When I clasp mine arms around thee fondly, When I drink in love's long-h.o.a.rded balsam From thy darling lips so true, so faithful, Fill'd with bliss thus speak I to my spirit "No! a vessel such as this, save Amor Never G.o.d hath fashion'd or been lord of!

Such a form was ne'er produced by Vulcan With his cunning, reason-gifted hammers!

On the leaf-crown'd mountains may Lyaeus Bid his Fauns, the oldest and the wisest, Pa.s.s the choicest cl.u.s.ters through the winepress, And himself watch o'er the fermentation: Such a draught no toil can e'er procure him!"

1781.

----- TO THE GRa.s.sHOPPER.

AFTER ANACREON.

[The strong resemblance of this fine poem to Cowley's Ode bearing the same name, and beginning "Happy insect! what can be," will be at once seen.]

HAPPY art thou, darling insect, Who, upon the trees' tall branches, By a modest draught inspired, Singing, like a monarch livest!

Thou possessest as thy portion All that on the plains thou seest, All that by the hours is brought thee 'Mongst the husbandmen thou livest, As a friend, uninjured by them, Thou whom mortals love to honour, Herald sweet of sweet Spring's advent!

Yes, thou'rt loved by all the Muses,

Phoebus' self, too, needs must love thee; They their silver voices gave thee, Age can never steal upon thee.

Wise and gentle friend of poets, Born a creature fleshless, bloodless, Though Earth's daughter, free from suff'ring, To the G.o.ds e'en almost equal.

1781.

----- FROM 'THE SORROWS OF YOUNG WERTHER.'

[Prefixed to the second edition.]

EV'RY youth for love's sweet portion sighs,

Ev'ry maiden sighs to win man's love; Why, alas! should bitter pain arise

From the n.o.blest pa.s.sion that we prove?

Thou, kind soul, bewailest, lov'st him well,

From disgrace his memory's saved by thee; Lo, his spirit signs from out its cell:

BE A MAN, NOR SEEK TO FOLLOW ME.

1775.

----- TRILOGY OF Pa.s.sION.

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 dare

Boldly 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 pa.s.sions' 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 G.o.d, to one who suffers so, To tell, half-guilty, his sad tale of woe

1824

II. ELEGY.

When man had ceased to utter his lament,

A G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l 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'd

A 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.