O ye Gods, I never could love you, For ever distasteful I’ve found the Grecians, And e’en the Romans I greatly hate. Yet holy compassion and shuddering pity Stream through my heart, When I now behold you on high, Godheads deserted, Dead and night-wandering shadows, Misty and weak, scared by the very wind-- And when I bethink me how airy and cowardly The godheads are, who overcame you, The new, now-ruling, mournful godheads. The mischievous ones in the sheepskin of meekness, Then over me steals a glorious resentment, And fain would I break the new-born temples, And fight on your side, ye ancient deities, For you, and your good ambrosial rights, And before your lofty altars, The once-more-restored, the sacrifice steaming, Fain would I kneel down and pray, And, praying, raise tow’rd you my arms.--
For evermore, ye ancient deities, Have ye been wont, in the combats of mortals, To join yourselves to the side of the victor, And therefore is man more high-minded than ye, And in combats of deities deem I it right To take the part of the vanquish’d deities.
Thus did I speak, and visibly redden’d Yon pale cloudy figures on high, And on me they gazed like dying ones, Sorrow-illumined, and suddenly vanish’d. The moon, too, hid herself Behind the clouds that darkly came over her; High up roarèd the sea, And then triumphantly stood in the heavens The stars all-eternal.
By the sea, by the desert night-cover’d sea Standeth a youth, His breast full of sadness, his head full of doubtings, And with gloomy lips he asks of the billows:
“O answer me life’s hidden riddle, “The riddle primeval and painful, “Over which many a head has been poring, “Heads in hieroglyphical nightcaps, “Heads in turbans and swarthy bonnets, “Heads in perukes, and a thousand other “Poor and perspiring heads of us mortals-- “Tell me what signifies man? “From whence doth he come? And where doth he go? “Who dwelleth amongst the golden stars yonder?”
The billows are murm’ring their murmur eternal, The wind is blowing, the clouds are flying, The stars are twinkling, all listless and cold, And a fool is awaiting an answer.
There comes a bird who hath flown from the westward, He flies tow’rd the east, Tow’rd the eastern garden-home, Where the spices so fragrant are growing, And palms are waving and wells are cooling-- And, flying, the wondrous bird thus singeth She loves him, she loves him! His image she bears in her little bosom, And bears it sweetly and secretly hidden, Nor knows it herself! But in her vision, before her he stands, She prays, and she weeps, and she kisses his hands, And calls on his name, And calling awakes she and lieth all-startled, And rubbeth her beauteous eyes in amazement-- She loves him! she loves him!