Gave me a blest, a rapture-fraught emotion,
As though from death a living fount were springing.

What mystic joy I felt!  What rapt devotion! 
That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace!

A look, how did it whirl me tow’rd that ocean
Whose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace!

Mysterious vessel!  Oracle how dear! 
Even to grasp thee is my hand too base,

Except to steal thee from thy prison here
With pious purpose, and devoutly go

Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear. 
What greater gain in life can man e’er know

Than when God-Nature will to him explain
How into Spirit steadfastness may flow,

How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.

1826.
-----
Royal prayer.

Ha, I am the lord of earth!  The noble,

Who’re in my service, love me. 
Ha, I am the lord of earth!  The noble,

O’er whom my sway extendeth, love I.
Oh, grant me, God in Heaven, that I may ne’er

Dispense with loftiness and love!

1815.*
-----
Human feelings.

Ah, ye gods! ye great immortals
In the spacious heavens above us! 
Would ye on this earth but give us
Steadfast minds and dauntless courage
We, oh kindly ones, would leave you
All your spacious heavens above us!

1815.*
-----
On the Divan.

He who knows himself and others

Here will also see,
That the East and West, like brothers,

Parted ne’er shall be.

Thoughtfully to float for ever

’Tween two worlds, be man’s endeavour!  So between the East and West

To revolve, be my behest!

1833.*
-----
Explanation  of an ancient woodcut, representing
Hans Sachs’ poetical mission.

[I feel considerable hesitation in venturing to offer this version of a poem which Carlyle describes to be ’a beautiful piece (a very Hans Sacks beatified, both in character and style), which we wish there was any possibility of translating.’  The reader will be aware that Hans Sachs was the celebrated Minstrel-Cobbler of Nuremberg, who Wrote 208 plays, 1700 comic tales, and between 4000 and 5000 lyric poems.  He flourished throughout almost the whole of the 16th century.]

Early within his workshop here,
On Sundays stands our master dear;
His dirty apron he puts away,
And wears a cleanly doublet to-day;
Lets wax’d thread, hammer, and pincers rest,
And lays his awl within his chest;
The seventh day he takes repose
From many pulls and many blows.

Soon as the spring-sun meets his view,
Repose begets him labour anew;
He feels that he holds within his brain
A little world, that broods there amain,
And that begins to act and to live,
Which he to others would gladly give.