part one

; only all perhaps a little enfeebled in character; Mephistopheles a little more of the conjuror, and a little less of the Devil; Faust much less of a thinker, and not a whit less of a sensualist; Wagner much less modest, and much more besotted in the disnatured studies and fanciful operations of his chemical kitchen. All this is real. But this real Faust becomes enamoured of a phantom Helen; and of this monstrous embrace an ideal poetic child, incarnating, we presume, the contrary beauties of the Classical and the Romantic schools, is the product. Of such a strange jumble we may say truly, as Jeffrey said falsely of Wordsworth's "Excursion," "_This will never do_." Such a violation of all the principles of common sense and of good taste cannot be pardoned even to Goethe. The faults of men of genius, it has been said, are the consolation of the dunces; but whether the dunces choose to console themselves in this way or not, the fact is certain, that on the stern battlefield of public life, and no less in the flowery realms of imaginative construction, a great genius is precisely the man to make occasionally a great blunder. There maybe some few great things, and some wonderful things, and not a few wise things (as who could expect otherwise from Goethe) in the second part of Faust; but it is certainly neither a great drama nor the just sequence of a great drama. I am inclined to compare it with the rich fanciful work familiar to the students of art, in the so-called _Loggie_, or galleries of Raphael, in the Vatican. In the first part of Faust, Goethe is a great dramatist; in the second part he is an arabesque painter. It is no small matter to compose poetical arabesques, as our poet has done so luxuriantly in the Classical Walpurgis Night, and other parts of this piece; and a very natural affair, too, one may remark, in the circumstances of the present composition. It is rare, perhaps impossible, in the history of literary manifestation, that a poet should commence a great poem in the fervour of youth, continue it through the firmness of middle life, and finish it in the serenity of an advanced old age, with a homogeneousness of inspiration, and a perfectly consistent handling throughout. Goethe, in particular, was a man who grew, as he advanced, into many new shapes, and, of course, grew out of the old ones; and, though he was to the end a consummate artist, and there was no question of decayed powers, much less of dotage, in the grand old octogenarian, it was an artistic blunder in him to weave the fantastic tissue of fair forms, which amused his later years, into a common web with the tale of strong human passion, which had grown into a well-rounded dramatic shape under the influence of his most fervid youthful inspirations. The error lay in the name and the connection perhaps more than in the matter. A classical Walpurgis Night, or a love adventure with a resuscitated Helen of Troy, might have formed a very pleasing exhibition as a masque or show for an academical celebration--as at Oxford, for instance, in Commemoration season--while, as a second part of Faust, it falls flat. Let it contain as many allegories as the wise old poet-philosopher may have meant to smuggle into it, and as many mysteries as the mystery-loving race of German commentators may have strained themselves to draw out of it; as it stands, and where it stands, and with the claims which it necessarily makes, it remains a brilliant blunder and a magnificent mistake; and with this we must be content. Those whose organ of reverence is stronger than their love of truth, will, of course, think otherwise; and this is no doubt the most suitable excuse for any nonsense that may have been thought or written on the subject; but, if it be a part of the wisdom of life to learn to look calmly on plain facts, even when most disagreeable, it belongs no less to an educated literary judgment to admit honestly the special shortcomings of a great genius, without prejudice to his general merits. An ignorant worship is a poor substitute for a just appreciation.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Dr. Henry Faust, _a scholar._ Wagner, _Faust’s servant._ Mephistopheles, _a Devil._ Margaret, _Faust’s love. Also called Gretchen._ Martha, _Margaret’s neighbour._ Eliza, _an acquaintance of Margaret’s._ Valentin, _Margaret’s brother._ Altmayer, Brander, Frosch, Siebel, _patrons of Auerbach’s Wine Cellar.

_Students, Spirits, Women, Angels, Servants, Beggars, Soldiers, Peasants, Cat-Apes, Witches, Director of the Theatre, Leader of the Orchestra, Idealist, Realist, Sceptic, etc._

DEDICATION.

