Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Germany: Vols. XVII–XVIII. 1876–79.
Hans Sach’s Poetical Mission
By Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)Translated by E. A. Bowring
E
On Sundays stands our master dear;
His dirty apron he puts away,
And wears a cleanly doublet to-day;
Lets waxed thread, hammer, and pincers rest,
And lays his awl within his chest;
The seventh day he takes repose
From many pulls and many blows.
Repose begets him labor anew;
He feels that he holds within his brain
A little world, that broods there amain,
And that begins to act and to live,
Which he to others would gladly give.
And was full kind and loving too.
For contemplation, clear and pure,—
For making all his own again, sure;
He had a tongue that charmed when ’t was heard,
And graceful and light flowed every word;
Which made the Muses in him rejoice,
The master-singer of their choice.
With swelling breast and body fair;
With footing firm she took her place,
And moved with stately, noble grace;
She did not walk in wanton mood,
Nor look around with glances lewd.
She held a measure in her hand,
Her girdle was a golden band,
A wreath of corn was on her head,
Her eye the day’s bright lustre shed;
Her name is honest Industry,
Else, Justice, Magnanimity.
She entered with a kindly greeting;
He felt no wonder at the meeting,
For, kind and fair as she might be,
He long had known her, fancied he.
“From all who earth’s wild mazes tread,
That thou shouldst have clear-sighted sense,
And naught that ’s wrong shouldst e’er commence.
When others run in strange confusion,
Thy gaze shall see through each illusion;
When others dolefully complain,
Thy cause with jesting thou shalt gain,
Honor and right shalt value duly,
In everything act simply, truly,—
Virtue and godliness proclaim,
And call all evil by its name,
Naught soften down, attempt no quibble,
Naught polish up, naught vainly scribble.
The world shall stand before thee, then,
As seen by Albert Dürer’s ken,
In manliness and changeless life,
In inward strength, with firmness rife.
Fair Nature’s genius by the hand
Shall lead thee on through every land,
Teach thee each different life to scan,
Show thee the wondrous ways of man,
His shifts, confusions, thrustings, and drubbings,
Pushings, tearings, pressings, and rubbings;
The varying madness of the crew,
The ant-hill’s ravings bring to view;
But thou shalt see all this expressed,
As though ’t were in a magic chest.
Write these things down for folks on earth,
In hopes they may to wit give birth.”
Then she a window opened wide,
And showed a motley crowd outside,
All kinds of beings ’neath the sky,
As in his writings one may spy.
On Nature thinking, full of bliss,
When toward him, from the other side,
He saw an agéd woman glide;
The name she bears, Historia,
Mythologia, Fabula;
With footstep tottering and unstable
She dragged a large and wooden-carved table,
Where, with wide sleeves and human mien,
The Lord was catechising seen;
Adam, Eve, Eden, the Serpent’s seduction,
Gomorrah and Sodom’s awful destruction,
The twelve illustrious women, too,
That mirror of honor brought to view;
All kinds of bloodthirstiness, murder, and sin,
The twelve wicked tyrants also were in,
And all kinds of goodly doctrine and law;
Saint Peter with his scourge you saw,
With the world’s ways dissatisfied,
And by our Lord with power supplied.
Her train and dress, behind and before,
And e’en the seams, were painted o’er
With tales of worldly virtue and crime.
Our master viewed all this for a time;
The sight right gladly he surveyed,
So useful for him in his trade,
Whence he was able to procure
Example good and precept sure,
Recounting all with truthful care,
As though he had been present there.
His spirit seemed from earth to fly,
He ne’er had turned away his eye,
Did he not just behind him hear
A rattle of bells approaching near?
With goat and ape’s leap drawing nigh,
A merry interlude preparing
With fooleries and jests unsparing.
Behind him, in a line drawn out,
He dragged all fools, the lean and stout,
The great and little, the empty and full,
All too witty, and all too dull.
A lash he flourished overhead,
As though a dance of apes he led,
Abusing them with bitterness,
As though his wrath would ne’er grow less.
His head was growing wellnigh crazed:
What words for all could he e’er find?
Could such a medley be combined?
Could he continue with delight
Forevermore to sing and write?
When lo, from out a cloud’s dark bed
In at the upper window sped
The Muse, in all her majesty,
As fair as our loved maids we see.
With clearness she around him threw
Her truth, that ever stronger grew.
“So prosper, and my blessing take!
The holy fire that slumbering lies
Within thee, in bright flames shall rise;
Yet that thine ever-restless life
May still with kindly strength be rife,
I, for thine inward spirit’s calm,
Have granted nourishment and balm,
That rapture may thy soul imbue,
Like some fair blossom bathed in dew.”
Outside the doorway pointed she,
Where, in a shady garden-nook,
A beauteous maid with downcast look
Was sitting where a stream was flowing,
With elder-bushes near it growing.
She sat beneath an apple-tree,
And naught around her seemed to see.
Her lap was full of roses fair,
Which in a wreath she twined with care,
And with them leaves and blossoms blended:
For whom was that sweet wreath intended?
Thus sat she, modest and retired,
Her bosom throbbed, with hope inspired;
Such deep forebodings filled her mind,
No room for wishing could she find,
And with the thoughts that o’er it flew,
Perchance a sigh was mingled too.
That, dearest love, which fills thee now
Is fraught with joy and ecstasy,
Prepared in one alone for thee,
That he within thine eye may find
Solace when fortune proves unkind,
And be new-born through many a kiss,
That he receives with inward bliss;
Whene’er he clasps thee to his breast,
May he from all his toils find rest;
When he in thy dear arms shall sink,
May he new life and vigor drink:
Fresh joys of youth shalt thou obtain,
In merry jest rejoice again.
With raillery and roguish spite
Thou now shalt tease him, now delight.
Thus Love will nevermore grow old,
Thus will the minstrel ne’er be cold!”
Above him in the clouds doth rest
An oak-wreath, verdant and sublime,
Placed on his brow in after-time;
While they are banished to the slough,
Who their great master disavow.