Goethe’s love for the Fine Arts amounted almost to a passion. In his earlier years, he performed the painter’s customary pilgrimage through Italy, and not merely surveyed, but studied with intense anxiety, the works of the great modern masters. A poet, if he understands the theory of his own calling, may learn much from pictures; for the analogy between the sister arts is very strong. The secret of preserving richness without glare, fulness without pruriency, and strength without exaggeration, must be attained alike by poet and painter, before either of them can take their rank among the chosen children of immortality. It is a common but most erroneous idea, that an artist is more indebted for success to inspiration, than to severe study. Unquestionably he must possess some portion of the former—that is, he must have within him the power to imagine and to create; for if he has not that, the fundamental faculty is wanting. But how different are the crude shapeless fancies, how meagre and uncertain the outlines of the mental sketch, from the warm, vivid, and glowing perfection of the matured and finished work! It is in the strange and indescribable process of moulding the rude idea, of giving due proportion to each individual part, and combining the whole into symmetry, that the test of excellence lies. There inspiration will help but little; and labour, the common doom of man in the loftiest as well as the lowest walks of life, is requisite to consummate the triumph.
No man better understood, or more thoroughly acted upon the knowledge of this analogy, than Goethe. He wrought rigidly by the rule of the artist. Not one poem, however trifling might be the subject, did he suffer to escape from his hands, until it had received the final touches, and undergone the most thorough revision. So far did he carry this principle, that many of his lesser works seem absolutely mere transcripts or descriptions of pictures, where the sentiment is rather inferred than expressed; and in some, for example that which we are about to quote, he even brings before the reader what may be called the process of mental painting.
Cupid As a Landscape Painter
Once I sate upon a mountain,
Gazing on the mist before me;
Like a great grey sheet of canvass,
Shrouding all things in its cover,
Did it float ’twixt earth and heaven.
Then a child appear’d beside me;
Saying, “Friend, it is not seemly,
Thus to gaze in idle wonder,
With that noble breadth before thee.
Hast thou lost thine inspiration?
Hath the spirit of the painter
Died within thee utterly?”
But I turn’d and look’d upon him,
Speaking not, but thinking inly,
“Will he read a lesson now!”
“Folded hands,” pursued the infant,
“Never yet have won a triumph.
Look! I’ll paint for thee a picture
Such as none have seen before.”
And he pointed with his finger,
Which like any rose was ruddy,
And upon the breadth of vapour
With that finger ’gan to draw.
First a glorious sun he painted,
Dazzling when I look’d upon it;
And he made the inner border
Of the clouds around it golden,
With the light rays through the masses
Pouring down in streams of splendour.
Then the tender taper summits
Of the trees, all leaf and glitter,
Started from the sullen void;
And the slopes behind them rising,
Graceful-lined in undulation,
Glided backwards one by one.
Underneath, be sure, was water;
And the stream was drawn so truly
That it seem’d to break and shimmer,
That it seem’d as if cascading
From the lofty rolling wheel.
There were flowers beside the brooklet;
There were colours on the meadow—
Gold and azure, green and purple,
Emerald and bright carbuncle.
Clear and pure he work’d the ether
As with lapis-lazuli,
And the mountains in the distance
Stretching blue and far away—
All so well, that I, in rapture
At this second revelation,
Turn’d to gaze upon the painter
From the picture which he drew.
“Have I not,” he said, “convinced thee
That I know the painter’s secret?
Yet the greatest is to come.”
Then he drew with gentle finger,
Still more delicately pointed,
In the wood, about its margin,
Where the sun within the water
Glanced as from the clearest mirror,
Such a maiden’s form!
Perfect shape in perfect raiment,
Fair young cheeks ’neath glossy ringlets,
And the cheeks were of the colour
Of the finger whence they came.
“Child,” I cried, “what wond’rous master
In his school of art hath form’d thee,
That so deftly and so truly,
From the sketch unto the burnish,
Thou hast finish’d such a gem?”