_Prefixed to the Later Editions of Faust._

Ye hover nigh, dim-floating shapes again, That erst the misty eye of Fancy knew! Shall I once more your shadowy flight detain, And the fond dreamings of my youth pursue? Ye press around!--resume your ancient reign,-- As from the hazy past ye rise to view; The magic breath that wafts your airy train Stirs in my breast long-slumbering chords again.

Ye raise the pictured forms of happy days, And many a dear loved shade comes up with you; Like the far echo of old-memoried lays, First love and early friendship ye renew. Old pangs return; life's labyrinthine maze Again the plaint of sorrow wanders through, And names the loved ones who from Fate received A bitter call, and left my heart bereaved.

They hear no more the sequel of my song, Who heard my early chant with open ear; Dispersed for ever is the favoring throng, Dumb the response from friend to friend so dear. My sorrow floats an unknown crowd among, Whose very praise comes mingled with strange fear; And they who once were pleased to hear my lay, If yet they live, have drifted far away.

And I recall with long-unfelt desire The realm of spirits, solemn, still, serene; My faltering lay, like the Æolian lyre, Gives wavering tones with many a pause between; The stern heart glows with youth's rekindled fire, Tear follows tear, where long no tear hath been; The thing I am fades into distance gray; And the pale Past stands out a clear to-day.

PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE.

/Manager/ of a Strolling Company.--/Stage-poet/--/Merryfellow/.

Manager. Ye twain, in good and evil day So oft my solace and my stay, Say, have ye heard sure word, or wandering rumor How our new scheme affects the public humor? Without the multitude we cannot thrive, Their maxim is to live and to let live. The posts are up, the planks are fastened, and Each man's agog for something gay and grand. With arched eyebrows they sit already there, Gaping for something new to make them stare. I know the public taste, and profit by it; But still to-day I've fears of our succeeding: 'Tis true they're customed to no dainty diet, But they've gone through an awful breadth of reading. How shall we make our pieces fresh and new, And with some meaning in them, pleasing too? In sooth, I like to see the people pouring Into our booth, like storm and tempest roaring, While, as the waving impulse onward heaves them, The narrow gate of grace at length receives them, When, long ere it be dark, with lusty knocks They fight their way on to the money-box, And like a starving crowd around a baker's door, For tickets as for bread they roar. So wonder-working is the poet's sway O'er every heart--so may it work to-day!

Poet. O mention not that motley throng to me, Which only seen makes frighted genius pause; Hide from my view that wild and whirling sea That sucks me in, and deep and downward draws. No! let some noiseless nook of refuge be My heaven, remote from boisterous rude applause, Where Love and Friendship, as a God inspires, Create and fan the pure heart's chastened fires.

Alas! what there the shaping thought did rear, And scarce the trembling lip might lisping say, To Nature's rounded type not always near, The greedy moment rudely sweeps away. Oft-times a work, through many a patient year Must toil to reach its finished fair display; The glittering gaud may fix the passing gaze, But the pure gem gains Time's enduring praise.

Merryfellow. Pshaw! Time will reap his own; but in our power The moment lies, and we must use the hour. The Future, no doubt, is the Present's heir, But we who live must first enjoy our share. Methinks the present of a goodly boy Has something that the wisest might enjoy. Whose ready lips with easy lightness brim, The people's humor need not trouble him; He courts a crowd the surer to impart The quickening word that stirs the kindred heart. Quit ye like men, be honest bards and true, Let Fancy with her many-sounding chorus, Reason, Sense, Feeling, Passion, move before us, But, mark me well--a spice of folly too!

Manager. Give what you please, so that you give but plenty; They come to see, and you must feed their eyes; Scene upon scene, each act may have its twenty, To keep them gaping still in fresh surprise: This is the royal road to public favor; You snatch it thus, and it is yours for ever. A mass of things alone the mass secures; Each comes at last and culls his own from yours. Bring much, and every one is sure to find, In your rich nosegay, something to his mind. You give a piece, give it at once in pieces; Such a ragout each taste and temper pleases, And spares, if only they were wise to know it, Much fruitless toil to player and to poet. In vain into an artful whole you glue it; The public in the long run will undo it.

