The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 03. Коллектив авторов

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        Woman—to judge man rightly—do not scan

        Each separate act;—pass judgment on the Man!

        Intellect can repeat what's been fulfill'd,

        And, aping Nature, as she buildeth—build;

        O'er Nature's base can haughty Reason dare

        To pile its lofty castle—in the air.

        But only thine, O Genius, is the charge,

        In Nature's kingdom Nature to enlarge!

        Good out of good—that art is known to all—

        But Genius from the bad the good can call;

        Then, Mimic, not from leading-strings escaped,

        Work'st but the matter that's already shaped

        The already-shaped a nobler hand awaits—

        All matter asks a Spirit that creates!

        The calm correctness, where no fault we see,

        Attests Art's loftiest or its least degree;

        Alike the smoothness of the surface shows

        The Pool's dull stagner—the great Sea's repose.

        The herd of scribes, by what they tell us,

        Show all in which their wits excel us;

        But the True Master we behold,

        In what his art leaves—just untold.

        O'er Ocean, with a thousand masts, sails forth the stripling bold—

        One boat, hard rescued from the deep, draws into port the old!

        "A little earth from out the Earth-and I

        The Earth will move:" so spake the Sage divine.

        Out of myself one little moment—try

        Myself to take:—succeed, and I am thine!

        What to cement the lofty and the mean

        Does Nature?—What?—Place vanity between?

        "How poor a thing is man!" Alas, 'tis true

        I'd half forgot it—when I chanced on you!

        How God compassionates Mankind, thy muse, my friend, rehearses—

        Compassion for the sins of Man!—What comfort for thy verses!

        To some she is the Goddess great, to some the milch-cow of the field;

        Their care is but to calculate—what butter she will yield.

        How many starvelings one rich man can nourish!

        When monarchs build, the rubbish-carriers flourish.

        Within a vale, each infant year,

          When earliest larks first carol free,

        To humble shepherds doth appear

          A wondrous maiden, fair to see.

        Not born within that lowly place—

          From whence she wander'd, none could tell;

        Her parting footsteps left no trace,

          When once the maiden bade farewell.

        And blessèd was her presence there—

          Each heart, expanding, grew more gay;

        Yet something loftier still than fair

          Kept man's familiar looks away.

        From fairy gardens, known to none,

          She brought mysterious fruits and flowers—

        The things of some serener sun—

          Some Nature more benign than ours.

        With each, her gifts the maiden shared—

          To some the fruits, the flowers to some;

        Alike the young, the aged fared;

          Each bore a blessing back to home.

        Though every guest was welcome there,

          Yet some the maiden held more dear,

        And cull'd her rarest sweets whene'er

          She saw two hearts that loved draw near.

        Before his lion-court,

        To see the gruesome sport,

          Sate the king;

        Beside him group'd his princely peers;

        And dames aloft, in circling tiers,

          Wreath'd round their blooming ring.

          King Francis, where he sate,

          Raised a finger—yawn'd the gate,

          And, slow from his repose,

          A LION goes!

          Dumbly he gazed around

          The foe-encircled ground;

          And, with a lazy gape,

          He stretch'd his lordly shape,

          And СКАЧАТЬ