The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 9/Roman Elegies
PART I.
[The "Roman Elegies" were written in the same year as the "Venetian Epigrams"—viz., 1790.]
Speak, ye stones, I entreat! Oh, speak, ye palaces lofty!
Utter a word, oh, ye streets! Wilt thou not, Genius; awake?
All that thy sacred walls, eternal Rome, hold within them
Teemeth with life; but to me all is still silent and dead.
Oh, who will whisper unto me,—when shall I see at the casement
That one beauteous form, which, while it scorcheth, revives?
Can I as yet not discern the road, on which I for ever
To her and from her shall go, heeding not time as it flies?
Still do I mark the churches, palaces, ruins, and columns,
As a wise traveller should, would he his journey improve.
Soon all this will be past; and then will there be but one temple,
Amor's temple alone, where the Initiate may go.
Thou art indeed a world, O Rome; and yet were Love absent,
Then would the world be no world, then would e'en Rome be no Rome.
Do not repent, mine own love, that thou so soon didst surrender!
Trust me, I deem thee not bold! reverence only I feel.
Manifold workings the darts of Amor possess; some but scratching,
Yet, with insidious effect, poison the bosom for years.
Others mightily feathered, with fresh and newly-born sharpness.
Pierce to the innermost bone, kindle the blood into flame.
In the heroical times, when loved each god and each goddess,
Longing attended on sight; then with fruition was blessed.
Thinkest thou the goddess had long been thinking of love and its pleasures
When she, in Ida's retreats, owned to Anchises her flame?
Had but Luna delayed to kiss the beautiful sleeper,
Oh, by Aurora, ere long, he had in envy been roused!
Hero Leander espied at the noisy feast, and the lover
Hotly and nimbly, ere long, plunged in the night-covered flood.
Rhea Silvia, virgin princess, roamed near the Tiber,
Seeking there water to draw, when by the god she was seized.
Thus were the sons of Mars begotten! The twins did a she-wolf
Suckle and nurture,—and Rome called herself queen of the world.
Alexander, and Cassar, and Henry, and Frederick, the mighty.
On me would gladly bestow half of the glory they earned,
Could I but grant unto each one night on the couch where I'm lying;
But they, by Orcus' night, sternly, alas! are held down.
Therefore rejoice, thou living one, blest in thy love-lighted homestead,
Ere the dark Lethe's sad wave wetteth thy fugitive foot.
These few leaves, ye Graces, a bard presents, in your honour,
On your altar so pure, adding sweet rosebuds as well,
And he does it with hope. The artist is glad in his workshop,
When a Pantheon it seems round him for ever to bring.
Jupiter knits his godlike brow,—hers, Juno uplifteth;
Phœbus strides on before, shaking his curly-locked head;
Calmly and dryly Minerva looks down, and Hermes, the light one,
Turneth his glances aside, roguish and tender at once.
But toward Bacchus, the yielding, the dreaming, raiseth Cythere
Looks both longing and sweet, e'en in the marble yet moist.
Of his embraces she thinks with delight, and seems to be asking:—
"Should not our glorious son take up his place by our side?"
Amor is ever a rogue, and all who believe him are cheated!
To me the hypocrite came: "Trust me, I pray thee, this once.
Honest is now my intent,—with grateful thanks I acknowledge
That thou thy life and thy works hast to my worship ordained.
See, I have followed thee hither, to Rome, with kindly intention,
Hoping to give thee mine aid, e'en in the foreigner's land.
Every traveller complains that the quarters he meets with are wretched;
Happily lodged, though, is he, who is by Amor received.
Thou dost observe the ruins of ancient buildings with wonder,
Thoughtfully wandering on, over each time-hallowed spot.
Thou dost honour still more the worthy relics created
By the few artists whom I loved in their studios to seek.
I 'twas fashioned those forms! thy pardon,—I boast not at present;
Presently thou shalt confess, that what I tell thee is true.
Now that thou servest me more idly, where are the beauteous figures,
Where are the colours, the light, which thy creations once filled?
Hast thou a mind again to form? The school of the Grecians
Still remains open, my friend; years have not barred up its doors.
I, the teacher, am ever young, and love all the youthful,
Love not the subtle and old; Mother, observe what I say!
Still was new the Antique, when yonder blest ones were living;
Happily live, and in thee, ages long vanished will live!
Food for song, where hopest thou to find it? I only can give it,
And a more excellent style, love, and love only can teach."
Thus did the Sophist discourse. What mortal, alas! could resist him?
And when a master commands, I have been trained to obey.
Now he deceitfully keeps his word, gives food for my numbers,
But, while he does so, alas! robs me of time, strength, and mind.
Looks, and pressure of hands, and words of kindness, and kisses,
Syllables teeming with thought, by a fond pair are exchanged.
Then becomes whispering talk,—and stammering, a language enchanting.
Free from all prosody's rules, dies such a hymn on the ear.
Thee, Aurora, I used to own as the friend of the Muses;
Hath, then, Amor the rogue cheated, Aurora, e'en thee?
Thou dost appear to me now as his friend, and again dost awake me
Unto a day of delight, while at his altar I kneel.
All her locks I find on my bosom, her head is reposing.
Pressing with softness the arm, which round her neck is entwined;
Oh! what a joyous awakening, ye hours so peaceful, succeeded,
Monument sweet of the bliss which had first rocked us to sleep!
In her slumber she moves, and sinks, while her face is averted,
Far on the breadth of the couch, leaving her hand still in mine.
Heartfelt love unites us for ever, and yearnings unsullied,
And our cravings alone claim for themselves the exchange.
One faint touch of the hand, and her eyes so heavenly see I
Once more open. Ah, no! let me still look on that form!
Closed still remain! Ye make me confused and drunken, ye rob me
Far too soon of the bliss pure contemplation affords.
Mighty, indeed, are these figures! these limbs, how gracefully rounded!
Theseus, could'st thou e'er fly, whilst Ariadne thus slept?
Only one single kiss on these lips! O Theseus, now leave us!
Gaze on her eyes! she awakes!—Firmly she holds thee embraced!