Poet. What? feel you not the vileness of this trade? How much the genuine artist ye degrade? The bungling practice of our hasty school You raise into a maxim and a rule.

Manager. All very well!--but when a man Has forged a scheme, and sketched a plan He must have sense to use the tool The best that for the job is fit. Consider what soft wood you have to split, And who the people are for whom you write. One comes to kill a few hours o' the night; Another, with his drowsy wits oppressed, An over-sated banquet to digest; And not a few, whom least of all we choose, Come to the play from reading the Reviews. They drift to us as to a masquerade; Mere curiosity wings their paces; The ladies show themselves, and show their silks and laces, And play their parts well, though they are not paid. What dream you of, on your poetic height? A crowded house, forsooth, gives you delight! Look at your patrons as you should, You'll find them one-half cold, and one-half crude. One leaves the play to spend the night Upon a wench's breast in wild delight; Another sets him down to cards, or calls For rattling dice, or clicking billiard balls. For such like hearers, and for ends like these Why should a bard the gentle Muses tease? I tell you, give them more, and ever more, and still A little more, if you would prove your skill. And since they can't discern the finer quality, Confound them with broad sweep of triviality-- But what's the matter?--pain or ravishment?

Poet. If such your service, you must be content With other servants who will take your pay! Shall then the bard his noblest right betray? The right of man, which Nature's gift imparts, For brainless plaudits basely jest away? What gives him power to move all hearts, Each stubborn element to sway, What but the harmony, his being's inmost tone, That charms all feelings back into his own? Where listless Nature, her eternal thread, The unwilling spindle twists around, And hostile shocks of things that will not wed With jarring dissonance resound, Who guides with living pulse the rhythmic flow Of powers that make sweet music as they go? Who consecrates each separate limb and soul To beat in glorious concert with the whole? Who makes the surgy-swelling billow Heave with the wildly heaving breast, And on the evening's rosy pillow, Invites the brooding heart to rest? Who scatters spring's most lovely blooms upon The path of the belovèd one? Who plaits the leaves that unregarded grow Into a crown to deck the honored brow? Who charms the gods? who makes Olympos yield? The power of man in poet's art revealed.

Merryfellow. Then learn such subtle powers to wield, And on the poet's business enter As one does on a love-adventure. They meet by chance, are pleased, and stay On being pressed, just for a day; Then hours to hours are sweetly linked in chain, Till net-caught by degrees, they find retreat is vain. At first the sky is bright, then darkly lowers; To-day, fine thrilling rapture wings the hours, To-morrow, doubts and anguish have their chance, And, ere one knows, they're deep in a romance. A play like this both praise and profit brings. Plunge yourself boldly in the stream of things-- What's lived by all, but known to few-- And bring up something fresh and new, No matter what; just use your eyes, And all will praise what all can prize; Strange motley pictures in a misty mirror, A spark of truth in a thick cloud of error; 'Tis thus we brew the genuine beverage, To edify and to refresh the age. The bloom of youth in eager expectation, With gaping ears drinks in your revelation; Each tender sentimental disposition Sucks from your art sweet woe-be-gone nutrition; Each hears a part of what his own heart says, While over all your quickening sceptre sways. These younglings follow where you bid them go. Lightly to laughter stirred, or turned to woe, They love the show, and with an easy swing, Follow the lordly wafture of your wing; Your made-up man looks cold on everything, But growing minds take in what makes them grow.

Poet. Then give me back the years again, When mine own spirit too was growing, When my whole being was a vein Of thronging songs within me flowing! Then slept the world in misty blue, Each bud the nascent wonder cherished, And all for me the flowerets grew, That on each meadow richly flourished. Though I had nothing then, I had a treasure, The thirst for truth, and in illusion pleasure. Give me the free, unshackled pinion, The height of joy, the depth of pain, Strong hate, and stronger love's dominion; O give me back my youth again!