As I spoke, a breeze arising
Stirr’d the tree-tops in the picture,
Ruffled every pool of water,
Waved the garments of the maiden;
And, what more than all amazed me,
Her small feet took motion also,
And she came towards the station
Where I sat beside the boy.
So, when every thing was moving,
Leaves and water, flowers and raiment,
And the footsteps of the darling—
Think you I remain’d as lifeless
As the rock on which I rested?
No, I trow—not I!
This is as perfect a landscape as one of Berghem’s sunniest.
An artist is, to our mind, one of the happiest creatures in God’s creation. Now that the race of wandering minstrels has passed away, your painter is the only free joyous denizen of the earth, who can give way to his natural impulses without fear of reproach, and who can indulge his enthusiasm for the bright and beautiful to the utmost. He has his troubles, no doubt; for he is ambitious, and too often he is poor; but it is something to pursue ambition along the natural path with unwarped energies, and ardent and sincere devotion. As to poverty, that is a fault that must daily mend, if he is only true to himself. In a few years, the foot-sore wanderer of the Alps, with little more worldly goods than the wallet and sketch-book he carries, will be the royal academician, the Rubens or the Reynolds of his day, with the most recherchÉ studio in London, and more orders upon his list than he has either time or inclination to execute. Goethe has let us into the secret of the young German artist’s life. Let us look upon him in the dawnings of his fame, before he is summoned to adorn the stately halls of Munich with frescoes from the Niebelungen Lied.
The Artist’s Morning Song.
My dwelling is the Muses’ home—
What matters it how small?
And here, within my heart, is set
The holiest place of all.
When, waken’d by the early sun,
I rise from slumbers sound,
I see the ever-living forms
In radiance group’d around.
I pray, and songs of thanks and praise
Are more than half my prayer,
With simple notes of music, tuned
To some harmonious air.
I bow before the altar then,
And read, as well I may,
From noble Homer’s master-work,
The lesson for the day.
He takes me to the furious fight,
Where lion warriors throng;
Where god-descended heroes whirl
In iron cars along.
And steeds go down before the cars;
And round the cumber’d wheel,
Both friend and foe are rolling now,
All blood from head to heel!
Then comes the champion of them all,
Pelides’ friend is he,
And crashes through the dense array,
Though thousands ten they be!
And ever smites that fiery sword
Through helmet, shield, and mail;
Until he falls by craft divine,
Where might could not prevail.
Down from the glorious pile he rolls,
Which he himself had made,
And foemen trample on the limbs
From which they shrank afraid.
Then start I up, with arms in hand,
What arms the painter bears;
And soon along my kindling wall
The fight at Troy appears.
On! on again! The wrath is here
Of battle rolling red;
Shield strikes on shield, and sword on helm,
And dead men fall on dead!
I throng into the inner press,
Where loudest rings the din;
For there, around their hero’s corpse,
Fight on his furious kin!
A rescue! rescue! bear him hence
Into the leaguer near;
Pour balsam in his glorious wounds,
And weep above his bier.
And when from that hot trance I pass,
Great Love, I feel thy charm;
There hangs my lady’s picture near—
A picture yet so warm!
How fair she was, reclining there;
What languish in her look!
How thrill’d her glance through all my frame!
The very pencil shook.
Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips,
Were all the world to me;
And in my breast a younger life
Rose wild and wantonly.
Oh! turn again, and bide thee here,
Nor fear such rude alarms;
How could I think of battles more
With thee within my arms!
But thou shalt lend thy perfect form
To all I fashion best;
I’ll paint thee first, Madonna-wise,
The infant on thy breast.
I’ll paint thee as a startled nymph,
Myself a following fawn;
And still pursue thy flying feet
Across the woodland lawn.
With helm on head, like Mars, I’ll lie
By thee, the Queen of Love,
And draw a net around us twain,
And smile on heaven above.
And every god that comes shall pour
His blessings on thy head,
And envious eyes be far away
From that dear marriage-bed!
