Down, now! quicker still, down! 
See where the sun sets
Ere he sets, ere old age
Seizeth me in the morass,
Ere my toothless jaws mumble,
And my useless limbs totter;
While drunk with his farewell beam
Hurl me,—­a fiery sea
Foaming still in mine eye,—­
Hurl me, while dazzled and reeling,
Down to the gloomy portal of hell.

Blow, then, gossip, thy horn,
Speed on with echoing trot,
So that Orcus may know we are coming;
So that our host may with joy
Wait at the door to receive us.

1774.
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The Wanderer’s storm-song.

[Goethe says of this ode, that it is the only one remaining out of several strange hymns and dithyrambs composed by him at a period of great unhappiness, when the love-affair between him and Frederica had been broken off by him.  He used to sing them while wandering wildly about the country.  This particular one was caused by his being caught in a tremendous storm on one of these occasions.  He calls it a half-crazy piece (halkunsinn), and the reader will probably agree with him.]

He whom thou ne’er leavest, Genius,
Feels no dread within his heart
At the tempest or the rain. 
He whom thou ne’er leavest, Genius,
Will to the rain-clouds,
Will to the hailstorm,
Sing in reply
As the lark sings,
Oh thou on high!

Him whom thou ne’er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt raise above the mud-track
With thy fiery pinions. 
He will wander,
As, with flowery feet,
Over Deucalion’s dark flood,
Python-slaying, light, glorious,
Pythius Apollo.

Him whom thou ne’er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt place upon thy fleecy pinion
When he sleepeth on the rock,—­
Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian wing
In the forest’s midnight hour.

Him whom thou ne’er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt wrap up warmly
In the snow-drift;
Tow’rd the warmth approach the Muses,
Tow’rd the warmth approach the Graces.

Ye Muses, hover round me! 
Ye Graces also! 
That is water, that is earth,
And the son of water and of earth
Over which I wander,
Like the gods.

Ye are pure, like the heart of the water,
Ye are pure like the marrow of earth,
Hov’ring round me, while I hover
Over water, o’er the earth
Like the gods.

Shall he, then, return,
The small, the dark, the fiery peasant? 
Shall he, then, return, waiting
Only thy gifts, oh Father Bromius,
And brightly gleaming, warmth-spreading fire? 
Return with joy? 
And I, whom ye attended,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Whom all awaits that ye,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Of circling bliss in life
Have glorified—­shall I
Return dejected?

Father Bromius! 
Thourt the Genius,
Genius of ages,
Thou’rt what inward glow
To Pindar was,
What to the world
Phoebus Apollo.