The Poems of Goethe - LightNovelsOnl.com
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When the G.o.d will he obey'd, Follow fast his darts ere long.
Was it possible that ye Thus your G.o.dlike dignity Should forget? The Thyrsus rude
Must a heavy burden feel
To the hand but wont to steal O'er the lyre in gentle mood.
From the sparkling waterfalls, From the brook that purling calls, Shall Silenus' loathsome beast Be allow'd at will to feast?
Aganippe's * wave he sips With profane and spreading lips,-- With ungainly feet stamps madly, Till the waters flow on sadly.
Fain I'd think myself deluded
In the sadd'ning sounds I hear; From the holy glades secluded
Hateful tones a.s.sail the ear.
Laughter wild (exchange how mournful!)
Takes the place of love's sweet dream; Women-haters and the scornful
In exulting chorus scream.
Nightingale and turtle dove
Fly their nests so warm and chaste, And, inflamed with sensual love,
Holds the Faun the Nymph embrac'd.
Here a garment's torn away,
Scoffs succeed their sated bliss, While the G.o.d, with angry ray,
Looks upon each impious kiss.
Vapour, smoke, as from a fire,
And advancing clouds I view; Chords not only grace the lyre,
For the bow its chords bath too.
Even the adorer's heart
Dreads the wild advancing hand, For the flames that round them dart
Show the fierce destroyer's hand.
Oh neglect not what I say,
For I speak it lovingly!
From our boundaries haste away,
From the G.o.d's dread anger fly!
Cleanse once more the holy place,
Turn the savage train aside!
Earth contains upon its face
Many a spot unsanctified; Here we only prize the good.
Stars unsullied round us burn.
If ye, in repentant mood,
From your wanderings would return,-- If ye fail to find the bliss
That ye found with us of yore,-- Or when lawless mirth like this
Gives your hearts delight no more,-- Then return in pilgrim guise,
Gladly up the mountain go, While your strains repentant rise,
And our brethren's advent show.
Let a new-born wreath entwine
Solemnly your temples round; Rapture glows in hearts divine
When a long-lost sinner's found.
Swifter e'en than Lathe's flood
Round Death's silent house can play, Ev'ry error of the good
Will love's chalice wash away.
All will haste your steps to meet,
As ye come in majesty,-- Men your blessing will entreat;--
Ours ye thus will doubly be!
1798.
(* Aganippe--A spring in Boeotia, which arose out of Mount Helicon, and was sacred to Apollo and the Muses.) ----- LILY'S MENAGERIE.
[Goethe describes this much-admired Poem, which he wrote in honour of his love Lily, as being "designed to change his surrender of her into despair, by drolly-fretful images."]
THERE'S no menagerie, I vow,
Excels my Lily's at this minute;
She keeps the strangest creatures in it, And catches them, she knows not how.
Oh, how they hop, and run, and rave, And their clipp'd pinions wildly wave,-- Poor princes, who must all endure The pangs of love that nought can cure.
What is the fairy's name?--Is't Lily?--Ask not me!
