Vaaren
Fast hele Jordens Kreds udraaber Vaarens Pragt.
Bedrøveligt Beviis paa hvad saa tit er sagt:
At Smagen her til Lands (jeg mener paa vor Klode),
Om ei den værste, er i Sandhed ei den gode.
Ifald mig undes Lov, saa er det min Propos,
At vise, Vaaren ei fortiener Verdens Roes.
Kun Christen-Kierlighed mig, andet ei, indblæste
Den Lyst, at høvle lidt paa Smagen hos min Næste.
(Til Smagens Politur, jeg troer, man bruger Fiil;
Men høvle, syntes mig, faldt bedre i min Stiil.)
Jeg sielden noget troer, som troes af for mange;
Dog hørte jeg saa tit evindelige Sange
Om Maji-Dagens Lyst, at jeg det Indfald fik,
Engang til Floræ Eng at gaae – og see! jeg gik.
Jeg havde Østerport lagt nogle Skridt tilbage,
Og standsede, for ret ind i mit Bryst at drage
Den Balsom, som saa tit er liflig siungen om,
Og henrykt raaber jeg: Du Duft af Blomster, kom!
Du Zephyr, bring mig den paa silkebløde Vinger!
Da Æolus med Fart mig i mit Ansigt springer,
Vred, for jeg hilsede hans Fætter Zephyr mildt,
Og puster Støv, hvis Lugt fra Balsom let var skilt.
Min Skade lærte mig, at Vestenvinden blæser
Ei altid lige mildt paa Digter som paa Læser.
Men, skiønt jeg lidet godt hos Flora torde spaae
Af Maaden, som hun strax bød mig velkommen paa,
Min Fromhed gav mig Mod, trods Stormen frem at trænge,
I Haab, at, naar jeg gik opmærksom, langt og længe,
En Art af Skiønhed mig vel eengang forekom,
Som over Næstens Smag formildede min Dom.
I dette fromme Haab aftørrede jeg Støvet,
Ved hvilket nyligen mig Synet var berøvet,
Og saae den grønne Mark – den var – ja! Herre Gud!
Man veed, hvordan en Mark, naar den er grøn, seer ud.
Den meest nysgierrige, hvor lidt han end har Stunder,
Sig dog i Tide kan see mæt paa det Vidunder;
Sligt Syn mit Øie kun en slet Erstatning gav
For Støvet, som endnu det følte Svien af.
Dog tys! jeg synes nu den muntre Lærke høre,
Hvad Øiet tabte før, det vinder nu mit Øre.
Men hvad! jeg hører jo blot Klang, og intet meer,
Som naar man regelløs slaaer paa et stemt Klaveer.
Omsonst Køer, Faar og Sviin, som brøle, bræge, grynte,
Med Accompagnement den smukke Sang vil pynte.
Den første Stemme er de andre Stemmer værd;
Men for Musikens Skyld jeg staaer ei længer her.
Endnu var Næstens Smag et Skin af Bifald værdig;
Endnu til nyt Forsøg min Fromhed fandtes færdig. –
Spring
O’er nearly all the earth spring’s glory folk proclaim.
A sorry proof of what’s so oft said in the main:
That taste in this our land (our globe is here my meaning),
If not the worst, to reckon good is idle dreaming.
Should I be given leave, this then is my intent,
To show the world’s high praise of spring is praise ill spent.
Pure Christian love, nought else, might see me entertaining
The urge to give my neighbour’s taste a little planing.
(To polish taste, I think, one tends to use a file;
But planing seems to me to better fit my style.)
Seldom do I believe what’s done so by too many;
And yet such endless songs exist, they’re two a penny,
Which praise sweet days in May, that I, on pleasure bent,
Would make for Flora’s meadow – and behold! I went.
It did not take me long the East Gate to be leaving,
Soon after which I stopped, so I might deeply breathe in
The balsam whose delights are often sweetly sung,
And rapturously I cry: You scent of flowers, come!
Oh Zephyr, on your silken wings it here be bringing!
At which I have Aeolus in my visage springing,
Who wroth, since I his cousin Zephyr so did greet,
Blows dust, whose scent to tell from balsam’s were no feat.
The west wind does not blow, my hurt soon let me know it,
As gently on the reader as upon the poet.
But though I little good from Flora now dared hope,
Judged by the welcome with which I now tried to cope,
My piety gave me strength to advance though gales were swishing,
My hope, with due attention, was to go on wishing
For beauty of some kind perhaps to come my way
That could the verdict on my neighbour’s taste allay.
And in this pious hope, the dust brushed off or shaken
That recently my vision quite from me had taken,
I now beheld green fields – they were – Good Lord, I mean:
You know what fields all tend to look like when they’re green.
The highly curious man, whose time is soon outdated,
Can at such wonders though quite soon his gaze have sated;
My eyes’ poor substitute for such a sight was blurred
Since they still smarted from the dust they had incurred.
But hark! And can that be the merry lark I’m hearing,
What eye has just now lost may yet my ear be cheering.
What’s this?! It’s only sound I hear in this bird’s trill,
As if a tuned piano’s being struck at will.
In vain would cows, pigs, sheep with roaring, grunting, bleating
With their accompaniment the fine song be completing.
And every voice could call the other’s voice its peer,
But for the music’s sake I stand no longer here.
Still was my neighbour’s taste worth some show of kind favour;
Still from one more attempt my piety did not waver. –
