G O E T H E ' S   P A G A N   P O E T R Y

Goethe, a genius with unmistakable Pagan sympathies, 
excelled as a poet, dramatist, novelist, essayist, 
philosopher and scientist (his works occupy 140 
volumes!).  Here are several of his Pagan poems, 
including his ballade "The First Walpurgis-Night," in 
which the Pagans score a Discordian victory over their 
oppressors.  (I'm sure Goethe now dwells happily among 
the Pagan Gods.)  The ballade has been set to music by 
Mendelssohn (Die Erste Walpurgisnacht), which is quite 
good, but not suitable for small group performance.  
Perhaps the Muses will help some modern Pagan to 
compose a version for contemporary witches' sabbats.  
Although only the God (Allvater) is mentioned, I've 
left Goethe's text unchanged; it's easy to substitute 
"Mother" for some or all of the "Father"s if you like.
                        -- John Opsopaus


    THE FIRST WALPURGIS-NIGHT
    Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

            A DRUID.

    Sweet smiles the May!
    The forest gay
  From frost and ice is freed;
    No snow is found,
    Glad songs resound
  Across the verdant mead.
    Upon the height
    The snow lies light,
  Yet thither now we go,
There to extol our Father's name,
  Whom we for ages know.
Amid the smoke shall gleam the flame;
  Thus pure the heart will grow.

         THE DRUIDS.

Amid the smoke shall gleam the flame;
Extol we now our Father's name,
  Whom we for ages know!
  Up, up, then, let us go!

     ONE OF THE PEOPLE.

Would ye, then, so rashly act?
Would ye instant death attract?
Know ye not the cruel threats
  Of the victors we obey?
Round about are placed their nets
  In the sinful Heathen's way.
Ah! upon the lofty wall
  Wife and children slaughter they;
And we all
Hasten to a certain fall.

      CHORUS OF WOMEN.

Ay, upon the camp's high wall
  All our children loved they slay.
  Ah, what cruel victors they!
And we all
Hasten to a certain fall.

         A DRUID.

    Who fears to-day
    His rites to pay,
  Deserves his chains to wear.
    The forest's free!
    This wood take we,
  And straight a pile prepare!
    Yet in the wood
    To stay 'tis good
  By day till all is still,
With watchers all around us placed
  Protecting you from ill.
With courage fresh, then, let us haste
  Our duties to fulfil.

    CHORUS OF WATCHERS.

  Ye valiant watchers now divide
  Your numbers through the forest wide,
    And see that all is still,
    While they their rites fulfil.

        A WATCHER.

Let us in a cunning wise,
Yon dull Christian priests surprise!
With the devil of their talk
  We'll those very priests confound.
Come with prong and come with fork,
  Raise a wild and rattling sound
Through the livelong night, and prowl
  All the rocky passes round.
Screech-owl, owl,
Join in chorus with our howl!

    CHORUS OF WATCHERS.

Come with prong, and come with fork,
Like the devil of their talk,
And with wildly rattling sound,
Prowl the desert rocks around!
Screech owl, owl,
Join in chorus with our howl!

         A DRUID.

    This far 'tis right,
    That we by night
  Our Father's praises sing;
    Yet when 'tis day,
    To Thee we may
  A heart unsullied bring.
    'Tis true that now,
    And often, Thou
  Favorest the foe in fight.
As from the smoke is freed the blaze,
  So let our faith burn bright!
And if they crush our olden ways,
  Who e'er can crush Thy light?

  A CHRISTIAN WATCHER.

Comrades, quick!  your aid afford!
All the brood of hell's abroad:
See how their enchanted forms
  Through and through with flames are glowing!
Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms,
  On in quick succession going!
Let us, let us haste to fly!
  Wilder yet the sounds are growing,
And the arch fiend roars on high;
From the ground
Hellish vapors rise around.

 CHORUS OF CHRISTIAN WATCHERS.

Terrible enchanted forms,
Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms!
Wilder yet the sounds are growing!
See, the arch fiend comes, all-glowing!
From the ground
Hellish vapors rise around.

     CHORUS OF DRUIDS

As from the smoke is freed the blaze,
  So let our faith burn bright!
And if they crush our olden ways,
  Whoe'er can crush Thy light?

    [Bowring translation]


  THE CONSECRATED SPOT

When in the dance of the Nymphs, in the   
    moonlight so holy assembled,
Mingle the Graces, down from Olympus in secret 
    descending,
Here doth the minstrel hide, and list to their 
    numbers enthralling,
Here doth he watch their silent dances' 
    mysterious measure.
    [tr. Bowring]


     THE MAGIC NET

Do I see a contest yonder?
See I miracles or pastimes?
Beauteous urchins, five in number,
'Gainst five sisters fair contending, --
Measured is the time they're beating --
At a bright enchantress' bidding.
Glittering spears by some are wielded,
Threads are others nimbly twining,
So that in their snares, the weapons,
One would think, must needs be captured.
Soon, in truth, the spears are prisoned;
Yet they, in the gentle war-dance,
One by one escape their fetters
In the row of loops so tender,
That make haste to seize a free one
Soon as they release a captive.

So with contests, strivings, triumphs,
Flying now, and now returning,
Is an artful net soon woven,
In its whiteness like the snow-flakes,
That, from light amid the darkness, 
Draw their streaky lines so varied,
As e'en colors scarce can draw them.

Who shall now receive that garment
Far beyond all others wished-for?
Whom our much-loved mistress favor
As her own acknowledged servant?
I am blest by kindly Fortune's
Tokens true, in silence prayed for!
And I feel myself held captive,
To her service now devoted.

