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PARERGA AND PARALIPOMENA: SHORT PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS |
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[b]SOME VERSES[/b]
I am conscious of an act of self-denial in offering to the public verses that cannot claim to have any poetical merit, for it is not possible to be simultaneously a poet and a philosopher. It is done simply for the benefit of those who, in the course of time, will take so lively an interest in my philosophy that they will want to have some personal acquaintance with its author; but it will then no longer be possible to make this. Now as a man under the guise of metre and rhyme ventures to show his true subjective inner nature more freely in poems than in prose, and generally communicates his feelings in a more purely human and personal way, at any rate in a manner quite different from that of philosophemes, and thus to some extent comes nearer to the reader, so to those of the future who will take an interest in my work I make the sacrifice of setting down here some attempts at poetry, mainly from the years of my youth. I do so in the expectation that they will feel grateful, and here I request the others to regard this as a private matter between us which here happens to be made public. To have verses printed is in literature what singing solo is in company, namely an act of personal sacrifice. It is solely the foregoing consideration that has induced me to do this.
[b]Weimar, 1808
Sonnet[/b]
Perpetual winter's night will never end; And tarries the sun as though he ne'er would come; The tempest emulates the hooting owls; And weapons clank on crumbling walls. And open tombs their ghosts dispatch: And spread around, they try to scare my soul, That it may never be redeemed;- Yet to them I will not turn my gaze. The day, the day I will with strident voice proclaim! Night and ghosts from it will flee: The morning star is ushering it in. Soon it is light e'en in the darkest depths: Radiant colour will the world suffuse, And boundless space is bathed in brightest blue.
[b]Rudolstadt, 1813
The Rocks in the Valley of Schwarzburg[/b]
As I was strolling one sunny day alone in the vale of the woodland hill, I saw the jagged crags grey and torn from the throng of the forest's offspring. Behold through the murmuring foaming sylvan brook a mighty rock the others greets: 'Brothers, oldest sons of creation, rejoice with me that today The light of the quickening sun plays round us warmly and graciously As when at first he rose and warned us on the birthday of the world. Many a lingering winter has vested us with a cap of snow and beard of icicles. Many of our mighty brethren have since been deeply covered and engulfed By the common foe, thick-growing plants,- fleeting sons of time, For ever pullulating anew. Alas, those mighty brethren are for ever robbed of that fair light They saw with us aeons before this brood of plants from putrefaction came. Brothers, this brood pushes and presses on all sides And threatens us with ruin and decay. Stand and hold fast with all your strength; Unite and raise your heads to the sun, That he may long throw light on you!'
[b]Sunbeam through Cloud and Storm[/b]
How peaceful thou art in the storm that bends and scatters all, Ray of the bright and warming sun, firm, unshaken, and calm! Smiling like thee, gentle, firm, and eternally clear like thee, The sage is calm and serene in the storm and stress of troubled and tormented life.
[b]Morning in the Harz[/b]
Heavy with mist and black with cloud, The Harz did wear a sombre look; Grey and lowering did the world appear.- And then came forth the sun to smile, And all was filled with mirth and love. He hovers on the mountain slope, And there he rests in peace and calm, In deep and blissful rapture. And then he shines on mountain top, And circles round the crest; How he is cherished by the peak!
[b]Dresden, 1815
To the Sistine Madonna[/b]
She bears him to the world, and startled He beholds the chaos of its abominations, The frenzy and fury of its turmoil, The never-cured folly of its striving, The never-stilled pain of its distress,- Startled: yet calm and confident hope and Triumphant glory radiate from his eye, already Heralding the abiding certainty of salvation.
[b]1819
Bold Verses[/b]
(written on the journey from Naples to Rome in April 181g. My chief work had appeared in November 1818)
From long and deeply harboured pains 'twas unfolded from my very heart. Long did I strive to hold it firm; and yet I know success is finally mine. Howe'er you view the work, its life you cannot imperil. It you may hold up but never will destroy. Posterity will erect a monument to me.
