sprang into the middle of the road,
making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, and shouted in a full, powerful
voice, "Oho, postilion! here, postilion!"

The continued rolling of the thunder, the whistling wind, and rattling
hail, made all attempts inaudible. The two gentlemen sought shelter
under the thick crowns of the oak-trees by the wayside, which formed an
impenetrable roof to the flood of rain.

"I know nothing more sublime than a thunder-storm," said Goethe, looking
up as if inspired; "when the thunder rolls in such awful majesty and
wrath, it seems as if I heard Prometheus in angry dispute with the gods.
In the dark clouds I see the Titan, enveloped in mist, overspreading the
heavens, and raising his giant-arm to hurl his mighty wrath." At this
instant a flash of lightning, followed by a deafening peal reverberated
in one prolonged echo through the hills.

"Do you not hear him, Charles?" cried Goethe, delighted--"hear all the
voices of earth united in the grumbling thunder of his wrath? See, there
he stands, yonder in heaven--his form dark as midnight. I hear it--he
calls--Overshadow the heavens, O Jupiter, With thy vaporous clouds!
Cut off the oak and mountain-tops As a boy plucks the thistle. Leave me
earth and my cabin Which thou hast not built, And my hearth-side,
The glow of which thou enviest me! I know naught so miserable As you
gods--you--"

Again the mighty peal silenced Goethe, who looked to heaven with
defiance flashing from his eyes and his clinched hand upraised, as if he
were Prometheus himself menacing the gods.

"Proceed, Wolf," cried the duke, as the echo died away. "How can you,
yourself a god, be so excited with the anger of like beings? Proceed!"

The uplifted arm of the poet sank at his side, and the fiery glance was
softened. "No human word is capable of expressing what Prometheus just
spoke in thunder," said Goethe, musingly, "and I humbly feel how weak
and insignificant we are, and how great we think ourselves, while our
voice is like the humming beetle in comparison to this voice from the
clouds."

"Be not desponding, Wolf, your own will ring throughout Europe; every
ear will listen and every heart will comprehend, and centuries later it
will delight with its freshness and beauty. The storm passes and dies
away, but the poet lives in his heavenly melodies through all time. You
must finish 'Prometheus' for me, Wolf. I cannot permit you to leave it
as a fragment. I will have it in b