DISSATISFACTION.
TRANSLATED FROM THEODORE KÖRNER.
"Composed as I stood sentinel on the banks of the Elbe."
Fatherland! Thou call'st the singer
In the blissful glow of day;
He no more can musing linger,
While thou dost mourn a tyrant's sway.
Love and poesy forsaking,
From friendship's magic circle breaking,
The keenest pangs he could endure
Thy peace to insure.
Yet sometimes tears must dim his eyes,
As, on the melodious bridge of song,
The shadows of past joys arise,
And in mild beauty round him throng.
In vain, o'er life, that early beam
Such radiance shed;—the impetuous stream
Of strife has seized him, onward borne,
While left behind his loved ones mourn.
Here in the crowd must he complain,
Nor find a fit employ?
Give him poetic place again,
Or the quick throb of warlike joy.
The wonted inspiration give;
Thus languidly he cannot live;
Love's accents are no longer near;
Let him the trumpet hear.
Where is the cannon's thunder?
The clashing cymbals, where?
While foreign foes our cities plunder,
Can we not hasten there?
I can no longer watch this stream;
In prose I die! O source of flame!
O poesy! for which I glow,—
A nobler death thou shouldst bestow!
MY SEAL-RING.
Mercury has cast aside
The signs of intellectual pride,
Freely offers thee the soul:
Art thou noble to receive?
Canst thou give or take the whole,
Nobly promise, and believe?
Then thou wholly human art,
A spotless, radiant, ruby heart,
And the golden chain of love
Has bound thee to the realm above.
If there be one small, mean doubt,
One serpent thought that fled not out,
Take instead the serpent-rod;
Thou art neither man nor God.
Guard thee from the powers of evil;
Who cannot trust, vows to the devil.
Walk thy slow and spell-bound way;
Keep on thy mask, or shun the day—
Let go my hand upon the way.
THE CONSOLERS.
TRANSLATED FROM GŒTHE.
"Why wilt thou not thy griefs forget?
Why must thine eyes with tears be wet?
When all things round thee sweetly smile,
Canst thou not, too, be glad a while?"
"Hither I come to weep alone;
The grief I feel is all mine own;
Dearer than smiles these tears to me;
Smile you—I ask no sympathy!"
"Repel not thus affection's voice!
While thou art sad, can we rejoice?
To friendly hearts impart thy woe;
Perhaps we may some healing know."
"Too gay your hearts to feel like mine,
Or such a sorrow to divine;
Nought have I lost I e'er possessed;
I mourn that I cannot be blessed."
"What idle, morbid feelings these!
Can you not win what prize you please?
Youth, with a genius rich as yours,
All bliss the world can give insures."
"Ah, too high-placed is my desire!
The star to which my hopes aspire
Shines all too far—I sigh in vain,
Yet cannot stoop to earth again."
"Waste not so foolishly thy prime;
If to the stars thou canst not climb,
Their gentle beams thy loving eye
Every clear night will gratify."
"Do I not know it? Even now
I wait the sun's departing glow,
That I may watch them. Meanwhile ye
Enjoy the day—'tis nought to me!"