Translations. - The Metaphysician. (From Schiller.)

"How far the world lies under me!
Scarce can I see the men below there crawling!
How high it bears me up, my lofty calling!
How near the heavenly canopy!"
Thus, from tower-roof where he doth clamber,
Calls out the slater; and with him the small big man,
Jack Metaphysicus, down in his writing-chamber!
Tell me, thou little great big man,--
The tower, whence thou so grandly all things hast inspected,
Of what is it?--Whereon is it erected?
How cam'st thou up thyself? Its heights so smooth and bare--
How serve they thee but thence into the vale to stare?

George MacDonald

George MacDonald (1824–1905) was a Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister best known for his fairy tales and fantasy novels. He was a pioneer in the fantasy genre, influencing notable writers such as C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. His major works include "Phantastes" and "Lilith," as well as numerous poems and other literary works. MacDonald's writings are characterized by their imaginative qualities and deep spiritual insight.

George MacDonald

My Room

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Song Of A Poor Pilgrim

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Professor Noctutus.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

O Wind Of God.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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The Metaphysician.

"How far beneath me seems the earthly ball!
The pigmy race below I scarce can see;
How does my art, the noblest art of all,
Bear me close up to heaven's bright canopy!"
So cries the slater from his tower's high top,
And so the little would-be mighty man,
Hans Metaphysicus, from out his critic-shop.
Explain, thou little would-be mighty man!
The tower from which thy looks the world survey,
Whereof, whereon is it erected, pray?
How didst thou mount it? Of what use to thee
Its naked heights, save o'er the vale to see?

Friedrich Schiller

Translations. - The Philosophers. (From Schiller.)

The principle whence everything
To life and shape ascended--
The pulley whereon Zeus the ring
Of Earth, which else in sherds would spring,
Has carefully suspended--
To genius I yield him a claim
Who fathoms for me what its name,
Save I withdraw its curtain:
It is--ten is not thirteen.

That snow makes cold, that fire burns,
That man on two feet goeth,
That in the heavens the sun sojourns--
This much the man who logic spurns
Through his own senses knoweth;
But metaphysics who has got,
Knows he that burneth, freezeth not;
Knows 'tis the moist that wetteth,
And 'tis the rough that fretteth.

Great Homer sings his epic high;
The hero fronts his dangers;
The brave his duty still doth ply--
And did it while, I won't deny,
Phil...

George MacDonald

Translations. - Knowledge. (From Schiller.)

In these epigrams I have altered the form, which in the original is the elegiac distich.


To this man, 'tis a goddess tall,
Who lifts a star-encircled head;
To that, a fine cow in a stall,
Which gives him butter to his bread.

George MacDonald

Translations. - Longing. (From Schiller.)

Ah, from out this valley hollow,
By cold fogs always oppressed,
Could I but the outpath follow--
Ah, how were my spirit blest!
Hills I see there, glad dominions,
Ever young, and green for aye!
Had I wings, oh, had I pinions,
To the hills were I away!

Harmonies I hear there ringing,
Tones of sweetest heavenly rest;
And the gentle winds are bringing
Balmy odours to my breast!
Golden fruits peep out there, glowing
Through the leaves to Zephyr's play;
And the flowers that there are blowing
Will become no winter's prey!

Oh, what happy things are meeting
There, in endless sunshine free!
And the airs on those hills greeting,
How reviving must they be!
But me checks yon raving river
That betwixt doth chafe and roll;
And its da...

George MacDonald

Translations. - The Castle On The Mountain. (From Goethe.)

Up there, upon yonder mountain,
Stands a castle old, in the gorse,
Where once, behind doors and portals,
Lurking lay knight and horse.

Burnt are the doors and the portals;
All round it is very still;
Its old walls, tumbled in ruins,
I scramble about at my will.

Close hereby lay a cellar
Full of wine that was old and rare;
But the cheery maid with the pitchers
No more comes down the stair;

No more in the hall, sedately
Sets the beaker before the guest;
No more at the festival stately,
The flagon fills for the priest;

No more to the page so thirsty
Gives a draught in the corridor;
And receives for the hurried favour
The hurried thanks no more.

For every rafter and ceiling
Long ago were to ashes burned,
...

George MacDonald

Translations. - My Faith. (From Schiller.)

In these epigrams I have altered the form, which in the original is the elegiac distich.



Which religion I profess?
None of which you mention make.
Wherefore so?--And can't you guess?
For Religion's sake.

George MacDonald