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"THE HEART RUNS BACK O'ER LIFE'S BEWILDERED MAZE, AND PANGS LONG LAID TO SLEEP AWAKE ANEW :-(GOETHE)

64

'WHAT I POSSESS SEEMS FAR, FAR OFF TO BE,-(MARTIN's Goethe)

THE NOTHINGNESS OF LIFE.

287

One-but the type of all

Rolling the dreadful ball
In vain, in vain!

[From "Studies from the Antique," edit. 1864.]

heodore Martin.

[THIS successful translator and graceful writer was born at Edinburgh in 1816, and educated at the High School. He practised as a solicitor in his native city until his removal to London in 1846. His first literary essays were made under the nom de plume of "Ben Gualtier;" and conjointly with Professor Aytoun he produced the "Book of Ballads," and the "Poems and Ballads of Goethe" (1858). He has also translated " King Rene's Daughter," from the Danish of Henrik Hartz; and the dramas of "Corregio" and "Aladdin " from Oehlenschläger; the "Odes" and "Satires" of Horace, the "Vita Nuova" of Dante, the "Faust" of Goethe, and the poems of Catullus. As a translator, he is singularly felicitous; rendering both the form and spirit of his original with equal grace and accuracy.]

AND NAME THE LOVED ONES LOST, BEFORE THEIR DAY SWEPT, WHILST LIFE WAS BEAUTIFUL, AWAY."-MARTIN'S GOETHE.

TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE.
[Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Born 1749; died 1832.]

I.

THE NOTHINGNESS OF LIFE.
|ROUND our spirit's dreams, our noblest, best,
Some base alloy for ever clings and grows;
Once of the good things of this world possessed,
We call a better wealth but lying shows.
The glorious feelings, those that most we prized,
That made indeed our very life of life,

In the world's turmoil and ignoble strife

Are seared and paralyzed.

AND WHAT HATH PASSED AWAY BECOMES REALITY."-MARTIN'S GOETHE.

"HOW HARD IT IS, ALMOST BEYOND BELIEF, TO GET AT KNOWLEDGE IN ITS FOUNTAIN HEAD!-MARTIN'S GOETHE)

"AY, BUT THE WORLD! THE HEART AND SOUL OF MAN,-GOEthe

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If Fancy, for a season flushed with hope,

Through boundless ether soars with wing unchecked,
A little space for her is ample scope,

When in Time's quicksands joy to joy lies wrecked.
Anon great care creeps into our nether heart,
And there of secret sorrows breeds great store;
Uneasily she sits, and mopes apart,

Marring our joy and peace; and evermore
Fresh masks she dons, to work us bitter dole;
Turn where we will, she haunts our life,
As house and land, as child and wife,

As fire and flood, as knife and poisoned bowl.
I am not like the gods, too well I feel!

No! Like the worm that writhes in dust am I,
Which, as it feeds on dust, the passer by
Stamps into nothingness beneath his heel,

For what but dust, mere dust, is all
Which, piled in endless shelf and press,
From floor to roof, contracts this lofty wall?
The trash, all frippery and emptiness,
Which here in this moth-swarming hole
Cramps, cabins, and confines my soul?
How shall I e'er discover here
The light and love for which I yearn?
Is all my poring year by year

On books by thousands, but to learn
That mortals have been wretched everywhere,
And only one been happy here and there?

[From "Faust," a metaphysical and lyrical drama, founded on the
popular legend which also suggested Christopher Marlowe's "Doctor
Faustus," and Philip James Bailey's "Festus."]

SOMETHING OF THESE MAY BE LEARNED BY ALL."-MARTIN'S GOETHE.

AND ERE A MAN IS HALF-WAY ON THE ROAD, HE'S VERY SURE, POOR FELLOW, TO BE DEAD."-MARTIN'S GOETHE.

"AND WHAT YOU CALL THE SPIRIT OF

THE TIME, I'VE LONG SUSPECTED (THEODORE MARTIN'S GOETHE)

WE LONG TO USE WHAT LIES BEYOND OUR SCOPE, GOETHE,

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REED from the ice are river and hill

By the quickening glance of the gracious spring;

Green with promise are valley and hill.

