Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock translations of German poems

“To Edward Young” by Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock translation by Michael R. Burch Die, aged prophet: your crowning work your fulcrum; now tears of joy tremble on angel-lids as heaven extends its welcome. Why linger here? Have you not already built, great Mover, a monument beyond the clouds? Now over your night-thoughts, too, the pallid free-thinkers hover, feeling there's prophecy amid your song as it warns of the dead-awakening trump, of the coming final doom, & heaven’s eternal wisdom. Die: you have taught me Death’s dread name, elide, bears notes of joy to the ears of the just! Yet remain my teacher still, become my genius & guide. The Choirs by Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock translation by Michael R. Burch Dear Dream, which I must never behold fulfilled, pale diaphanous Mist, yet brighter than orient day!, float back to me & hover yet again before my swimming sight! Do they wear crowns in vain, those who forbear to recognize your heavenly portraiture? Must they be encased in marble, one & all, ere the transfiguration be wrought? Yes! For would the grave allow, I’d always sing with inspiration stringing the lyre,— amid your Vision’s tidal joy, my pledge for loftier verse. Great is your power, my Desire! Few have ever known how it feels to melt in bliss; fewer still have ever felt devotion’s raptures rise on sacred Music’s wing! Few have trembled with joy as adoring choirs mingled their hallowed songs of heartfelt praise (punctuated by each awe-full pause) with unseen choirs above! On each arched eyelash & burning cheek, the fledgling tear quivers; for they imagine the goal,— each shimmering golden crown where angels wave their palms. Deep, strong, the song fills swelling hearts, never scorning tears it imbues, whether shrouding souls in gloom or steeping them in holy awe. Borne on the deep, slow sounds, holy awe descends upon the assembly blending their choral force, their theme, Impending Doom! Joy, Joy! They can scarcely bear it! The organ’s thunder rolls, louder & louder, to the congregations’ cries, till the temple trembles. Enough! I sink! The worshipers bow before the altar,—bow low to the earth; taste the communal cup, then drink devoutly. When my bones rest beside this church as worshipers sing songs of praise, the grave shall acknowledge their vision with heaves of sweet flowers in bloom. That morning, ringing through the rocks, as hymns are sung in praise, O, joyous tune!, I’ll hear—“He rose again!” vibrating through my tomb.