Those sanctified and sacred spots 

Your Lord and Master now disown. 
The lightning from the castle shoots, 

The Higher Judgment strikes me down! 

Though Gods great, merciful and mild 
Abide within those halls up there, 

When the Spring’s image comes with wild 
And furious storms, we shrink with fear. 

Alas, the dove with frightened sound 
Will tremble, though but Zephyr stir, 
While she is kissing dry the wound 
_ Inflicted by the hawk on her. 

The frightened lamb that gets away 
From the wolf’s fangs, will not again 
Ever feel safe, unless it lie 
Huddled inside the low-walled pen. 

Karl Marx 

If Phaethon were alive today, 

To Aether’s vaults he would not soar, 
Nor would he drive so recklessly 

The coveted chariot team of four. 

4] 

Jove’s weapons I indeed do dread, 
And from his sea of flame I flee. 
When Heaven thunders overhead, 
I think he hurls his spear at me. 

No sailor of the Argive fleet 
Who fled the Capharean shore, 
Will ever turn his sails to meet 
Euboea’s surging flood once more. 

My bark, tossed by the tempest’s force, 
Dares not draw nearer to that ground; 
It veers off on a different course, 
For much more distant places bound. 

And so, my book, be wise and sane, 

Mind how you go and take good care. 
No need to seek the Higher Fame 

When common people lend an ear. 

Icarus dared to soar on high, 
Audaciously he spread his wings. | 
His name was destined not to die, 
‘In the swift ocean wave it sings. 

Whether to pull hard on the oars, 
Or leave the sails gently to swell — 

- Postpone it for another hour— 

Time and the place will quickly tell. 

Early Literary Experiments 555 

And when his brow is clear at last, 
When kindness beams upon his face, 

When all his rage is of the past, 
Quiescent, gone without a trace; 

When you, that still in terror stand 
And dare not yet approach from fright, 
Are proffered friendly word and hand, 
Then go—to day now yields the night. 

More softly tolls the hour of Fate, 
Unlike your Master you rejoice. 
The torments of your wound abate, 
And Mercy speaks with gentle voice. 

The hurt can only be made less 

By him who caused it in his rage. 
Achilles wounded Telephus; 

The pain he caused he then assuaged. 

Be sure not to spread any poison 
When trying to set matters right. 

Hope, ever bright and airy vision, 
Terror can turn you into night! 

Take care lest from its quiet repose 

Wrath in a violent storm should rise, 
Piling upon me yet more woes 

That you have caused by deeds unwise. 

But if within the Muses’ shrine 
A happy welcome should await, 
Bright in that house then you may shine 
Where Literature and Glory mate. 

Karl Marx 

And there you may be sure to see 
Drawn up in line the brothers, those 
Whom I begot in ecstasy 
After the day had reached its close. 

All bear with open pride their names, 
In consciousness of victory: 

Like hope upon their brows it flames, 
And like the joy of poetry. 

Three only form a group apart, 
On every side by darkness pressed. 
They swell, luxurious with “Love’s Art”, 
(ars amandi) 
And gaiety bubbles in each breast. 

Flee them, or bravely dare to call 

For counsel fraught with curse and doom; 
Remember Oedipus’ dread fall, 

Telegonus’ appalling crime! 

Songs lately granted their salvation 
From violent death by fire and flame, 
Tell you their tales of Transformation 
(Metamorphosis) 
And of worlds under Spirit-reign. 

Now tell the story of the change 
That’s overcome my Fate at last, 
How it’s turned into something strange, 
And how the form has been recast. 

Early Literary Experiments 557 

Once it was different, when I sucked 
Warmth from the red lips of Success. 

Where the Immortals sealed their pact, 
The tears now flow of deep distress. 

That you would ask what more I need 
Is plainly written on your face. 

Meanwhile, the graceful Horae speed 
Onward their rushing waves apace. 

And if with you I were to send 
All that seethes in my bosom now, 
Oh, I would never reach the end; 
The weight would make the bearer bow. 

The road is long. No time to spare, 
O book. Remotest of all lands 

Here with the Scythians I must share; 
Estranged from all the rest it stands.