee, this once.
    • Honest is now my intent,—with grateful thanks I acknowledge
    • That thou thy life and thy works hast to my worship ordain’d.
    • See, I have follow’d thee hither, to Rome, with kindly intention,
    • Hoping to give thee mine aid, e’en in the foreigner’s land.
    • Ev’ry trav’ller complains that the quarters he meets with are wretched;
    • Happily lodg’d, though, is he, who is by Amor receiv’d.
    • Thou dost observe the ruins of ancient buildings with wonder,
    • Thoughtfully wandering on, over each time-hallow’d spot.
    • Thou dost honor still more the worthy relics created
    • By the few artists whom I lov’d in their studios to seek.
    • I ’twas fashion’d those forms! thy pardon,—I boast not at present;
    • Presently thou shalt confess that what I tell thee is true.
    • Now that thou serv’st me more idly, where are the beauteous figures,
    • Where are the colors, the light, which thy creations once fill’d?
    • Hast thou a mind again to form? The school of the Grecians
    • Still remains open, my friend; years have not barr’d up its doors.
    • I, the teacher, am ever young, and love all the youthful,
    • Love not the subtle and old. Mother, observe what I say!
    • Still was new the Antique, when yonder bless’d ones were living;
    • Happily live,—and, in thee, ages long vanish’d will live!
    • Food for song, where hopest thou to find it? I only can give it,
    • And a more excellent style, love, and love only can teach.”
    • Thus did the Sophist discourse. What mortal, alas! could resist him?
    • And when a master commands, I have been train’d to obey.
    • Now he deceitfully keeps his word, gives food for my numbers,
    • But, while he does so, alas! robs me of time, strength and mind.
    • Looks, and pressure of hands, and words of kindness, and kisses,
    • Syllables teeming with thought, by a fond pair are exchang’d.
    • Then becomes whispering, talk,—and stammering, a language enchanting;
    • Free from all prosody’s rules, dies such a hymn on the ear.
    • Thee, Aurora, I used to own as the friend of the Muses;
    • Hath, then, Amor the rogue cheated, Aurora, e’en thee?
    • Thou dost appear to me now as his friend, and again dost awake me
    • Unto a day of delight, while at his altar I kneel.
    • All her locks I find on my bosom, her head is reposing,
    • Pressing with softness the arm, which round her neck is entwin’d;
    • Oh! what a joyous awak’ning, ye hours so peaceful, succeeded,
    • Monument sweet of the bliss which had first rock’d us to sleep!
    • In her slumber she moves, and sinks, while her face is averted,
    • Far on the breadth of the couch, leaving her hand still in mine.
    • Heartfelt love unites us forever, and yearnings unsullied,
    • And our cravings alone claim for themselves the exchange.
    • One faint touch of the hand, and her eyes so heavenly see I
    • Once more open. Ah, no! let me still look on that form!
    • Clos’d still remain! Ye make me confus’d and drunken, ye rob me
    • Far too soon of the bliss pure contemplation affords.
    • Mighty, indeed, are these figures! these limbs, how gracefully rounded!
    • Theseus, could’st thou e’er fly, whilst Ariadne thus slept?
    • Only one single kiss on these lips! Oh, Theseus, now leave us!
    • Gaze on her eyes! she awakes!—Firmly she holds thee embrac’d!

    • VI.

    • PORTENT of Autumn, the flame in the sociable country-side mansion
    • Crackles and gleams on the earth. Quickly the brushwood takes fire.
    • How it delights my soul this evening! for now, ere the fagots
    • Crumble to glowing coals, fall into ashes gray,
    • Comes my favorite maiden! Then flame the billets and brushwood,
    • And the comforting night warms us with festival joy.
    • When it is early morn the couch of Love she forsaketh,
    • Wakes from the ashes again agile, passionate flames.
    • For above all things Amor the power to the flatterer granted
    • Joy to awake which as yet scarcely to ashes had fallen.

    • VII.

    • “WHY, belov’d, didst thou not come to-day to the vineyard?
    • Alone, as I promis’d, I stood waiting for thee on the hill!”
    • “Dearest! scarce had I come when by chance I sighted thy uncle,
    • Watching close to the vines, turning this way and that!
    • Slyly I hurried away.” “Oh, what an error deceiv’d thee!
    • Only a scarecrow it was that thou sawest! The form
    • Skilfully fashion’d we made of reeds and ragged old raiment;
    • I myself lent a hand: how my work has recoil’d!
    • Now the old man’s wish is fulfill’d: to-day he has frighted
    • From his preserves the bird stealing his garden and niece.”
lf0841-01_figure_059 lf0841-01_figure_060

artist: a. tsohautsch.

THE SIXTEENTH ELEGY.

lf0841-01_figure_061 lf0841-01_figure_062

ALEXIS AND DORA.