Old Winter, palsied and shivering,

Back has crept to his mountains bleak,
And sends from them, as he flies appalled,
Showers of impotent hail, to streak
The fields that are green as emerald.
But the sun no shimmer of whiteness brooks;
The earth is through all her pores alive,
Budding and bursting, and all things strive
To enliven with colours their winterly looks;
And the landscape, though bare of flowers, makes cheer
With people dressed out in their holiday gear.
Turn round, and from this height look down
Over the vineyards upon the town.
A motley medley is making its way
Out from the murky wide-mouthed gate.
Blithely they bask in the sun to-day.
The Saviour's Rising they celebrate,
For they have risen themselves, I ween;
From the close, damp rooms of their hovels mean,
From the bands of business, and labour, and care,
From the gables and roofs that oppress them there,
From the stifling closeness of street and lane,
From the churches' gloom-inspiring night,
They all have emerged into the light.
But, see how they are spreading amain
Across the gardens and fields, and how
The river, as far as the eye can note,
Is all alive with shallop and boat.

YET CANNOT USE EVEN WHAT WITHIN IT LIES."-MARTIN'S GOETHE,

IS BUT THE SPIRIT OF THE MEN IN WHICH THE TIMES THEY PRATE OF ARE REFLECTED."-MARTIN'S GOETHE.

THEY GIVE A BEAUTY TO THE WINTER'S NIGHTS, A CHEFEFUL GLOW THAT CAN ITS CHILL ASS

AGE.- MARTIN'S GOETHE

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UNANIYE. WHH VOU UNHOLL, AH, THEN ALL HEAVEN

DESCENDS INTO YOUR SOUL!"-MARTIN'S GOETHE.

And look, the last departing now,

Laden so deeply it scarce can float.

Far up on the hills as the pathways run,

Gay dresses are glistening in the sun.
Hark now the din of the village! Here

Is the people's true heaven. With hearty glee
Little and great, how they shout and cheer!

[From "Faust." The reader may compare this with the prose version of Mr Hayward, and the poetical version of Lord Leveson Gower.]

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HE water plashed, the water played,
A fisher sat thereby,

And marked, as to and fro it swayed,
His float with dreamy eye;

And as he sits and watches there,

He sees the floods unclose,
And from the parting waves a fair
Mermaiden slowly rose.

She sang to him with witching wile,—
"My brood why wilt thou snare.
With human craft and human guile,

To die in scorching air?
Ah! didst thou know how happy we,

Who dwell in waters clear,

Thou wouldst come down

And rest for ever here.

"The sun and ladye-m

Their tress

And, breath
Co

at once to m

WAFT

"THE SHOWY LIVES ITS LITTLE HOUR; THE TRUE- GOETHE

MIGNON'S SONG.

The deep blue sky, so moist and clear,

Hath it for thee no lure?

Dost thine own face not woo thee down

Unto our waters pure?"

The water rushed and bubbled by-

It lapped his naked feet;

He thrilled as though he felt the touch

Of maiden kisses sweet.

She spoke to him, she sang to him—

Resistless was her strain

Half-drawn, he sank beneath the wave,

And ne'er was seen again.

[From "Ballads of Goethe."]

"WHO OF SOME CHANCE GREEN LEAVES DOTH CHAPLETS TWINE OF GLORY FOR DESERT IN EVERY FIELD,-(GOETHE)

291

MAN'S POWER IMMORTAL IN THE BARD REVEALED!"-MARTIN'S GOETHE,

K

IV.

MIGNON'S SONG.*

NOWEST thou the land where the pale citron blows
And the gold orange through dark foliage glows?

A soft wind flutters from the deep blue sky,
The myrtle blooms, and towers the laurel high.
Knowest thou it well?

Oh there, with thee!

Oh that I might, my own beloved one, flee!

Knowest thou the house? On pillars rest its beams,
Bright is its hall, in light one chamber gleams,
And marble statues stand and look on me-
What have they done, thou hapless child, to thee?
Knowest thou it well?

Oh there, with thee!

Oh that I might, my loved protector, flee!

* This has been set to a fine melody by Beethoven.

TO AFTER-TIMES BEARS RAPTURES EVER NEW.". -MARTIN'S GOETHE.

ASSURES OLYMPUS, GIVES THE STAMP DIVINE.

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