There is abundance of spirit here. For once, in describing the battle and fall of Patroclus, Goethe seems to have caught a spark of Homeric inspiration, and the lines ring out as clearly as the stroke of the hammer on the anvil. There is no rhyme in the original, which, we confess, appears to us a fault; more especially as the rhythm is that of the ordinary ballad. We have, therefore, ventured to supply it, with as little deviation otherwise as possible. It is for the reader to judge whether the effect is diminished.
Our next selection shall be “The God and the BayaderÉ”—a poem which is little inferior in beauty to the Bride of Corinth, and which, from its structure, opposes to the translator quite as serious a difficulty. The subject is taken from the Hindoo mythology, and conveys a very touching moral of humanity and forbearance; somewhat daring, perhaps, from its novelty, and the peculiar customs and religious faith of an eastern land, yet, withal, most delicately handled.
The God and the BayaderÉ.
An Indian Legend.
I.
Mahadeh, earth’s lord, descending
To its mansions comes again,
That, like man with mortals blending,
He may feel their joy and pain;
Stoops to try life’s varied changes,
And with human eyes to see,
Ere he praises or avenges,
What their fitful lot may be.
He has pass’d through the city, has look’d on them all;
He has watch’d o’er the great, nor forgotten the small,
And at evening went forth on his journey so free.
II.
In the outskirts of the city,
Where the straggling huts are piled,
At a casement stood a pretty
Painted thing, almost a child.
“Greet thee, maiden!” “Thanks—art weary?
Wait, and quickly I’ll appear!”
“What art thou?”—“A BayaderÉ,
And the home of love is here.”
She rises; the cymbals she strikes as she dances,
And whirling, and bending with grace, she advances,
And offers him flowers as she undulates near.
III.
O’er the threshold gliding lightly
In she leads him to her room.
“Fear not, gentle stranger; brightly
Shall my lamp dispel the gloom.
Art thou weary? I’ll relieve thee—
Bathe thy feet, and soothe their smart;
All thou askest I can give thee—
Rest, or song, or joy impart.”
She labours to soothe him, she labours to please;
The Deity smiles; for with pleasure he sees
Through deep degradation a right-loving heart.
IV.
And he asks for service menial,
And she only strives the more,
Nature’s impulse now is genial
Where but art prevail’d before.
As the fruit succeeds the blossom,
Swells and ripens day by day,
So, where kindness fills the bosom,
Love is never far away.
But he, whose vast motive was deeper and higher,
Selected, more keenly and clearly to try her,
Love, follow’d by anguish, and death, and dismay.
V.
And her rosy cheeks he presses,
And she feels love’s torment sore,
And, thrill’d through by his caresses,
Weeps, that never wept before.
Droops beside him, not dissembling,
Or for passion or for gain,
But her limbs grow faint and trembling,
And no more their strength retain.
Meanwhile the still hours of the night stealing by,
Spread their shadowy woof o’er the face of the sky,
Bringing love and its festival joys in their train.
VI.
Lately roused, her arms around him,
Waking up from broken rest,
Dead upon her breast she found him,
Dead—that dearly-cherish’d guest!
Shrieking loud, she flings her o’er him,
But he answers not her cry;
And unto the pile they bore him,
Stark of limb and cold of eye.
She hears the priests chanting—she hears the death-song,
And frantic she rises, and bursts through the throng.
“Who is she? what seeks she? why comes she so nigh?”
VII.
But the bier she falleth over,
And her shrieks are loud and shrill—
“I will have my lord, my lover!
In the grave I seek him still.
Shall that godlike frame be wasted
By the fire’s consuming blight?
Mine it was—yea mine! though tasted
Only one delicious night!”
But the priests, they chant ever—“We carry the old,
When their watching is over, their journeys are told;
We carry the young, when they pass from the light!
VIII.
“Hear us, woman! Him we carry
Was not, could not be, thy spouse.
Art thou not a BayaderÉ?
So hast thou no nuptial vows.
Only to death’s silent hollow
With the body goes the shade;
Only wives their husbands follow:
Thus alone is duty paid.
