JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE.

Goethe differs from all other great writers, except perhaps Milton, in this respect, that his works can not be understood without a knowledge of his life, and that his life is in itself a work of art, greater than any work which it created.... He is not only the greatest poet of Germany; he is one of the greatest poets of any age.... He was the apostle of self-culture.—Sime.

A Criticism on the Poems of J. H. Voss.

Every author, in some degree, portrays himself in his works even be it against his will. In this case he is present to us, and designedly; nay, with a friendly alacrity, sets before us his inward and outward modes of thinking and feeling; and disdains not to give us confidential explanations of circumstances, thoughts, views, and expressions, by means of appended notes.

And now, encouraged by so friendly an invitation, we draw nearer to him; we seek him by himself; we attach ourselves to him, and promise ourselves rich enjoyment, and manifold instruction and improvement.

In a level northern landscape we find him, rejoicing in his existence, in a latitude in which the ancients hardly expected to find a living thing.

And truly, winter there manifests his whole might and sovereignty. Storm-borne from the pole, he covers the woods with hoar frost, the streams with ice—a drifting whirlwind eddies around the high gables, while the poet rejoices in the shelter and comfort of his home, and cheerily bids defiance to the raging elements. Furred and frost-covered friends arrive, and are heartily welcomed under the protecting roof; and soon they form a cordial confiding circle, enliven the household meal by the clang of glasses, the joyous song, and thus create for themselves a moral summer.

And when spring herself advances, no more is heard of roof and hearth; the poet is always abroad, wandering on the soft pathways around his peaceful lake. Every bush unfolds itself with an individual character, every blossom bursts with an individual life, in his presence. As in a fully worked-out picture, we see, in the sun-light around him, grass and herb, as distinctly as oak and beech-tree; and on the margin of the still waters there is wanting neither the reed nor any succulent plant.

Around him, like a dweller in Eden, sport, harmless, fearless creatures—the lamb on the meadows, the roe in the forest. Around him assemble the whole choir of birds, and drown the busy hum of day with their varied accents.

The summer has come again; a genial warmth breathes through the poet’s song. Thunders roll; clouds drop showers; rainbows appear; lightnings gleam, and a blessed coolness overspreads the plain. Everything ripens; the poet overlooks none of the varied harvests; he hallows all by his presence.

And here is the place to remark what an influence our poets might exercise on the civilization of our German people—in some places, perhaps, have exercised.

His poems on the various incidents of rural life, indeed, do represent rather the reflections of a refined intellect than the feelings of the common people: but if we could picture to ourselves that a harper were present at the hay, corn, and potato harvests—if we recollected how he might make the men whom he gathered around him observant of that which recurs to them as ordinary and familiar; if, by his manner of regarding it, by his poetical expression, he elevated the common, and heightened the enjoyment of every gift of God and nature by his dignified representation of it, we may truly say he would be a real benefactor to his country. For the first stage of a true enlightenment is, that man should reflect upon his condition and circumstances, and be brought to regard them in the most agreeable light.

But scarcely are all these bounties brought under man’s notice, when autumn glides in, and our poet takes an affecting leave of nature, decaying, at least in outward appearance. Yet he abandons not his beloved vegetation wholly to the unkind winter. The elegant vase receives many a plant, many a bulb, wherewith to create a mimic summer in the home seclusion of winter, and, even at that season, to leave no festival without its flowers and wreaths. Care is taken that even the household birds belonging to the family should not want a green fresh roof to their bowery cage.

Now is the loveliest time for short rambles—for friendly converse in the chilly evening. Every domestic feeling becomes active; longings for social pleasures increase; the want of music is more sensibly felt; and now, even the sick man willingly joins the friendly circle, and a departing friend seems to clothe himself in the colors of the departing year.

For as certainly as spring will return after the lapse of winter, so certainly will friends, lovers, kindred meet again; they will meet again in the presence of the all-loving Father; and then first will they form a whole with each other, and with everything good, after which they sought and strove in vain in this piece-meal world. And thus does the felicity of the poet, even here, rest on the persuasion that all have to rejoice in the care of a wise God, whose power extends unto all, and whose light lightens upon all. Thus does the adoration of such a being create in the poet the highest clearness and reasonableness; and, at the same time, an assurance that the thoughts, the words, with which he comprehends and describes infinite qualities, are not empty dreams and sounds, and thence arises a rapturous feeling of his own and others’ happiness, in which everything conflicting, peculiar, discordant, is resolved and dissipated.

Faustus.

Faustus. Oh, he, indeed, is happy, who still feels,

And cherishes within himself, the hope

To lift himself above this sea of errors!

Of things we know not, each day do we find

The want of knowledge—all we know is useless:

But ’tis not wise to sadden with such thoughts

This hour of beauty and benignity:

Look yonder, with delighted heart and eye,

On those low cottages that shine so bright

(Each with its garden plot of smiling green),

Robed in the glory of the setting sun!

But he is parting—fading—day is over—

Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life.

Oh, for a wing to raise me up from earth,

Nearer, and yet more near, to the bright orb,

That unrestrained I still might follow him!

Then should I see, in one unvarying glow

Of deathless evening, the reposing world

Beneath me—the hills kindling—the sweet vales,

Beyond the hills, asleep in the soft beams

The silver streamlet, at the silent touch

Of heavenly light, transfigured into gold,

Flowing in brightness inexpressible!

Nothing to stop or stay my godlike motion!

The rugged hill, with its wild cliffs, in vain

Would rise to hide the sun; in vain would strive

To check my glorious course; the sea already,

With its illumined bays, that burn beneath

The lord of day, before the astonished eyes

Opens its bosom—and he seems at last

Just sinking—no—a power unfelt before—

An impulse indescribable succeeds!

Onward, entranced, I haste to drink the beams

Of the unfading light—before me day—

And night left still behind—and overhead

Wide heaven—and under me the spreading sea!—

A glorious vision, while the setting sun

Is lingering! Oh, to the spirit’s flight,

How faint and feeble are material wings!

Yet such our nature is, that when the lark,

High over us, unseen in the blue sky

Thrills his heart-piercing song, we feel ourselves

Press up from earth, as ’twere in rivalry;—

And when above the savage hill of pines,

The eagle sweeps with outspread wings—and when

The crane pursues, high off, his homeward path,

Flying o’er watery moors and wide lakes lonely!

Wagner. I, too, have had my hours of reverie;

But impulse such as this I never felt.

Of wood and fields the eye will soon grow weary;

I’d never envy the wild birds their wings.

How different are the pleasures of the mind;

Leading from book to book, from leaf to leaf,

They make the nights of winter bright and cheerful;

They spread a sense of pleasure through the frame,

And when you see some old and treasured parchments,

All heaven descends to your delighted senses!