Quiet thee, poodle! it seems not well
To break, with thy growling, the holy spell
Of my soul’s music, that refuses
All fellowship with bestial uses.
Full well we know that the human brood,
What they don’t understand condemn,
And murmur in their peevish mood
At things too fair and good for them;
Belike the cur, as curs are they,
Thus growls and snarls his bliss away.
But, alas! already I feel it well,
No more may peace within this bosom dwell.
Why must the stream so soon dry up,
And I lie panting for the cup
That mocks my lips? so often why
Drink pleasure’s shallow fount, when scarce yet tasted, dry?
Yet is this evil not without remeid;
We long for heavenly food to feed
Our heaven-born spirit, and the heart, now bent
On things divine, to revelation turns,
Which nowhere worthier or purer burns,
Than here in our New Testament.
I feel strange impulse in my soul
The sacred volume to unroll,
With honest purpose, once for all,
The holy Greek Original
Into my honest German to translate.
[He opens the Bible and reads.]
“In the beginning was the Word:” thus here
The text stands written; but no clear
Meaning shines here for me, and I must wait,
A beggar at dark mystery’s gate,
Lamed in the start of my career.
The naked word I dare not prize so high,
I must translate it differently,
If by the Spirit I am rightly taught.
“In the beginning of all things was Thought.”
The first line let me ponder well,
Lest my pen outstrip my sense;
Is it Thought wherein doth dwell