Strike loud the wild turmoil of drum and of gong!
Receive him, ye gods, in your glorious throng—
Receive him in garments of burning array’d!”
IX.
Harsh their words, and unavailing,
Swift she threaded through the quire,
And with arms outstretch’d, unquailing
Leap’d into the crackling fire.
But the deed alone sufficeth—
Robed in might and majesty,
From the pile the god ariseth
With the ransom’d one on high.
Divinity joys in a sinner repenting,
And the lost ones of earth, by immortals relenting,
Are borne upon pinions of fire to the sky!
Let us now take a poem of the Hartz mountains, containing no common allegory. Every man is more or less a Treasure-seeker—a hater of labour—until he has received the important truth, that labour alone can bring content and happiness. There is an affinity, strange as it may appear, between those whose lot in life is the most exalted, and the haggard hollow-eyed wretch who prowls incessantly around the crumbling ruins of the past, in the belief that there lies beneath their mysterious foundations a mighty treasure, over which some jealous demon keeps watch for evermore. But Goethe shall read the moral to us himself.
The Treasure-seeker.
I.
Many weary days I suffer’d,
Sick of heart and poor of purse;
Riches are the greatest blessing—
Poverty the deepest curse!
Till at last to dig a treasure
Forth I went into the wood—
“Fiend! my soul is thine for ever!”
And I sign’d the scroll with blood.
II.
Then I drew the magic circles,
Kindled the mysterious fire,
Placed the herbs and bones in order,
Spoke the incantation dire.
And I sought the buried metal
With a spell of mickle might—
Sought it as my master taught me;
Black and stormy was the night.
III.
And I saw a light appearing
In the distance, like a star;
When the midnight hour was tolling,
Came it waxing from afar:
Came it flashing, swift and sudden;
As if fiery wine it were,
Flowing from an open chalice,
Which a beauteous boy did bear.
IV.
And he wore a lustrous chaplet,
And his eyes were full of thought,
As he stepp’d into the circle
With the radiance that he brought.
And he bade me taste the goblet;
And I thought—“It cannot be,
That this boy should be the bearer
Of the Demon’s gifts to me!”
V.
“Taste the draught of pure existence
Sparkling in this golden urn,
And no more with baneful magic
Shalt thou hitherward return.
Do not dig for treasures longer;
Let thy future spellwords be
Days of labour, nights of resting;
So shall peace return to thee!”
Pass we away now from the Hartz to Heidelberg, in the company of our glorious poet. We all know the magnificent ruins of the Neckar, the feudal turrets which look down upon one of the sweetest spots that ever filled the soul of a weary man with yearning for a long repose. Many a year has gone by since the helmet of the warder was seen glancing on these lofty battlements, since the tramp of the steed was heard in the court-yard, and the banner floated proudly from the topmost turret; but fancy has a power to call them back, and the shattered stone is restored in an instant by the touch of that sublimest architect:—
The Castle on the Mountain.
There stands an ancient castle
On yonder mountain height,
Where, fenced with door and portal,
Once tarried steed and knight.
But gone are door and portal,
And all is hush’d and still;
O’er ruin’d wall and rafter
I clamber as I will.
A cellar with many a vintage
Once lay in yonder nook;
Where now are the cellarer’s flagons,
And where is his jovial look?
No more he sets the beakers
For the guests at the wassail feast;
Nor fills a flask from the oldest cask
For the duties of the priest.
No more he gives on the staircase
The stoup to the thirsty squires,
And a hurried thanks for the hurried gift
Receives, nor more requires.
For burn’d are roof and rafter,
And they hang begrimed and black;
And stair, and hall, and chapel,
Are turn’d to dust and wrack.
Yet, as with song and cittern,
One day when the sun was bright,
I saw my love ascending
With me the rocky height;
From the hush and desolation
Sweet fancies did unfold,
And it seem’d as we were living
In the merry days of old.
As if the stateliest chambers
For noble guests were spread,
And out from the prime of that glorious time
A youth a maiden led.
