Page:The Works of J. W. von Goethe, Volume 9.djvu/276

242 Then start I up, with arms in hand, What arms the painter bears; And soon along my kindling wall The fight at Troy appears.

On! on again! The wrath is here Of battle rolling red; Shield strikes on shield, and sword on helm, And dead men fall on dead!

I throng into the inner press. Where loudest rings the din; For there, around their hero's corpse, Fight on his furious kin!

A rescue! rescue! bear him hence Into the leaguer near; Pour balsam in his glorious wounds, And weep above his bier!

And when from that hot trance I pass, Great Love, I feel thy charm; There hangs my lady's picture near— A picture, yet so warm!

How fair she was, reclining there; What languish in her look! How thrilled her glance through all my frame, The very pencil shook.

Her eyes, her cheeks, her lovely lips, Were all the world to me; And in my breast a younger life Rose wild and wantonly.

Oh! turn again, and bide thee here, Nor fear such rude alarms;