Both of us seek for truth — in the world without thou dost seek it,
I in the bosom within; both of us therefore succeed.
If the eye be healthy, it sees from without the Creator;
And if the heart, then within doubtless it mirrors the world.
All that thou doest is right; but, friend, don't carry this precept
On too far, — be content, all that is right to effect.
It is enough to true zeal, if what is existing be perfect;
False zeal always would find finished perfection at once.
Majesty of the nature of man! In crowds shall I seek thee?
'Tis with only a few that thou hast made thine abode.
Only a few ever count; the rest are but blanks of no value,
And the prizes are hid 'neath the vain stir that they make.
Why are taste and genius so seldom met with united?
Taste of strength is afraid, — genius despises the rein.
"I Have sacrificed all," thou sayest, "that man I might succor;
Vain the attempt; my reward was persecution and hate."
Shall I tell thee, my friend, how I to humor him manage?
Trust the proverb! I ne'er have been deceived by it yet.
Thou canst not sufficiently prize humanity's value;
Let it be coined in deed as it exists in thy breast.
E'en to the man whom thou chancest to meet in life's narrow pathway,
If he should ask it of thee, hold forth a succoring hand.
But for rain and for dew, for the general welfare of mortals,
Leave thou Heaven to care, friend, as before, so e'en now.
I have a heartfelt aversion for crime, — a twofold aversion,
Since 'tis the reason why man prates about virtue so much.
"What! thou hatest, then, virtue?" — I would that by all it were practised,
So that, God willing, no man ever need speak of it more.
Oh, how infinite, how unspeakably great, are the heavens!
Yet by frivolity's hand downwards the heavens are pulled!
"How can I know the best state?"
In the way that thou know'st the best woman;
Namely, my friend, that the world ever is silent of both.
Prate not to me so much of suns and of nebulous bodies;
Think ye Nature but great, in that she gives thee to count?
Though your object may be the sublimest that space holds within it,
Yet, my good friends, the sublime dwells not in the regions of space.
Which religion do I acknowledge? None that thou namest.
"None that I name? And why so?" — Why, for religion's own sake?
God alone sees the heart and therefore, since he alone sees it,
Be it our care that we, too, something that's worthy may see.
Dearly I love a friend; yet a foe I may turn to my profit;
Friends show me that which I can; foes teach me that which I should.
Thou that art ever the same, with the changeless One take up thy dwelling!
Color, thou changeable one, kindly descends upon man!
Understanding, indeed, can repeat what already existed, —
That which Nature has built, after her she, too, can build.
Over Nature can reason build, but in vacancy only:
But thou, genius, alone, nature in nature canst form.
Thou in truth shouldst be one, yet not with the whole shouldst thou be so.
'Tis through the reason thou'rt one, — art so with it through the heart.
Voice of the whole is thy reason, but thou thine own heart must be ever;
If in thy heart reason dwells evermore, happy art thou.
Many are good and wise; yet all for one only reckon,
For 'tis conception, alas, rules them, and not a fond heart.
Sad is the sway of conception, — from thousandfold varying figures,
Needy and empty but one it is e'er able to bring.
But where creative beauty is ruling, there life and enjoyment
Dwell; to the ne'er-changing One, thousands of new forms she gives.
Good from the good, — to the reason this is not hard of conception;
But the genius has power good from the bad to evoke.
'Tis the conceived alone, that thou, imitator, canst practise;
Food the conceived never is, save to the mind that conceives.
How does the genius make itself known? In the way that in nature
Shows the Creator himself, — e'en in the infinite whole.
Clear is the ether, and yet of depth that ne'er can be fathomed;
Seen by the eye, it remains evermore closed to the sense.
Men now seek to explore each thing from within and without too!
How canst thou make thy escape, Truth, from their eager pursuit?
That they may catch thee, with nets and poles extended they seek thee
But with a spirit-like tread, glidest thou out of the throng.
Free from blemish to be, is the lowest of steps, and highest;
Weakness and greatness alone ever arrive at this point.
Life she received from fable; the schools deprived her of being,
Life creative again she has from reason received.
It has ever been so, my friend, and will ever remain so:
Weakness has rules for itself, — vigor is crowned with success.
If thou canst not give pleasure to all by thy deeds and thy knowledge,
Give it then, unto the few; many to please is but vain.
Let the creative art breathe life, and the bard furnish spirit;
But the soul is expressed by Polyhymnia alone.
Let thy speech be to thee what the body is to the loving;
Beings it only can part, — beings it only can join.
Why can the living spirit be never seen by the spirit?
Soon as the soul 'gins to speak, then can the soul speak no more!
Other masters one always can tell by the words that they utter;
That which he wisely omits shows me the master of style.
Aphrodite preserves her beauty concealed by her girdle;
That which lends her her charms is what she covers — her shame.