And, standing in the chapel,
The good old priest did say,
“Will ye wed with one another?”
And we smiled and we answer’d “Yea!”
We sung, and our hearts they bounded
To the thrilling lays we sung,
And every note was doubled
By the echo’s catching tongue.
And when, as eve descended,
We left the silence still,
And the setting sun look’d upward
On that great castled hill;
Then far and wide, like lord and bride,
In the radiant light we shone—
It sank; and again the ruins
Stood desolate and lone!
We shall now select, from the songs that are scattered throughout the tale of Wilhelm Meister, one of the most genial and sweet. It is an in-door picture of evening, and of those odorous flowers of life which expand their petals only at the approach of Hesperus.
Philine’s Song.
Sing not thus in notes of sadness
Of the loneliness of night;
No! ’tis made for social gladness,
Converse sweet, and love’s delight.
As to rugged man his wife is,
As his fairest half decreed,
So dear night the half of life is,
And the fairest half indeed.
Canst thou in the day have pleasure,
Which but breaks on rapture in,
Scares us from our dreams of leisure
With its glare and irksome din?
But when night is come, and glowing
Is the lamp’s attemper’d ray,
And from lip to lip are flowing
Love and mirth, in sparkling play;
When the fiery boy, that wildly
Rushes in his wayward mood,
Calms to rest, disporting mildly,
By some trivial gift subdued;
When the nightingale is trilling
Songs of love to lovers’ ears,
Which, to hearts with sorrow thrilling,
Seem but sighs and waken tears;
Then, with bosom lightly springing,
Dost thou listen to the bell,
That, with midnight’s number ringing,
Speaks of rest and joy so well?
Then, dear heart, this comfort borrow
From the long day’s lingering light—
Every day hath its own sorrow,
Gladness cometh with the night!
We are somewhat puzzled as to the title which we ought to prefix to our next specimen. Goethe rather maliciously calls it “Gegenwart,” which may be equivalent to the word “Presentiality,” if, indeed, such a word belongs to the English language. We, therefore, prefer dedicating it to our own ladye love; and we could not find for her any where a sweeter strain, unless we were to commit depredation upon the minor poems of Ben Jonson or of Shakspeare.
To my Mistress.
All that’s lovely speaks of thee!
When the glorious sun appeareth,
’Tis thy harbinger to me:
Only thus he cheereth.
In the garden where thou go’st,
There art thou the rose of roses,
First of lilies, fragrant most
Of the fragrant posies.
When thou movest in the dance,
All the stars with thee are moving,
And around thee gleam and glance,
Never tired of loving.
Night!—and would the night were here!
Yet the moon would lose her duty,
Though her sheen be soft and clear,
Softer is thy beauty!
Fair, and kind, and gentle one!
Do not moon, and stars, and flowers
Pay that homage to their sun
That we pay to ours?
Sun of mine, that art so dear—
Sun, that art above all sorrow!
Shine, I pray thee, on me here
Till the eternal morrow.
Another little poem makes us think of “poor Ophelia.” We suspect that Goethe had the music of her broken ballad floating in his mind, when he composed the following verses:—
The Wild Rose.
A boy espied, in morning light,
A little rosebud blowing.
’Twas so delicate and bright,
That he came to feast his sight,
And wonder at its growing.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!
I will gather thee—he cried—
Rosebud brightly blowing!
Then I’ll sting thee, it replied,
And you’ll quickly start aside
With the prickle glowing.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!
But he pluck’d it from the plain,
The rosebud brightly blowing!
It turn’d and stung him, but in vain—
He regarded not the pain,
Homewards with it going.
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red,
Rosebud brightly blowing!
We are sure that the votaries of Wordsworth will thank us for the next translation, which embodies a most noble idea. See how the eye of the poet is scanning the silent march of the heavens, and mark with what solemn music he invests the stately thought!
A Night Thought.
I do not envy you, ye joyless stars,
Though fair ye be, and glorious to the sight—
The seaman’s hope amidst the ’whelming storm,
When help from God or man there cometh none.
