Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Switzerland and Austria: Vol. XVI. 1876–79.
The Lake of Zurich
By Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock (1724–1803)F
On the green earth, O Mother Nature, fair!
But fairer the glad face
Enraptured with their view.
Come from the vine-banks of the glittering lake,—
Or, hast thou climbed the smiling skies anew,
Come on the roseate tip
Of evening’s breezy wing,
And teach my song with glee of youth to glow,
Sweet Joy, like thee,—with glee of shouting youths,
Or feeling Fanny’s laugh.
At whose foot Zurich in the quiet vale
Feeds her free sons; behind,
Receding vine-clad hills.
Unclouded beamed the top of silver Alps;
And warmer beat the heart of gazing youths,
And warmer to their fair
Companions spoke its glow.
And Haller’s Doris sang, the pride of song;
And Hirzel’s Daphne, dear to Kleist and Gleim;
And we youths sang, and felt
As each were—Hagedorn.
And shadowy forest, which becrowns the isle.
Then cam’st thou, Joy, thou cam’st
Down in full tide to us;
Yes, Goddess Joy, thyself! We felt, we clasped,
Best sister of Humanity, thyself;
With thy dear Innocence
Accompanied, thyself!
When the meads cradle thee, and thy soft airs
Into the hearts of youths
And hearts of virgins glide!
Thou makest Feeling conqueror. Ah! through thee,
Fuller, more tremulous heaves each blooming breast;
With lips spell-freed by thee
Young Love unfaltering pleads.
Of thought or heartfelt pleasure it invites;
And the Socratic cup,
With dewy roses bound,
Sheds through the bosom bliss, and wakes resolves,
Such as the drunkard knows not,—proud resolves,
Emboldening to despise
Whate’er the sage disowns.
Fame’s silver voice, and immortality
Is a great thought, well worth
The toil of noble men.
By dint of song to live through after-times,—
Often to be with rapture’s thanking tone
By name invoked aloud,
From the mute grave invoked,—
To form the pliant heart of sons unborn,—
To plant thee, Love, thee, holy Virtue, there,—
Gold-heaper, is well worth
The toil of noble men.
On a friend’s arm to know one’s self a friend!
Nor is the hour so spent
Unworthy heaven above.
Of the dim forest, and with downcast look
Fixed on the silver wave,
I breathed this pious wish:
“O, were ye here, who love me, though afar,
Whom, singly scattered in our country’s lap,
In lucky, hallowed hour,
My seeking bosom found;
Here would we build us huts of friendship, here
Together dwell forever!” The dim wood
A shadowy Tempo seemed;
Elysium all the vale.