Naught is for man so important as
rightly to know his own purpose;
For but twelve groschen hard
cash tis to be bought at my shop!
Genius.
Do I believe, sayest thou, what
the masters of wisdom would teach me,
And what their followers band boldly
and readily swear?
Cannot I ever attain to true peace, excepting
through knowledge,
Or is the system upheld only by fortune
and law?
Must I distrust the gently-warning impulse,
the precept
That thou, Nature, thyself hast in my
bosom impressed,
Till the schools have affixed to the writ eternal
their signet,
Till a mere formulas chain binds
down the fugitive soul?
Answer me, then! for thou hast down into these
deeps een descended,-
Out of the mouldering grave thou didst
uninjured return.
Ist to thee known what within the tomb
of obscure works is hidden,
Whether, yon mummies amid, lifes
consolations can dwell?
Must I travel the darksome road? The thought
makes me tremble;
Yet I will travel that road, if tis
to truth and to right.
Friend, hast thou heard of the golden age?
Full many a story
Poets have sung in its praise, simply
and touchingly sung-
Of the time when the holy still wandered over
lifes pathways,-
When with a maidenly shame every sensation
was veiled,-
When the mighty law that governs the sun in
his orbit,
And that, concealed in the bud, teaches
the point how to move,
When necessitys silent law, the steadfast,
the changeless,
Stirred up billows more free, een
in the bosom of man,-
When the sense, unerring, and true as the hand
of the dial,
Pointed only to truth, only to what was
eternal?
Then no profane one was seen, then no initiate
was met with,
And what as living was felt was not then
sought mongst the dead;
Equally clear to every breast was the precept
eternal,
Equally hidden the source whence it to
gladden us sprang;
But that happy period has vanished! And
self-willed presumption
Natures godlike repose now has
forever destroyed.
Feelings polluted the voice of the deities echo
no longer,
In the dishonored breast now is the oracle
dumb.
Save in the silenter self, the listening soul
cannot find it,
There does the mystical word watch oer
the meaning divine;
There does the searcher conjure it, descending
with bosom unsullied;
There does the nature long-lost give him
back wisdom again.
If thou, happy one, never hast lost the angel
that guards thee,
Forfeited never the kind warnings that
instinct holds forth;
If in thy modest eye the truth is still purely
depicted;
If in thine innocent breast clearly still
echoes its call;
If in thy tranquil mind the struggles of doubt
still are silent,
If they will surely remain silent forever
as now;
If by the conflict of feelings a judge will
neer be required;
If in its malice thy heart dims not the
reason so clear,
Oh, then, go thy way in all thy innocence precious!
Knowledge can teach thee in naught; thou
canst instruct her in much!
Yonder law, that with brazen staff is directing
the struggling,
Naught is to thee. What thou dost,
what thou mayest will is thy law,
And to every race a godlike authority issues.
What thou with holy hand formest, what
thou with holy mouth speakest,
Will with omnipotent power impel the wondering
senses;
Thou but observest not the god ruling
within thine own breast,
Not the might of the signet that bows all spirits
before thee;
Simple and silent thou goest through the
wide world thou hast won.
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