No! for ye love not, nor have ever loved!
Through the broad fields of heaven, the eternal hours
Lead on your circling spheres unceasingly.
How vast a journey have ye travell’d o’er,
Since I, upon the bosom of my love,
Forgot all memory of night or you!
Let us follow up these glorious lines with a conception worthy of Æschylus—indeed an abstract of his master-subject. It were out of place here to dilate upon the mythical grandeur of Prometheus, and the heroic endurance of his character, as depicted by the ancient poet. To our mind and ear, the modern is scarcely inferior.
Prometheus.
Curtain thy heavens, thou Jove, with clouds and mist,
And, like a boy that moweth thistles down,
Unloose thy spleen on oaks and mountain-tops;
Yet canst thou not deprive me of my earth,
Nor of my hut, the which thou didst not build,
Nor of my hearth, whose little cheerful flame
Thou enviest me!
I know not aught within the universe
More slight, more pitiful than you, ye Gods!
Who nurse your majesty with scant supplies
Of offerings wrung from fear, and mutter’d prayers,
And needs must starve, were’t not that babes and beggars
Are hope-besotted fools!
When I was yet a child, and knew not whence
My being came, nor where to turn its powers,
Up to the sun I bent my wilder’d eye,
As though above, within its glorious orb,
There dwelt an ear to listen to my plaint,
A heart, like mine, to pity the oppress’d.
Who gave me succour
Against the Titans in their tyrannous might?
Who rescued me from death—from slavery?
Thou!—thou, my soul, burning with hallow’d fire,
Thou hast thyself alone achieved it all!
Yet didst thou, in thy young simplicity,
Glow with misguided thankfulness to him
That slumbers on in idlesse there above!
I reverence thee?
Wherefore? Hast thou ever
Lighten’d the sorrows of the heavy-laden?
Thou ever stretch’d thy hand to still the tears
Of the perplex’d in spirit?
Was it not
Almighty Time, and ever-during Fate—
My lords and thine—that shaped and fashion’d me
Into the man I am?
Belike it was thy dream,
That I should hate life—fly to wastes and wilds,
For that the buds of visionary thought
Did not all ripen into goodly flowers?
Here do I sit, and mould
Men after mine own image—
A race that may be like unto myself,
To suffer, weep; to enjoy, and to rejoice;
And, like myself, unheeding all of thee!
We shall close this Number with a ballad of a different cast, but, lest the transition should be too violent, we shall interpolate the space with a very beautiful lyric. We claim no merit for this translation, for, to say the truth, we could not have done it half so well. Perhaps the fair hand that penned it, will turn over the pages of Maga in distant Wales, and a happy blush over-spread her cheek when she sees, enshrined in these columns, the effort of her maiden Muse.
New Love, New Life.
Heart—my heart! what means this feeling?
Say what weighs thee down so sore?
What new life is this revealing!
What thou wert, thou art no more.
All once dear to thee is vanish’d,
All that marr’d thy peace is banish’d,
Gone thy trouble and thine ease—
Ah! whence come such woes as these?
Does the bloom of youth bright-gleaming—
Does that form of purest light—
Do these eyes so sweetly beaming,
Chain thee with resistless might?
When the charm I’d wildly sever—
Man myself to fly for ever—
Ah! or yet the thought can stir,
Back my footsteps fly to her.
With such magic meshes laden,
All too closely round me cast,
Holds me that bewitching maiden,
An unwilling captive fast.
In her charmÉd sphere delaying,
Must I live, her will obeying—
Ah! how great the change in me!
Love—O love, do set me free!
One other mood of love, and we leave the apprentice of Cornelius Agrippa to bring up the rear. Goethe is said to have been somewhat fickle in his attachments—most poets are—but here is one instance where passion appears to have prevailed over absence.
Separation.
I think of thee whene’er the sun is glowing
Upon the lake;
Of thee, when in the crystal fountain flowing
The moonbeams shake.
I see thee when the wanton wind is busy,
And dust-clouds rise;
In the deep night, when o’er the bridge so dizzy
The wanderer hies.
