Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MUSAGETES, by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MUSAGETES, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Often in the winter midnight
Last Line: Your eyes to look on heavenly glory!
Subject(s): Goethe, Johann Wolfgang Von (1749-1832); Muses; Prayer


OFTEN in the winter midnight,
Pray'd I to the blessed Muses --
'Here is not the red of morning,
Tardy is the day in breaking;
Light for me, ye blessed Muses,
Light the lamp of inspiration,
That its mellow ray may serve me,
'Stead of Phoebus and Aurora!'
But they left me to my slumber,
Dull, and spiritless, and torpid;
And the morning's lazy leisure
Usher'd in a useless day.

Then, when spring began to kindle,
Thus the nightingales I conjured --
'Sweetest nightingales, O warble,
Warble early at my window!
Wake me from the heavy slumber
That in magic fetters holds me!'
And the love-o'erflowing singers
Sang all night around my window
All their rarest melodies;
Kept awake the soul within me;
Gave me trances, aspirations,
Glimpses of divine emotion,
Soothing, melting, undefined.
So the night pass'd lightly over,
And Aurora found me sleeping,
Scarce I waken'd with the sun.

Lastly, came the glorious summer:
What aroused me then from dreaming,
At the earliest dawn of morning?
'Twas the buzzing of the flies!
They are touch'd by no compassion,
Ruthlessly they do their duty;
Though the half-awaken'd sleeper
Greets them with a malediction.
Unabash'd their clan they summon,
And the humming swarm is vocal,
And they banish from my eyelids
All the luxury of sleep.

Straightway start I from my pillow,
Leave the close beleaguer'd chamber,
Sally out to seek the Muses,
In the haunts to them are dearest.
And I find them 'neath the beeches,
Waiting for me, sometimes chiding,
For my over-long delay.
Thus I owe you, libel'd insects,
Thanks for many hours of rapture.
Dullards may indeed abuse you,
Since you wake them to sensation;
But the poet ought to prize you,
And I thank you, as a poet,
Ranking you, before all others,
As the ushers to the Muse.

THE CHURCH WINDOW

THE Minster window, richly glowing,
With many a gorgeous stain and dye,
Itself a parable, is showing,
The might, the power of Poesy.

Look on it from the outer square,
And it is only dark and dreary;
You blockhead always views it there,
And swears its aspect makes him weary.

But enter once the holy portal --
What splendour bursts upon the eye!
There symbols, deeds, and forms immortal,
Are blazing forth in majesty.

Be thankful you, who have the gift
To read and feel each sacred story;
And O, be reverent, when you lift
Your eyes to look on heavenly glory!





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