I'm laughed at by each trim and upstart tree To scorn.The bowling-green I fly,With neatly-mown and well-kept grass:
The box makes faces as I pass,--Into the darkest thicket hasten I, Hoping to 'scape from the ring, Over the palings to spring!
Vainly I leap and climb;
I feel a leaden spell.
That pinions me as well, And when I'm fully wearied out in time, I lay me down beside some mock-cascade,And roll myself half dead, and foam, and cry,And, ah! no Oreads hear my sigh, Excepting those of china made!
But, ah, with sudden powerIn all my members blissful feelings reign!
'Tis she who singeth yonder in her bower!
I hear that darling, darling voice again.
The air is warm, and teems with fragrance clear, Sings she perchance for me alone to hear?
I haste, and trample down the shrubs amain;The trees make way, the bushes all retreat, And so--the beast is lying at her feet.
She looks at him: "The monster's droll enough!
He's, for a bear, too mild,Yet, for a dog, too wild, So shaggy, clumsy, rough!"Upon his back she gently strokes her foot;He thinks himself in Paradise.
What feelings through his seven senses shoot!
But she looks on with careless eyes.
I lick her soles, and kiss her shoes,As gently as a bear well may;Softly I rise, and with a clever ruseLeap on her knee.--On a propitious day She suffers it; my ears then tickles she,And hits me a hard blow in wanton play;I growl with new-born ecstasy;
Then speaks she in a sweet vain jest, I wot "Allons lout doux! eh! la menotte!
Et faites serviteur Comme un joli seigneur."Thus she proceeds with sport and glee;
Hope fills the oft-deluded beast;
Yet if one moment he would lazy be,Her fondness all at once hath ceas'd.
She doth a flask of balsam-fire possess,Sweeter than honey bees can make,One drop of which she'll on her finger take, When soften'd by his love and faithfulness,Wherewith her monster's raging thirst to slake;Then leaves me to myself, and flies at last, And I, unbound, yet prison'd fast By magic, follow in her train, Seek for her, tremble, fly again.
The hapless creature thus tormenteth she,Regardless of his pleasure or his woe;Ha! oft half-open'd does she leave the door for me,And sideways looks to learn if I will fly or no.
And I--Oh gods! your hands alone Can end the spell that's o'er me thrown;Free me, and gratitude my heart will fill;And yet from heaven ye send me down no aid--Not quite in vain doth life my limbs pervade:
I feel it! Strength is left me still.
1775.
TO CHARLOTTE.
'MIDST the noise of merriment and glee,'Midst full many a sorrow, many a care, Charlotte, I remember, we remember thee,How, at evening's hour so fair, Thou a kindly hand didst reach us,When thou, in some happy placeWhere more fair is Nature s face,Many a lightly-hidden trace Of a spirit loved didst teach us.
Well 'tis that thy worth I rightly knew,--That I, in the hour when first we met,While the first impression fill'd me yet, Call'd thee then a girl both good and true.
Rear'd in silence, calmly, knowing nought,On the world we suddenly are thrown;Hundred thousand billows round us sport;
All things charm us--many please alone, Many grieve us, and as hour on hour is stealing,To and fro our restless natures sway;First we feel, and then we find each feelingBy the changeful world-stream borne away.
Well I know, we oft within us findMany a hope and many a smart.
Charlotte, who can know our mind?
Charlotte, who can know our heart?
Ah! 'twould fain be understood, 'twould fain o'erflowIn some creature's fellow-feelings blest, And, with trust, in twofold measure knowAll the grief and joy in Nature's breast.
Then thine eye is oft around thee cast,But in vain, for all seems closed for ever.
Thus the fairest part of life is madly pass'dFree from storm, but resting never:
To thy sorrow thou'rt to-day repell'dBy what yesterday obey'd thee.
Can that world by thee be worthy heldWhich so oft betray'd thee?
Which, 'mid all thy pleasures and thy pains,Lived in selfish, unconcern'd repose?
See, the soul its secret cells regains,And the heart--makes haste to close.
Thus found I thee, and gladly went to meet thee;"She's worthy of all love!" I cried, And pray'd that Heaven with purest bliss might greet thee,Which in thy friend it richly hath supplied.
1776.
LOVE'S DISTRESSES.
WHO will hear me? Whom shall I lament to?
Who would pity me that heard my sorrows?
Ah, the lip that erst so many raptures Used to taste, and used to give responsive, Now is cloven, and it pains me sorely;And it is not thus severely wounded By my mistress having caught me fiercely, And then gently bitten me, intending To secure her friend more firmly to her:
No, my tender lip is crack'd thus, only By the winds, o'er rime and frost proceeding, Pointed, sharp, unloving, having met me.
Now the noble grape's bright juice commingled With the bee's sweet juice, upon the fire Of my hearth, shall ease me of my torment.
Ah, what use will all this be, if with it Love adds not a drop of his own balsam?
1789.
THE MUSAGETES.
IN the deepest nights of Winter To the Muses kind oft cried I:
"Not a ray of morn is gleaming, Not a sign of daylight breaking;Bring, then, at the fitting moment, Bring the lamp's soft glimm'ring lustre, 'Stead of Phoebus and Aurora, To enliven my still labours!"Yet they left me in my slumbers, Dull and unrefreshing, lying, And to each late-waken'd morning Follow'd days devoid of profit.
When at length return'd the spring-time, To the nightingales thus spake I:
"Darling nightingales, oh, beat ye Early, early at my window,--Wake me from the heavy slumber That chains down the youth so strongly!"Yet the love-o'erflowing songsters Their sweet melodies protracted Through the night before my window, Kept awake my loving spirit, Rousing new and tender yearnings In my newly-waken'd bosom.
And the night thus fleeted o'er me, And Aurora found me sleeping,--Ay, the sun could scarce arouse me.
Now at length is come the Summer, And the early fly so busy Draws me from my pleasing slumbers At the first-born morning-glimmer.