Merely because thou hast made a good verse in a language poetic,
One which composes for thee, thou art a poet forsooth!
Dost thou desire the good in art? Of the good art thou worthy,
Which by a ne'er ceasing war 'gainst thee thyself is produced?
Which among the philosophies will be enduring? I know not,
But that philosophy's self ever may last is my hope.
Fame with the vulgar expires; but, Muse immortal, thou bearest
Those whom thou lovest, who love thee, into Mnemosyne's arms.
Trusty old Homer! to thee I confide the secret so tender;
For the raptures of love none but the bard should e'er know.
Only two virtues exist. Oh, would they were ever united!
Ever the good with the great, ever the great with the good!
Fear with his iron staff may urge the slave onward forever;
Rapture, do thou lead me on ever in roseate chains!
Enmity be between ye! Your union too soon is cemented;
Ye will but learn to know truth when ye divide in the search.
Strive, O German, for Roman-like strength and for Grecian-like beauty!
Thou art successful in both; ne'er has the Gaul had success.
When the happy appear, I forget the gods in the heavens;
But before me they stand, when I the suffering see.
Giddily onward it bears thee with resistless impetuous billows;
Naught but the ocean and air seest thou before or behind.
In the hexameter rises the fountain's watery column,
In the pentameter sweet falling in melody down.
Stanza, by love thou'rt created, — by love, all-tender and yearning;
Thrice dost thou bashfully fly; thrice dost with longing return.
On a pedestal lofty the sculptor in triumph has raised me.
"Stand thou," spake he, — and I stand proudly and joyfully here.
"Fear not," the builder exclaimed, "the rainbow that stands in the heavens;
I will extend thee, like it, into infinity far!"
Under me, over me, hasten the waters, the chariots; my builder
Kindly has suffered e'en me, over myself, too, to go!
Let the gate open stand, to allure the savage to precepts;
Let it the citizen lead into free nature with joy.
If thou seekest to find immensity here, thou'rt mistaken;
For my greatness is meant greater to make thee thyself!
I am rejoiced, worthy sirs, to find you in pleno assembled;
For I have come down below, seeking the one needful thing.
Quick to the point, my good friend! For the Jena Gazette comes
to hand here,
Even in hell, — so we know all that is passing above.
So much the better! So give me (I will not depart hence without it)
Some good principle now, — one that will always avail!
Cogito, ergo sum. I have thought, and therefore existence!
If the first be but true, then is the second one sure.
As I think, I exist. 'Tis good! But who always is thinking?
Oft I've existed e'en when I have been thinking of naught.
Since there are things that exist, a thing of all things there must
needs be;
In the thing of all things dabble we, just as we are.
Just the reverse, say I. Besides myself there is nothing;
Everything else that there is is but a bubble to me.
Two kinds of things I allow to exist, — the world and the spirit;
Naught of others I know; even these signify one.
I know naught of the thing, and know still less of the spirit;
Both but appear unto me; yet no appearance they are.
I am I, and settle myself, — and if I then settle
Nothing to be, well and good — there's a nonentity formed.
There is conception at least! A thing conceived there is, therefore;
And a conceiver as well, — which, with conception, make three.
All this nonsense, good sirs, won't answer my purpose a tittle:
I a real principle need, — one by which something is fixed.
Nothing is now to be found in the theoretical province;
Practical principles hold, such as: thou canst, for thou shouldst.
If I but thought so! When people know no more sensible answer,
Into the conscience at once plunge they with desperate haste.
Don't converse with those fellows! That Kant has turned them all crazy;
Speak to me, for in hell I am the same that I was.
I have made use of my nose for years together to smell with;
Have I a right to my nose that can be legally proved?
Truly a delicate point! Yet the first possession appeareth
In thy favor to tell; therefore make use of it still!
Willingly serve I my friends; but, alas, I do it with pleasure;
Therefore I often am vexed that no true virtue I have.
As there is no other means, thou hadst better begin to despise them;
And with aversion, then, do that which thy duty commands.
Who is the bard of the Iliad among you? For since he likes puddings,
Heyne begs he'll accept these that from Gottingen come.
"Give them to me! The kings' quarrel I sang!" —
"I, the fight near the vessels!" — "Hand me the puddings!
I sang what upon Ida took place!"
Gently! Don't tear me to pieces! The puddings will not be sufficient;
He by whom they are sent destined them only for one.
Each one, when seen by himself, is passably wise and judicious;
When they in corpore are, naught but a blockhead is seen.
Man is in truth a poor creature, — I know it, — and fain would forget it;
Therefore (how sorry I am!) came I, alas, unto thee!
Into the sieve we've been pouring for years, —
o'er the stone we've been brooding;
But the stone never warms, — nor does the sieve ever fill.
'Tis thy Muse's delight to sing God's pity to mortals;
But, that they pitiful are, — is it a matter for song?