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 archfiend roars on high; From the ground Hellish vapours rise around. CHORUS OF CHRISTIAN WATCHERS. Terrible enchanted forms, Dragon-women, men-wolf swarms! Wilder yet the sounds are growing! See, the archfiend comes, all-glowing! From the ground Hellish vapours rise around! CHORUS OF DRUIDS. As from the smoke is freed the blaze, So let our faith burn bright! And if they crush our golden ways, Who e'er can crush Thy light? 1799. ----- ODES. ----- THESE are the most singular of all the Poems of Goethe, and to many will appear so wild and fantastic, as to leave anything but a pleasing impression. Those at the beginning, addressed to his friend Behrisch, were written at the age of eighteen, and most of the remainder were composed while he was still quite young. Despite, however, the extravagance of some of them, such as the Winter Journey over the Hartz Mountains, and the Wanderer's Storm-Song, nothing can be finer than the noble one entitled Mahomet's Song, and others, such as the Spirit Song' over the Waters, The God-like, and, above all, the magnificent sketch of Prometheus, which forms part of an unfinished piece bearing the same name, and called by Goethe a 'Dramatic Fragment.' TO MY FRIEND. [These three Odes are addressed to a certain Behrisch, who was tutor to Count Lindenau, and of whom Goethe gives an odd account at the end of the Seventh Book of his Autobiography.] FIRST ODE. TRANSPLANT the beauteous tree! Gardener, it gives me pain; A happier resting-place Its trunk deserved. Yet the strength of its nature To Earth's exhausting avarice, To Air's destructive inroads, An antidote opposed. See how it in springtime Coins its pale green leaves! Their orange-fragrance Poisons each flyblow straight. The caterpillar's tooth Is blunted by them; With silv'ry hues they gleam In the bright sunshine, Its twigs the maiden Fain would twine in Her bridal-garland; Youths its fruit are seeking. See, the autumn cometh! The caterpillar Sighs to the crafty spider,-- Sighs that the tree will not fade. Hov'ring thither From out her yew-tree dwelling, The gaudy foe advances Against the kindly tree, And cannot hurt it, But the more artful one Defiles with nauseous venom Its silver leaves; And sees with triumph How the maiden shudders, The youth, how mourns he, On passing by. Transplant the beauteous tree! Gardener, it gives me pain; Tree, thank the gardener Who moves thee hence! 1767. ----- SECOND ODE. THOU go'st! I murmur-- Go! let me murmur. Oh, worthy man, Fly from this land! Deadly marshes, Steaming mists of October Here interweave their currents, Blending for ever.