I hear thee when the waves, with hollow roaring,
Gush forth their fill;
Often along the heath I go exploring,
When all is still.
I am with thee! Though far thou art and darkling,
Yet art thou near.
The sun goes down, the stars will soon be sparkling—
Oh, wert thou here!
If we recollect right—for it is a long time since we studied the occult sciences—Wierius, in his erudite volume “De Prestigiis Demonum,” recounts the story which is celebrated in the following ballad. Something like it is to be found in the biography of every magician; for the household staff of a wizard was not complete without a famulus, who usually proved to be a fellow of considerable humour, but endowed with the meddling propensities of a monkey. Thus, Doctor Faustus of Wittenburg—not at all to be confounded with the illustrious printer—had a perfect jewel in the person of his attendant Wagner; and our English Friar Bacon was equally fortunate in Miles, his trusty squire. Each of these gentlemen, in their master’s absence, attempted a little conjuring on their own account; but with no better success than the nameless attendant of Agrippa, whom Goethe has sought to immortalize. There is a great deal of grotesque humour in the manufacture, agility, and multiplication of the domestic Kobold.
The Magician’s Apprentice.
Huzzah, huzzah! His back is fairly
Turn’d about, the wizard old;
And I’ll now his spirits rarely
To my will and pleasure mould!
His spells and orgies—ha’n’t I
Mark’d them all aright?
And I’ll do wonders, sha’n’t I?
And deeds of mickle might.
Bubble, bubble;
Fast and faster!
Hear your master,
Hear his calling—
Water! flow in measures double,
To the bath in torrents falling!
Ho, thou batter’d broomstick! take ye
This old seedy coat, and wear it—
Ah, thou household drudge, I’ll make ye
Do my bidding; ay, and fear it.
Stand on legs, old tramper!
Here’s a head—I’ve stuck it—
Now be off—hey, scamper
With the water-bucket!
Bubble, bubble;
Fast and faster!
Hear your master,
Hear his calling—
Water! flow in measure double,
To the bath in torrents falling!
See, ’tis off—’tis at the river—
In the stream the bucket flashes;
Now ’tis back—and down, or ever
You can wink; the burden dashes.
Again, again, and quicker!
The floor is in a swim,
And every stoup and bicker
Is running o’er the brim.
Stop, now stop!
For you’ve granted
All I wanted
Well and neatly—
Gracious me! I’m like to drop—
I’ve forgot the word completely!
Oh, the word, so strong and baleful,
To make it what it was before!
There it skips with pail on pailful—
Would thou wert a broom once more!
Still new streams he scatters,
Round and ever round me—
Oh, a hundred waters
Rushing in have bound me!
No—no longer
Can I bear it.
No, I swear it!
Gifts and graces!
Woe is me, my fears grow stronger,
Look what grinnings, what grimaces!
Wilt thou, offspring of the devil,
Soak the house to please thy funning?
Even now, above the level
Of the door the water’s running.
Broom accurst, that will not
Hear, although I roar!
Stick! be now, and fail not,
What thou wert before!
You will joke me?
I’ll not bear it,
No, I swear it!
I will catch you;
And with axe, if you provoke me,
In a twinkling I’ll dispatch you.
Back it comes—will nought prevent it?
If I only turn me to thee,
Soon, O Kobold! thou’lt repent it,
When the steel goes crashing through thee.
Bravely struck, and surely!
There it goes in twain;
Now I move securely,
And I breathe again!
Woe and wonder!
As it parted,
Up there started,
’Quipp’d aright,
Goblins twain that rush asunder.
Help, oh help, ye powers of might!
Deep and deeper grows the water
On the stairs and in the hall,
Rushing in with roar and clatter—
Lord and master, hear me call!
Ah, here comes the master—
Sore, sir, is my straight;
I raised this spirit faster
Far than I can lay’t.
“To your hole!
As you were, be
Broom! and there be
Still; for none
But the wizard can control,
And make you on his errands run!”