Yet, e'en while I, thus enraptured,
Thus adorned, am proudly wandering,
See! yon wantons are entwining,
Void of strife with secret ardor,
Other nets, each fine and finer,
Threads of twilight interweaving,
Moonbeams sweet, night-violets' balsam.

Ere the net is noticed by us,
Is a happier one imprisoned,
Whom we, one and all, together,
Greet with envy and with blessings.
    [tr. Bowring]


     From the ROMAN ELEGIES

These few leaves, O ye Graces, a bard presents, 
    in your honor,
  On your altar so pure, adding sweet rosebuds 
    as well,
And he does it with hope.  The artist is glad in 
    his workshop,
  When a Pantheon it seems round him forever to 
    bring.
Jupiter knits his godlike brow, -- hers, Juno 
    uplifteth;
  Phoebus strides on before, shaking his curly-
    locked head;
Calmly and dryly Minerva looks down, and Hermes, 
    the light one,
  Turneth his glances aside, roguish and tender 
    at once.
But towards Bacchus, the yielding, the dreaming, 
    raiseth Cythere
  Looks both longing and sweet, e'en in the 
    marble yet moist.
Of his embraces she thinks with delight, and 
    seems to be asking:--
  "Should not our glorious son take up his place 
    by our side?"
    [tr. Bowring]


    THE GODS GIVE EVERYTHING

The gods give everything, the infinite ones,
To their beloved, completely,
Every pleasure, the infinite ones,
Every suffering, the infinite ones, completely.
    [tr. Spender]


          MY GODDESS

Say, which Immortal
Merits the highest reward?
With none contend I,
But I will give it
To the ay-changing,
Ever-moving
Wondrous daughter of Jove,
His best-beloved offspring,
Sweet Phantasy.

For unto her
Hath he granted
All the fancies which erst
To none allowed he
Saving himself;
Now he takes his pleasure
In the mad one.

She may, crowned with roses,
With staff twined round with lilies
Roam through flowery valleys
Rule the butterfly people,
And soft-nourishing dew
With bee-like lips
Drink from the blossom:

Or else she may,
With fluttering hair
And gloomy looks,
Sigh in the wind
Round rocky cliffs,
And thousand-hued,
Like morn and even,
Ever changing,
Like moonbeam's light,
To mortals appear.

Let us all, then,
Adore the Father!
The old, the mighty,
Who such a beauteous
Ne'er-fading spouse
Deigns to accord
To perishing mortals!

To us alone
Doth he unite her,
With heavenly bonds,
While he commands her
In joy and sorrow,
As a true spouse
Never try to fly us.

All the remaining
Races so poor
Of life-teeming earth,
In children so rich,
Wander and feed
In vacant enjoyment,
And 'mid the dark sorrows
Of evanescent
Restricted life, --
Bowed by the heavy
Yoke of Necessity.

But unto us he
Hath his most versatile,
Most cherished daughter
Granted, -- what joy!

Lovingly greet her
As a beloved one!
Give her the woman's
Place in our home!

And, oh, may the aged
Stepmother Wisdom
Her gentle spirit
Ne'er seek to harm?

Yet know I her sister,
The older, sedater,
Mine own silent friend;
Oh, may she never,
Till life's lamp is quenched,
Turn away from me, --
That noble inciter,
Comforter, -- Hope!
    [tr. Bowring]


           PSYCHE

The Muses, maiden sisters, chose
To teach poor Psyche arts poetic;
But, spite of all their rules aesthetic,
She never could emerge from prose.

No dulcet sounds escaped her lyre,
E'en when the summer nights were nigh;
Till Cupid came, with glance of fire,
And taught her all the mystery.
    [tr. Aytoun]


          TO LUNA

Sister of the earliest light,
Type of loveliness in sorrow,
Silver mists thy radiance borrow,
Even as they cross thy sight.
When thou comest to the sky,
In their dusky hollows waken,
Spirits that are sad, forsaken,
Birds that shun the day, and I.

Looking downward far and wide.
Hidden things thou dost discover,
Luna! help a hapless lover,
Lift him kindly to thy side!
Aided by thy friendly beams,
Let him, through the lattice peeping,
Look into the room where, sleeping,
Lies the maiden of his dreams.

Ah, I see her!  Now I gaze,
Bending in a trance Elysian,
And I strain my inmost vision,
And I gather all thy rays.
Bright and brighter yet I see
Charms no envious robes encumber;
And she draws me to her slumber
As Endymion once drew thee.
    [tr. Aytoun & Martin]


          COPTIC SONG
  [makes a good drinking song!]

Howe'er they may wrangle, your pundits and sages,
  And love of contention infects all the breed,
All the philosophers, search through all ages,
  Join with one voice in the following creed:
  Fools from their folly 'tis hopeless to stay!
Mules will be mules, by the law of their mulishness;
Then be advised, and leave fools to their foolishness,
  What from an ass can you get but a bray?

When Merlin I questioned, the old necromancer,
  As halo'd with light in his coffin he lay,
I got from the wizard a similar answer,
  And thus ran the burden of what he did say:
  Fools from their folly 'tis hopeless to stay!
Mules will be mules, by the law of their mulishness;
Then be advised, and leave fools to their foolishness,
  What from an ass can you get but a bray?

And up on the wind-swept peaks of Armenia,
  And down in the depths, far hid from the day,
Of the temples of Egypt and far Abyssinia
  This, and but this, was the gospel alway:
  Fools from their folly 'tis hopeless to stay!
Mules will be mules, by the law of their mulishness;
Then be advised, and leave fools to their foolishness,
  What from an ass can you get but a bray?
    [tr. Aytoun & Martin]

[All selections from "The Poems of Goethe," New York:  
John D. Williams, 1882.]

                finis