  • FARTHER and farther away, alas! at each moment the vessel
  • Hastens, as onward it glides, cleaving the foam-cover’d flood!
  • Long is the track plough’d up by the keel where dolphins are sporting,
  • Following fast in its rear, while it seems flying pursuit.
  • All forebodes a prosperous voyage; the sailor with calmness
  • Leans ’gainst the sail, which alone all that is needed performs.
  • Forward presses the heart of each seaman, like colors and streamers;
  • Backward one only is seen, mournfully fix’d near the mast,
  • While on the blue-ting’d mountains, which fast are receding, he gazeth,
  • And as they sink in the sea, joy from his bosom departs.
  • Vanish’d from thee, too, O Dora, is now the vessel that robs thee
  • Of thine Alexis, thy friend,—ah, thy betrothed as well!
  • Thou, too, art after me gazing in vain. Our hearts are still throbbing,
  • Though, for each other, yet ah! ’gainst one another no more.
  • Oh, thou single moment, wherein I found life! thou outweighest
  • Every day which had else coldly from memory fled.
  • ’Twas in that moment alone, the last, that upon me descended
  • Life, such as deities grant, though thou perceivedst it not.
  • Phœbus, in vain with thy rays dost thou clothe the ether in glory:
  • Thine all-brightening day hateful alone is to me.
  • Into myself I retreat for shelter, and there, in the silence,
  • Strive to recover the time when she appear’d with each day.
  • Was it possible beauty like this to see, and not feel it?
  • Work’d not those heavenly charms e’en on a mind dull as thine?
  • Blame not thyself, unhappy one! Oft doth the bard an enigma
  • Thus propose to the throng, skilfully hidden in words.
  • Each one enjoys the strange commingling of images graceful,
  • Yet still is wanting the word which will discover the sense.
  • When at length it is found, the heart of each hearer is gladden’d,
  • And in the poem he sees meaning of twofold delight.
  • Wherefore so late didst thou remove the bandage, O Amor,
  • Which thou hadst plac’d o’er mine eyes,—wherefore remove it so late?
  • Long did the vessel, when laden, lie waiting for favoring breezes,
  • Till in kindness the wind blew from the land o’er the sea.
  • Vacant times of youth! and vacant dreams of the future!
  • Ye all vanish, and nought, saving the moment, remains.
  • Yes! it remains,—my joy still remains! I hold thee, my Dora,
  • And thine image alone, Dora, by hope is disclos’d.
  • Oft have I seen thee go, with modesty clad, to the temple,
  • While thy mother so dear solemnly went by thy side.
  • Eager and nimble thou wert, in bearing thy fruit to the market,
  • Boldly the pail from the well didst thou sustain on thy head.
  • Then was reveal’d thy neck, then seen thy shoulders so beauteous,
  • Then, before all things, the grace filling thy motions was seen.
  • Oft have I fear’d that the pitcher perchance was in danger of falling,
  • Yet it ever remain’d firm on the circular cloth.
  • Thus, fair neighbor, yes, thus I oft was wont to observe thee,
  • As on the stars I might gaze, as I might gaze on the moon,
  • Glad indeed at the sight, yet feeling within my calm bosom
  • Not the remotest desire ever to call them mine own.
  • Years thus fleeted away! Although our houses were only
  • Twenty paces apart, yet I thy threshold ne’er cross’d.
  • Now by the fearful flood are we parted! Thou liest to heaven,
  • Billow! thy beautiful blue seems to me dark as the night.
  • All were now in movement; a boy to the house of my father
  • Ran at full speed and exclaim’d: “Hasten thee quick to the strand!
  • Hoisted the sail is already, e’en now in the wind it is flutt’ring,
  • While the anchor they weigh, heaving it up from the sand;
  • Come, Alexis, oh, come!”—My worthy stout-hearted father
  • Press’d, with a blessing, his hand down on my curly-lock’d head,
  • While my mother carefully reach’d me a newly-made bundle;
  • “Happy may’st thou return!” cried they—“both happy and rich!”
  • Then I sprang away, and under my arm held the bundle,
  • Running along by the wall. Standing I found thee hard by,
  • At the door of thy garden. Thou smilingly saidst then:—“Alexis!
  • Say, are yon boisterous crew going thy comrades to be?
  • Foreign coasts wilt thou visit, and precious merchandise purchase,
  • Ornaments meet for the rich matrons who dwell in the town.
  • Bring me, also, I pray thee, a light chain; gladly I’ll pay thee,
  • Oft have I wish’d to possess some such a trinket as that.”
  • There I remain’d, and ask’d, as merchants are wont, with precision
  • After the form and the weight which thy commission should have.
  • Modest, indeed, was the price thou didst name! I meanwhile was gazing
  • On thy neck which deserv’d ornaments worn but by queens.
  • Loudly now rose the cry from the ship; then kindly thou spakest:—
  • “Take, I entreat thee, some fruit out of the garden, my friend!
  • Take the ripest oranges, figs of the whitest; the ocean
  • Beareth no fruit, and, in truth, ’tis not produc’d by each land.”
  • So I enter’d in. Thou pluckedst the fruit from the branches,
  • And the burden of gold was in thine apron upheld.
