Poems, supressed poems | Page 2

our
tongues and wits
Thou hast shivered into bits--
Seest thou this,
licentious wight?
How we're fastened to a string,
Whirled around in
giddy ring,
Making all like night appear,
Filling with strange
sounds our ear?
Learn it in the stocks aright!
When our ears wild
noises shook,
On the sky we cast no look,
Neither stock nor stone
reviewed,
But were punished as we stood.
Seest thou now,
licentious wight?
That, to us, yon flaring sun
Is the Heidelbergers'
tun;
Castles, mountains, trees, and towers,
Seem like chopin-cups
of ours.
Learn'st thou now, licentious wight?

Learn it in the stocks
aright!
Twirl him! twirl him! blind and dumb,
Deaf and dumb,
Twirl the carle so troublesome!
Kinsman, once so
full of glee,
Kinsman, where's thy drollery,
Where thy tricks, thou
cunning one?
All thy tricks are spent and past,
To the devil gone at
last
Like a silly fop thou'lt prate,
Like a washerwoman rate.
Thou

art but a simpleton.
Now thou mayest--more shame to thee--
Run
away, because of me;
Cupid, that young rogue, may glory
Learning
wisdom from thy story;
Haste, thou sluggard, hence to flee
As from
glass is cut our wit,
So, like lightning, 'twill be split;
If thou won't
be chased away,
Let each folly also stay
Seest my meaning? Think
of me!
Idle one, away with thee!
SPINOSA.
A mighty oak here ruined lies,
Its top was wont to kiss the skies,

Why is it now o'erthrown?--
The peasants needed, so they said,
Its
wood wherewith to build a shed,
And so they've cut it down.
TO THE FATES.
Not in the crowd of masqueraders gay,
Where coxcombs' wit with
wondrous splendor flares,
And, easier than the Indian's net the prey,

The virtue of young beauties snares;--
Not at the toilet-table of the fair,
Where vanity, as if before an idol,
bows,
And often breathes a warmer prayer
Than when to heaven it
pays its vows;
And not behind the curtain's cunning veil,
Where the world's eye is
hid by cheating night,
And glowing flames the hearts assail,
That
seemed but chilly in the light,--
Where wisdom we surprise with shame-dyed lip,
While Phoebus' rays
she boldly drinks,
Where men, like thievish children, nectar sip,

And from the spheres e'en Plato sinks--
To ye--to ye, O lonely sister-band,
Daughters of destiny, ascend,

When o'er the lyre all-gently sweeps my hand,
These strains, where
bliss and sadness blend.

You only has no sonnet ever wooed,
To win your gold no usurer e'er
sighed
No coxcomb e'er with plaints your steps pursued,
For you,
Arcadian shepherd ne'er has died.
Your gentle fingers ye forever ply,
Life's nervous thread with care to
twist,
Till sound the clanging shears, and fruitlessly
The tender web
would then resist.
Since thou my thread of life hast kindly spun,
Thy hand, O Clotho, I
now kiss!
Since thou hast spared that life whilst scarce begun,

Receive this nosegay, Lachesis!
Full often thorns upon the thread,
But oftener roses, thou hast strung;

For thorns and roses there outspread,
Clotho, to thee this lay be
sung!
Oft did tempestuous passions rise,
And threat to break the thread by
force;
Oft projects of gigantic size
Have checked its free, unfettered
course.
Oft, in sweet hours of heavenly bliss,
Too fine appeared the thread to
me;
Still oftener, when near sorrow's dark abyss,
Too firm its fabric
seemed to be.
Clotho, for this and other lies,
Thy pardon I with tears implore;

Henceforth I'll take whatever prize
Sage Clotho gives, and asks no
more.
But never let the shears cut off a rose--
Only the thorns,--yet as thou
will'st!
Let, if thou will'st, the death-shears, sharply close, If thou this
single prayer fulfill'st!
Oh, goddess! when, enchained to Laura's breath,
My spirit from its
shell breaks free,
Betraying when, upon the gates of death,
My
youthful life hangs giddily,

Let to infinity the thread extend,
'Twill wander through the realms of
bliss,--
Then, goddess, let thy cruel shears descend!
Then let them
fall, O Lachesis!
THE PARALLEL.
Her likeness Madame Ramler bids me find;
I try to think in vain, to
whom or how
Beneath the moon there's nothing of the kind.--
I'll
show she's like the moon, I vow!
The moon--she rouges, steals the sun's bright light,
By eating stolen
bread her living gets,--
Is also wont to paint her cheeks at night,

While, with untiring ardor, she coquets.
The moon--for this may Herod give her thanks!--
Reserves her best
till night may have returned;
Our lady swallows up by day the francs

That she at night-time may have earned.
The moon first swells, and then is once more lean,
As surely as the
month comes round;
With Madame Ramler 'tis the same, I ween--

But she to need more time is found!
The moon to love her silver-horns is said,
But makes a sorry show;

She likes them on her husband's head,--
She's right to have it so
KLOPSTOCK AND WIELAND.
(WHEN THEIR MINIATURES WERE HANGING SIDE BY
SIDE.)
In truth, when I have crossed dark Lethe's river,
The man upon the
right I'll love forever,
For 'twas he first that wrote for me.
For all the world the left man
wrote, full clearly,
And so we all should love him dearly;

Come, left man! I must needs kiss thee!
THE MUSES' REVENGE.
AN ANECDOTE OF HELICON.
Once the nine all weeping came
To the god of song
"Oh, papa!"
they there