[b]1820
To Kant*[/b]
With my eyes I followed thee into the blue sky, And there thy flight dissolved from view. Alone I stayed in the crowd below, Thy word and thy book my only solace.- Through the strains of thy inspiring words I sought to dispel the dreary solitude. Strangers on all sides surround me. The world is desolate and life interminable. (Unfinished.)
[b]Berlin, 1829
The Riddle of Turandot [1][/b]
'Tis a goblin engaged to serve us, To aid us in our many cares and wants. In ruin we should all have died, Were he not daily at our beck and call. Yet training we must strictly have to steer him That his strength may be always shackled. Not for one hour dare we let him out of sight or mind. For devilish ruse and perfidy are his way. Mischief he broods and treachery he plots. Our life and luck he ensnares And slowly the grisly deed he prepares. If he succeeds in bursting his chains, And is rid of his long-lamented fetters, He hastens to avenge the thraldom, And his rage is equal to his joy. Then he is master and we are his slaves. And now we vainly try to regain our ancient rights. The curb is off and the spell is broken. The slave's wild fury is unleashed, And now fills all with terror and death. In a brief span and a few short hours of horror It greedily devours the master and his house.
[b]1830
The Lydian Stone, a Fable[/b]
On a black stone the gold was rubbed, Yet no yellow streak was left. "'Tis not fine gold!" they all exclaimed. And as base metal it was cast aside. 'Twas later found that this black stone Despite its colour no touchstone was. The gold unearthed was now to honour restored. Genuine stone alone can genuine gold essay.
[b]1831
The Flower Vase[/b]
'Behold, only for a few days or hours do we bloom', Exclaimed a lustrous bunch of flowers. 'Yet to be so near to Orcus strikes us not with terror. At all times we exist and have like thee eternal life.'
[b]Frankfurt am Main, 1837[/b] In a copy of the tragedy Numancia by Cervantes which I picked up at an auction, the previous owner had written the following sonnet by A. W. von Schlegel. After reading the tragedy I wrote beside the sonnet the stanza and called it 'Chest-voice', the former being called 'Falsetto' .
[b]Falsetto[/b]
Wearied with endless battles Rome's legions Were by Numancia fearlessly and freely opposed. The hour of invincible fate was drawing nigh, As Scipio was training his warriors afresh. Arms favour not the brave, surrounded by bastions and pining away. In league with death and to rob the triumph of its spoils, They dedicate themselves and wife and child To the yawning chasm of a flame. Thus falling a victim does Hispania triumph. Worthily buskined and having shed their blood Her heroes proudly wander to the shades below. He weeps whom neither Libya nor Hyrcania bred; Here on the last Numantian's urn wept the last of Rome.
-- A. W. v. Schlegel.
[b]Chest-voice[/b]
A city's suicide has Cervantes here portrayed. When all is broken and destroyed, A return to nature's fount is all we have.
[b]1845
Antistrophe to the 73rd Venetian Epigram[/b]
I need not marvel that dogs by many are maligned; For alas too often does the dog put man to shame.
[b]1857
Power of Attraction[/b]
Wilt thou waste wit and wisdom to gain a retinue of men? Give them what's good to gorge and guzzle, And they will throng to thee in crowds.
[b]1856
Finale[/b] I now stand weary at the end of the road; The jaded brow can hardly bear the laurel. And yet I gladly see what I have done, Ever undaunted by what others say.
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[b]Notes:[/b]
* 'When Kant died, it was one of those clear and cloudless days, of which we have only a few. Only a small light speck of cloud floated in the zenith of the azure blue sky. It was related that a soldier drew the attention of all on the Schmiedebrucke with these words: "Look, there is Kant's soul soaring to heaven!'" (C. F. Reusch, Kant und seine Tischgenossen, p. 11.)
1 [See Gerhard Klamp's remarks in Schopenhauer-Jahrbuch, xlii. 121-4.]
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