  • Oft did I cry, Enough! But fairer fruits were still falling
  • Into thy hand as I spake, ever obeying thy touch.
  • Presently didst thou reach the arbor; there a basket lay,
  • Sweet blooming myrtle trees wav’d, as we drew nigh, o’er our heads.
  • Then thou beganst to arrange the fruit with skill and in silence:
  • First the orange, which lay heavy as though ’twere of gold,
  • Then the yielding fig, by the slightest pressure disfigur’d,
  • And with myrtle the gift soon was both cover’d and grac’d.
  • But I rais’d it not up. I stood. Our eyes met together,
  • And my eyesight grew dim, seeming obscur’d by a film.
  • Soon I felt thy bosom on mine! Mine arm was soon twining
  • Round thy beautiful form; thousand times kiss’d I thy neck.
  • On my shoulder sank thy head; thy fair arms, encircling,
  • Soon render’d perfect the ring knitting the rapturous pair.
  • Amor’s hands I felt: he press’d us together with ardor,
  • And, from the firmament clear, thrice did it thunder; then tears
  • Stream’d from mine eyes in torrents; thou weptest, I wept, both were weeping,
  • And, ’mid our sorrow and bliss, even the world seem’d to die.
  • Louder and louder they call’d from the strand; my feet would no longer
  • Bear my weight, and I cried:—“Dora! and art thou not mine?”
  • “Thine forever!” thou gently didst say. Then the tears we were shedding
  • Seem’d to be wip’d from our eyes, as by the breath of a god.
  • Nearer was heard the cry “Alexis!” The stripling who sought me
  • Suddenly peep’d through the door. How he the basket snatch’d up!
  • How he urg’d me away! how press’d I thy hand! Would’st thou ask me
  • How the vessel I reach’d? Drunken I seem’d, well I know.
  • Drunken my shipmates believ’d me, and so had pity upon me;
  • And as the breeze drove us on, distance the town soon obscur’d.
  • “Thine forever!” thou, Dora, didst murmur; it fell on my senses
  • With the thunder of Zeus! while by the thunderer’s throne
  • Stood his daughter, the Goddess of Love; the Graces were standing
  • Close by her side! so the bond beareth an impress divine!
  • Oh, then hasten, thou ship, with every favoring zephyr!
  • Onward, thou powerful keel, cleaving the waves as they foam!
  • Bring me unto the foreign harbor, so that the goldsmith
  • May in his workshop prepare straightway the heavenly pledge!
  • Ay, of a truth, the chain shall indeed be a chain, O my Dora!
  • Nine times encircling thy neck, loosely around it entwin’d.
  • Other and manifold trinkets I’ll buy thee; gold-mounted bracelets,
  • Richly and skilfully wrought, also shall grace thy fair hand.
  • There shall the ruby and emerald vie, the sapphire so lovely
  • Be to the jacinth oppos’d, seeming its foil; while the gold
  • Holds all the jewels together, in beauteous union commingled.
  • Oh, how the bridegroom exults, when he adorns his betroth’d!
  • Pearls if I see, of thee they remind me; each ring that is shown me
  • Brings to my mind thy fair hand’s graceful and tapering form.
  • I will barter and buy; the fairest of all shalt thou choose thee,
  • Joyously would I devote all of the cargo to thee.
  • Yet not trinkets and jewels alone is thy lov’d one procuring;
  • With them he brings thee whate’er gives to a housewife delight.
  • Fine and woollen coverlets, wrought with an edging of purple,
  • Fit for a couch where we both, lovingly, gently may rest;
  • Costly pieces of linen. Thou sittest and sewest, and clothest
  • Me, and thyself, and, perchance, even a third with it too.
  • Visions of hope, deceive ye my heart! Ye kindly Immortals,
  • Soften this fierce-raging flame, wildly pervading my breast!
  • Yet how I long to feel them again, those rapturous torments,
  • When, in their stead, care draws nigh, coldly and fearfully calm.
  • Neither the Furies’ torch, nor the hounds of hell with their barking
  • Awe the delinquent so much, down in the plains of despair,
  • As by the motionless spectre I’m awed, that shows me the fair one
  • Far away: of a truth, open the garden-door stands!
  • And another one cometh! For him the fruit, too, is falling,
  • And for him, also, the fig-strengthening honey doth yield!
  • Doth she entice him as well to the arbor? He follows? Oh, make me
  • Blind, ye Immortals! efface visions like this from my mind!
  • Yes, she is but a maiden! And she who to one doth so quickly
  • Yield, to another ere long, doubtless, will turn herself round.
  • Smile not, Zeus, for this once, at an oath so cruelly broken!
  • Thunder more fearfully! Strike!—Stay—thy fierce lightnings withhold!
  • Hurl at me thy quivering bolt! In the darkness of midnight
  • Strike with thy lightning this mast! make it a pitiful wreck!
  • Scatter the planks all around, and give to the boisterous billows
  • All these wares, and let me be to the dolphins a prey!—
  • Now, ye Muses, enough! In vain would ye strive to depicture
  • How, in a love-laden breast, anguish alternates with bliss.
  • Ye cannot heal the wounds, it is true, that love hath inflicted;
  • Yet from you only proceeds, kindly ones, comfort and balm.
lf0841-01_figure_064

artist: c. brünner

ROMAN ELEGIES.

alexis and dora.

lf0841-01_figure_063