The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01. Коллектив авторов

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        In His blest name, who was His own creation,

      Who from all time makes making His vocation;

        The name of Him who makes our faith so bright,

        Love, confidence, activity, and might;

        In that One's name, who, named though oft He be,

        Unknown is ever in Reality:

        As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim,

        Thou findest but the known resembling Him;

        How high soe'er thy fiery spirit hovers,

        Its simile and type it straight discovers;

        Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay,

        Where e'er thou goest, smiling is the way;

        No more thou numberest, reckonest no time,

        Each step is infinite, each step sublime.

      What God would outwardly alone control,

        And on His finger whirl the mighty Whole?

      He loves the inner world to move, to view

        Nature in Him, Himself in Nature, too,

        So that what in Him works, and is, and lives,

        The measure of His strength, His spirit gives.

        Within us all a universe doth dwell;

        And hence each people's usage laudable,

        That every one the Best that meets his eyes

      As God, yea, e'en his God, doth recognize;

        To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he,

        Fears Him, and loves Him, too, if that may be.

        Called to a new employ in boundless space,

        The lonely monad quits its 'customed place

        And from life's weary round contented flees.

        No more of passionate striving, will perverse

        And hampering obligations, long a curse:

        Free self-abandonment at last gives peace.

        Soul of the world, come pierce our being through!

        Across the drift of things our way to hew

        Is our appointed task, our noblest war.

        Good spirits by our destined pathway still

        Lead gently on, best masters of our will,

        Toward that which made and makes all things that are.

        To shape for further ends what now has breath,

        Let nothing harden into ice and death,

        Works endless living action everywhere.

        What has not yet existed strives for birth—

        Toward purer suns, more glorious-colored earth:

        To rest in idle stillness naught may dare.

        All must move onward, help transform the mass,

        Assume a form, to yet another pass;

        'Tis but in seeming aught is fixed or still.

        In all things moves the eternal restless Thought;

        For all, when comes the hour, must fall to naught

        If to persist in being is its will.

        Within a gloomy charnel-house one day

        I viewed the countless skulls, so strangely mated,

        And of old times I thought that now were gray.

        Close packed they stand that once so fiercely hated,

        And hardy bones that to the death contended,

        Are lying crossed,—to lie forever, fated.

        What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended?

        No one now asks; and limbs with vigor fired,

        The hand, the foot—their use in life is ended.

        Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired;

        Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye're driven

        Back into daylight by a force inspired;

        But none can love the withered husk, though even

        A glorious noble kernel it contained.

        To me, an adept, was the writing given

        Which not to all its holy sense explained.

        When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging,

        I saw a form that glorious still remained,

        And even there, where mould and damp were clinging,

        Gave СКАЧАТЬ