If beyond our mortal sight, In some glorious realm of light, Poets pass their happy hours, Far from this cold world of ours, Oh, how sweet to cast away This frail tenement of clay, And in spirit soar above

To the home of endless Love.

And if in that world of bliss, Thou rememberest aught of this, If not-Being's higher scene Have a glimpse of what has been, Poet! from the seats divine, Let thy spirit answer mine.

THE FUNERAL OF GOETHE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF HARRO HARRING.

[Democratic Review, November, 1842.]

THE Poem of which a translation is here presented, exhibits one of the various lights under which the character of Goethe has been viewed by his countrymen and the literary world. It is curious to contrast the extreme bitterness of the censure here expressed, with the tone of admiration, — I may almost say, adoration,— with which he has been held up by Carlyle, not merely as the first poet of his day, but as the great moral and religious regenerator of modern times. There is a downright, straightforward, business-like air in these stanzas, which gives a favorable impression in regard to the author's sincerity, though the excessive acrimony of the satire may throw some doubts upon his discretion. It is not to be denied, however, that the friends of improvement and liberty in Germany have no small ground for complaint in the total indifference shown by their favorite poet to the fortunes of his country at the most trying moment of her history.

I.

SLEEP well beneath thy lordly funeral stole,

While envying lords are crowding round thy hearse, Bard of the lofty rhyme and little soul!

Thou star-bedizen'd, courtly King of verse! Sublime and sweet, I own, was every line That ever flow'd from thy prolific pen; But never did one German thought of thine, In the long course of thy most varied strain, E'er reach the German hearts of thy true countrymen.

II.

In all thy works, the more than fifty tomes,

I seek in vain to find a single place,

Wherein a word of kindly counsel comes

In earnest love to thy own German race.
The people hung upon thy lips: - they took
With eager, open mouth whatever came;
But thou, poor, selfish soul! could'st never look
Beyond thyself. It was a sin and shame

That thy own Fatherland for thee was but a name.

III.

God gave the gifted bard his breathing thought

And burning word,- for what?- that he might raise The people to his level, - upward brought, Electrified, by his inspiring lays.

His lofty aim should soar beyond, above

The present time, to higher, holier things;
His verse a sword of truth, a charm of love,
To cut the root of Falsehood's fatal stings,
To thrill with ravishing tones the multitude's
heart-strings.

IV.

But thou!-what hast thou done with all the powers Which lavish Nature wasted on thy soul?

What object hadst thou in thy happiest hours

Of inspiration, but the paltry goal,

Thyself? — What hast thou brought to pass for truth, For man's improvement, country, liberty?

Did thy cold bosom, from thy earliest youth,

Throughout thy long career of eighty-three
Long years, bestow one throb on suffering Germany?

V.

Thou boastedst thou couldst understand the ways
Of God himself;·
say, didst thou understand
What God had wrought beneath thy proper gaze

Miraculously in that neighboring land?