I cried, “what wond’rous masterIn his school of art hath form’d thee,
That so deftly and so truly,
From the sketch unto the burnish,
Thou hast finish’d such a gem?”
As I spoke, a breeze arising
Stirr’d the tree-tops in the picture,
Ruffled every pool of water,
Waved the garments of the maiden;
And, what more than all amazed me,
Her small feet took motion also,
And she came towards the station
Where I sat beside the boy.
So, when every thing was moving,
Leaves and water, flowers and raiment,
And the footsteps of the darling—
Think you I remain’d as lifeless
As the rock on which I rested?
No, I trow—not I!
This is as perfect a landscape as one of Berghem’s sunniest.
An artist is, to our mind, one of the happiest creatures in God’s creation. Now that the race of wandering minstrels has passed away, your painter is the only free joyous denizen of the earth, who can give way to his natural impulses without fear of reproach, and who can indulge his enthusiasm for the bright and beautiful to the utmost. He has his troubles, no doubt; for he is ambitious, and too often he is poor; but it is something to pursue ambition along the natural path with unwarped energies, and ardent and sincere devotion. As to poverty, that is a fault that must daily mend, if he is only true to himself. In a few years, the foot-sore wanderer of the Alps, with little more worldly goods than the wallet and sketch-book he carries, will be the royal academician, the Rubens or the Reynolds of his day, with the most recherché studio in London, and more orders upon his list than he has either time or inclination to execute. Goethe has let us into the secret of the young German artist’s life. Let us look upon him in the dawnings of his fame, before he is summoned to adorn the stately halls of Munich with frescoes from the Niebelungen Lied.
The Artist’s Morning Song
My dwelling is the Muses’ home—
What matters it how small?
And here, within my heart, is set
The holiest place of all.
When, waken’d by the early sun,
I rise from slumbers sound,
I see the ever-living forms
In radiance group’d around.
I pray, and songs of thanks and praise
Are more than half my prayer,
With simple notes of music, tuned
To some harmonious air.
I bow before the altar then,
And read, as well I may,
From noble Homer’s master-work,
The lesson for the day.
He takes me to the furious fight,
Where lion warriors throng;
Where god-descended heroes whirl
In iron cars along.
And steeds go down before the cars;
And round the cumber’d wheel,
Both friend and foe are rolling now,
All blood from head to heel!
Then comes the champion of them all,
Pelides’ friend is he,
And crashes through the dense array,
Though thousands ten they be!
And ever smites that fiery sword
Through helmet, shield, and mail;
Until he falls by craft divine,
Where might could not prevail.
Down from the glorious pile he rolls,
Which he himself had made,
And foemen trample on the limbs
From which they shrank afraid.
Then start I up, with arms in hand,
What arms the painter bears;
And soon along my kindling wall
The fight at Troy appears.
On! on again! The wrath is here
Of battle rolling red;
Shield strikes on shield, and sword on helm,
And dead men fall on dead!
I throng into the inner press,
Where loudest rings the din;
For there, around their hero’s corpse,
Fight on his furious kin!
A rescue! rescue! bear him hence
Into the leaguer near;
Pour balsam in his glorious wounds,
And weep above his bier.
And when from that hot trance I pass,
Great Love, I feel thy charm;
There hangs my lady’s picture near—
A picture yet so warm!
How fair she was, reclining there;
What languish in her look!
How thrill’d her glance through all my frame!
The very pencil shook.
Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips,
Were all the world to me;
And in my breast a younger life
Rose wild and wantonly.
Oh! turn again, and bide thee here,
Nor fear such rude alarms;
How could I think of battles more
With thee within my arms!
But thou shalt lend thy perfect form
To all I fashion best;
I’ll paint thee first, Madonna-wise,
The infant on thy breast.
I’ll paint thee as a startled nymph,
Myself a following fawn;
And still pursue thy flying feet
Across the woodland lawn.
With helm on head, like Mars, I’ll lie
By thee, the Queen of Love,
And draw a net around us twain,
And smile on heaven above.
And every god that comes shall pour
His blessings on thy head,
And envious eyes be far away
From that dear marriage-bed!
There is abundance of spirit here. For once, in describing the battle and fall of Patroclus, Goethe seems to have caught a spark of Homeric inspiration, and the lines ring out as clearly as the stroke of the hammer on the anvil. There is no rhyme in the original, which, we confess, appears to us a fault; more especially as the rhythm is that of the ordinary
