So speakest thou, friend, how stronger far than I; As from experience--that sure port serene-- Thou lookest;--and straight, a coldness wraps the sky, The summer glory withers from the scene, Scared by the solemn spell; behold them fly, The godlike images that seemed so fair! Silent the playful Muse--the rosy hours Halt in their dance; and the May-breathing flowers Fall from the sister-graces' waving hair. Sweet-mouthed Apollo breaks his golden lyre, Hermes, the wand with many a marvel rife;-- The veil, rose-woven, by the young desire With dreams, drops from the hueless cheeks of life. The world seems what it is--a grave! and love Casts down the bondage wound his eyes above, And sees!--He sees but images of clay Where he dreamed gods; and sighs--and glides away. The youngness of the beautiful grows old, And on thy lips the bride's sweet kiss seems cold; And in the crowd of joys--upon thy throne Thou sittest in state, and hardenest into stone. TO GOETHE, ON HIS PRODUCING VOLTAIRE'S "MAHOMET" ON THE STAGE. Thou, by whom, freed from rules constrained and wrong, On truth and nature once again we're placed,-- Who, in the cradle e'en a hero strong, Stiffest the serpents round our genius laced,-- Thou whom the godlike science has so long With her unsullied sacred fillet graced,-- Dost thou on ruined altars sacrifice To that false muse whom we no longer prize? This theatre belongs to native art, No foreign idols worshipped here are seen; A laurel we can show, with joyous heart, That on the German Pindus has grown green The sciences' most holy, hidden part The German genius dares to enter e'en, And, following the Briton and the Greek, A nobler glory now attempts to seek. For yonder, where slaves kneel, and despots hold The reins,--where spurious greatness lifts its head, Art has no power the noble there to mould, 'Tis by no Louis that its seed is spread; From its own fulness it must needs unfold, By earthly majesty 'tis never fed; 'Tis with truth only it can e'er unite, Its glow free spirits only e'er can light. 'Tis not to bind us in a worn-out chain Thou dost this play of olden time recall,-- 'Tis not to seek to lead us back again To days when thoughtless childhood ruled o'er all. It were, in truth, an idle risk and vain Into the moving wheel of time to fall; The winged hours forever bear it on, The new arrives, and, lo! the old has gone. The narrow theatre is now more wide, Into its space a universe now steals; In pompous words no longer is our pride, Nature we love when she her form reveals; Fashion's false rules no more are deified; And as a man the hero acts and feels. 'Tis passion makes the notes of freedom sound, And 'tis in truth the beautiful is found.