You know how seriously I wooed the Muse;
With what a hate I scorned those whom the Law
And not the Muses beckoned. And you know
How fondly I (alas! most falsely) hoped
The Muses loved me,—gave me gift of song!
My Lyre sounded many a lofty song,
But not the Muses, not Apollo sent them.
True, it is my pride made me believe
The gods descended to me, and no Master
Produced more perfect works than mine!
No sooner came I here, than from my eyes
Fell off the scales, as I first learned to prize
Fame, and the mighty efforts fame required.
Then seemed to me my own ambitious flight
But as the agitation of a worm,
Who in the dust beholds the eagle soar,
And strives to reach him; strains every nerve,
Yet only agitates the dust he lies in.
Sudden the wind doth rise, and whirls the dust
In clouds, the worm is also raised with it:
Then the poor worm believes he has the wings
Of eagles, raising him too in the air!
But in another moment lulls the wind,
The cloud of dust drops gently on the ground.
And with the dust the worm, who crawls once more!'
Don't be angry with my galimathias. Good-bye. Horn will finish this letter."
Not only is this letter curious in its revelations of his state of mind, but the verses into which it spontaneously flows, and which I have translated with more jealous fidelity to the meaning than to poetical reproduction, show how among his friends he was even then regarded as a future poet. The confession uttered in his final verses clearly owes its origin to Frau Böhme's criticisms; but it is not every young poet who can be so easily discouraged. Even his discouragement could not last long. Schlosser, afterward his brother-in-law, came to Leipsic, and by his preaching and example once more roused the productive activity which showed itself in German, French, English and Italian verses.
