[The Graces.]

III. 160.

Till now no faith I had in Graces: Seemed strange to me their triple sight; Thee I see, and with faith am filled Adoring now in one the three!

Poems: miscellaneous.

THE BIRDLET.

IV. 133.

In exile I sacredly observe The custom of my fatherland: I freedom to a birdlet give On Spring's holiday serene. And now I too have consolation: Wherefore murmur against my God When at least to one living being I could of freedom make a gift?

1823.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

IV. 145.

In silent gardens, in the spring, in the darkness of the night Sings above the rose from the east the nightingale; But dear rose neither feeling has, nor listens it, But under its lover's hymn waveth it and slumbers.

Dost thou not sing thus to beauty cold? Reflect, O bard, whither art thou striding? She neither listens, nor the bard she feels. Thou gazest? Bloom she does; thou callest?-- Answer none she gives!

1827.

THE FLOWERET.

IV. 95.

A floweret, withered, odorless In a book forgot I find; And already strange reflection Cometh into my mind.

Bloomed, where? when? In what spring? And how long ago? And plucked by whom? Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand? And wherefore left thus here?

Was it in memory of a tender meeting? Was it in memory of a fated parting? Was it in memory of a lonely walk? In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods?

Lives he still? Lives she still? And where their nook this very day? Or are they too withered Like unto this unknown floweret?

1828.

THE HORSE.

IV. 271.

Why dost thou neigh, O spirited steed, Why thy neck so low, Why thy mane unshaken Why thy bit not gnawed? Do I then not fondle thee? Thy grain to eat art thou not free? Is not thy harness ornamented, Is not thy rein of silk, Is not thy shoe of silver, Thy stirrup not of gold?

The steed in sorrow answer gives: Hence am I quiet Because the distant tramp I hear, The trumpet's blow and the arrow's whizz And hence I neigh, since in the field No longer feed I shall, Nor in beauty live and fondling, Neither shine with harness bright.

For soon the stern enemy My harness whole shall take And the shoes of silver Tear he shall from feet mine light. Hence it is that grieves my spirit: That in place of my chaprak With thy skin shall cover he My perspiring sides.

1833.

TO A BABE.

IV. 144.

Child, I dare not over thee Pronounce a blessing; Thou art of consolation a quiet angel May then happy be thy lot....

THE POET.

(IV. 2).

Ere the poet summoned is To Apollo's holy sacrifice In the world's empty cares Engrossed is half-hearted he.

His holy lyre silent is And cold sleep his soul locks in; And of the world's puny children, Of all puniest perhaps is he.

Yet no sooner the heavenly word His keen ear hath reached, Than up trembles the singer's soul Like unto an awakened eagle.

The world's pastimes him now weary And mortals' gossip now he shuns To the feet of popular idol His lofty head bends not he.

Wild and stern, rushes he, Of tumult full and sound, To the shores of desert wave, Into the widely-whispering wood.

1827.

TO THE POET.

SONNET.

(IV. 9).

Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize! Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise; The fool's judgment hear thou shalt, and the cold mob's laughter-- Calm stand, and firm be, and--sober!

Thou art king: live alone. On the free road Walk, whither draws thee thy spirit free: Ever the fruits of beloved thoughts ripening, Never reward for noble deeds demanding.

In thyself reward seek. Thine own highest court thou art; Severest judge, thine own works canst measure. Art thou content, O fastidious craftsman? Content? Then let the mob scold, And spit upon the altar, where blazes thy fire. Thy tripod in childlike playfulness let it shake.

THE THREE SPRINGS.

IV. 134.

In the world's desert, sombre and shoreless Mysteriously three springs have broken thro': Of youth the spring, a boisterous spring and rapid; It boils, it runs, it sparkles, and it murmurs. The Castalian Spring, with wave of inspiration In the world's deserts its exiles waters; The last spring--the cold spring of forgetfulness, Of all sweetest, quench it does the heart's fire.

1827.

THE TASK.

IV. 151.

The longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task. Why then sadness strange me troubles secretly? My task done, like needless hireling am I to stand, My wage in hand, to other task a stranger? Or my task regret I, of night companion silent mine, Gold Aurora's friend, the friend of my sacred household gods?

1830.

SLEEPLESSNESS.

IV. 101.

I cannot sleep, I have no light; Darkness 'bout me, and sleep is slow; The beat monotonous alone Near me of the clock is heard. Of the Fates the womanish babble, Of sleeping night the trembling, Of life the mice-like running-about,-- Why disturbing me art thou? What art thou, O tedious whisper? The reproaches, or the murmur Of the day by me misspent? What from me wilt thou have? Art thou calling or prophesying? Thee I wish to understand, Thy tongue obscure I study now.

1830.