He whom thou ne'er leavest,
Genius,
Feels no dread within his
At the tempest or the rain.
He whom thou ne'er leavest,
Genius,
Will to the rain-clouds,
Will to the hailstorm,
Sing in
As the lark sings,
Oh thou on high!
Him whom thou ne'er leavest,
Genius,
Thou wilt raise above the
With thy fiery pinions.
He will wander,
As, with flowery feet,
Over Deucalion's dark flood,
Python-slaying, light, glorious,
Pythius Apollo.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest,
Genius,
Thou wilt place upon thy fleecy
When he sleepeth on the rock,—Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian
In the forest's midnight hour.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest,
Genius,
Thou wilt wrap up
In the snow-drift;
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Muses,
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Graces.
Ye Muses, hover round me!
Ye Graces also!
That is water, that is earth,
And the son of water and of
Over which I wander,
Like the gods.
Ye are pure, like the heart of the water,
Ye are pure like the marrow of earth,
Hov'ring round me, while I
Over water, o'er the
Like the gods.
Shall he, then, return,
The small, the dark, the fiery peasant?
Shall he, then, return,
Only thy gifts, oh Father Bromius,
And brightly gleaming, warmth-spreading fire?
Return with joy?
And I, whom ye attended,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Whom all awaits that ye,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Of circling bliss in
Have glorified—shall
Return dejected?
Father Bromius!
Thourt the Genius,
Genius of ages,
Thou'rt what inward
To Pindar was,
What to the
Phoebus Apollo.
Woe!
Woe Inward warmth,
Spirit-warmth,
Central-point!
Glow, and vie
Phoebus Apollo!
Coldly
His regal
Over thee will swiftly
Linger o'er the cedar's strength,
Which, to flourish,
Waits him not.
Why doth my lay name thee the last?
Thee, from whom it began,
Thee, in whom it endeth,
Thee, from whom it flows,
Jupiter Pluvius!
Tow'rd thee streams my song.
And a Castalian
Runs as a fellow-brook,
Runs to the idle ones,
Mortal, happy ones,
Apart from thee,
Who cov'rest me around,
Jupiter Pluvius!
Not by the
Him didst thou visit,
With the pair of
Held in his gentle arm,—With the beauteous garland of roses,—Caressing him, so blest in his flowers,
Anacreon,
Storm-breathing godhead!
Not in the poplar grove,
Near the Sybaris' strand,
Not on the
Sun-illumined
Didst thou seize him,
The flower-singing,
Honey-breathing,
Sweetly
Theocritus.
When the wheels were rattling,
Wheel on wheel tow'rd the goal,
High
The sound of the
Of youths with victory glowing,
In the dust rolling,
As from the mountain
Showers of stones in the vale—Then thy soul was brightly glowing,
Pindar—Glowing?
Poor heart!
There, on the hill,—Heavenly might!
But enough
Thither to wend,
Where is my cot!
Goethe says of this ode, that it is the only one remaining outof several strange hymns and dithyrambs composed by him at aperiod of great unhappiness, when the love-affair between him
Frederica had been broken off by him.
He used to sing them whilewandering wildly about the country.
This particular one wascaused by his being caught in a tremendous storm on one of theseoccasions.
He calls it a half-crazy piece (halkunsinn), and thereader will probably agree with him.
