THREE ODES TO MY FRIEND
THESE are the most singular of all the Poems
Of Goethe, and to many will appear so wild and fantastic, as to
Leave anything but a pleasing impression. Those at the beginning,
Addressed to his friend Behrisch, were written at the age of eighteen,
And most of the remainder were composed while he was still quite
Young. Despite, however, the extravagance of some of them, such
As the Winter Journey over the Hartz Mountains, and the Wanderer’s
Storm-Song, nothing can be finer than the noble one entitled Mahomet’s
Song, and others, such as the Spirit Song’ over the Waters, The
God-like, and, above all, the magnificent sketch of Prometheus,
Which forms part of an unfinished piece bearing the same name, and
Called by Goethe a ‘Dramatic Fragment.’
TO MY FRIEND.
[These three Odes are addressed to a certain
Behrisch, who was tutor to Count Lindenau, and of whom Goethe gives
An odd account at the end of the Seventh Book of his Autobiography.]
FIRST ODE.
TRANSPLANT the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
A happier resting-place
Its trunk deserved.
Yet the strength of its nature
To Earth’s exhausting avarice,
To Air’s destructive inroads,
An antidote opposed.
See how it in springtime
Coins its pale green leaves!
Their orange-fragrance
Poisons each flyblow straight.
The caterpillar’s tooth
Is blunted by them;
With silv’ry hues they gleam
In the bright sunshine,
Its twigs the maiden
Fain would twine in
Her bridal-garland;
Youths its fruit are seeking.
See, the autumn cometh!
The caterpillar
Sighs to the crafty spider,
Sighs that the tree will not fade.
Hov’ring thither
From out her yew-tree dwelling,
The gaudy foe advances
Against the kindly tree,
And cannot hurt it,
But the more artful one
Defiles with nauseous venom
Its silver leaves;
And sees with triumph
How the maiden shudders,
The youth, how mourns he,
On passing by.
Transplant the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
Tree, thank the gardener
Who moves thee hence!
1767.
SECOND ODE.
THOU go’st! I murmur
Go! let me murmur.
Oh, worthy man,
Fly from this land!
Deadly marshes,
Steaming mists of October
Here interweave their currents,
Blending for ever.
Noisome insects
Here are engender’d;
Fatal darkness
Veils their malice.
The fiery-tongued serpent,
Hard by the sedgy bank,
Stretches his pamper’d body,
Caress’d by the sun’s bright beams.
Tempt no gentle night-rambles
Under the moon’s cold twilight!
Loathsome toads hold their meetings
Yonder at every crossway.
Injuring not,
Fear will they cause thee.
Oh, worthy man,
Fly from this land!
1767.
THIRD ODE.
BE void of feeling!
A heart that soon is stirr’d,
Is a possession sad
Upon this changing earth.
Behrisch, let spring’s sweet smile
Never gladden thy brow!
Then winter’s gloomy tempests
Never will shadow it o’er.
Lean thyself ne’er on a maiden’s
Sorrow-engendering breast.
Ne’er on the arm,
Misery-fraught, of a friend.
Already envy
From out his rocky ambush
Upon thee turns
The force of his lynx-like eyes,
Stretches his talons,
On thee falls,
In thy shoulders
Cunningly plants them.
Strong are his skinny arms,
As panther-claws;
He shaketh thee,
And rends thy frame.
Death ’tis to part,
‘Tis threefold death
To part, not hoping
Ever to meet again.
Thou wouldst rejoice to leave
This hated land behind,
Wert thou not chain’d to me
With friendships flowery chains.
Burst them! I’ll not repine.
No noble friend
Would stay his fellow-captive,
If means of flight appear.
The remembrance
Of his dear friend’s freedom
Gives him freedom
In his dungeon.
Thou go’st, I’m left.
But e’en already
The last year’s winged spokes
Whirl round the smoking axle.
I number the turns
Of the thundering wheel;
The last one I bless.
Each bar then is broken, I’m free then as thou!
1767.
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