Merryfellow. The fire of youth, good friend, you need, of course, Into the hostile ranks to break, Or, when the loveliest damsels hang by force, With amorous clinging, from your neck, When swift your wingèd steps advance To where the racer's prize invites you, Or, after hours of whirling dance, The nightly deep carouse invites you. But to awake the well-known lyre With graceful touch that tempers fire, And to a self-appointed goal, With tuneful rambling on to roll, Such are your duties, aged sirs; nor we Less honor pay for this, nor stint your fee; Old age, not childish, makes the old; but they Are genuine children of a mellower day.

Manager. Enough of words: 'tis time that we Were come to deeds; while you are spinning Fine airy phrases, fancy-free, We might have made some good beginning. What stuff you talk of being in the vein! A lazy man is never in the vein. If once your names are on the poet's roll, The Muses should be under your control. You know our want; a good stiff liquor To make their creeping blood flow quicker; Then brew the brews without delay; What was not done to-day, to-morrow Will leave undone for greater sorrow. Don't stand, and stare, and block the way, But with a firm, set purpose lay Hold of your bright thoughts as they rise to view, And bid them stay; Once caught, they will not lightly run away, Till they have done what in them lies to do.

Among the sons of German play, Each tries his hand at what he may; Therefore be brilliant in your scenery, And spare no cost on your machinery. Let sun and moon be at your call, And scatter stars on stars around; Let water, fire, and rocky wall, And bird and beast and fish abound. Thus in your narrow booth mete forth The wide creation's flaming girth, And wing your progress, pondered well, From heaven to earth, from earth to hell.

PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN.

/The Lord/--/The Heavenly Hosts/: afterwards /Mephistopheles/.

Raphael. The Sun doth chime his ancient music 'Mid brothered spheres' contending song. And on his fore-appointed journey With pace of thunder rolls along. Strength drink the angels from his glory, Though none may throughly search his way: God's works rehearse their wondrous story As bright as on Creation's day.

Gabriel. And swift and swift beyond conceiving The pomp of earth is wheeled around, Alternating Elysian brightness With awful gloom of night profound. Up foams the sea, a surging river, And smites the steep rock's echoing base, And rock and sea, unwearied ever, Spin their eternal circling race.

Michael. And storm meets storm with rival greeting, From sea to land, from land to sea, While from their war a virtue floweth, That thrills with life all things that be. The lightning darts his fury, blazing Before the thunder's sounding way; But still thy servants, Lord, are praising The gentle going of thy day.

All the Three. Strength drink the angels from thy glory, Though none may search thy wondrous way; Thy works repeat their radiant story, As bright as on Creation's day.

Mephistopheles. Sith thou, O Lord, approachest near, And how we fare would'st fain have information, And thou of old wert glad to see me here, I stand to-day amid the courtly nation. Pardon; no words of fine address I know, Nor could, though all should hoot me down with sneers; My pathos would move laughter, and not tears, Wert thou not weaned from laughter long ago. Of suns and worlds I've nought to say, I only see how men must fret their lives away. The little god o' the world jogs and jogs on, the same As when from ruddy clay he took his name; And, sooth to say, remains a riddle, just As much as when you shaped him from the dust. Perhaps a little better he had thriven, Had he not got the show of glimmering light from heaven: He calls it reason, and it makes him free To be more brutish than a brute can be; He is, methinks, with reverence of your grace, Like one of the long-leggèd race Of grasshoppers that leap in the air, and spring, And straightway in the grass the same old song they sing; 'Twere well that from the grass he never rose, On every stubble he must break his nose!

The Lord. Hast thou then nothing more to say? And art thou here again to-day To vent thy grudge in peevish spite Against the earth, still finding nothing right?

Mephistopheles. True, Lord; I find things there no better than before; I must confess I do deplore Man's hopeless case, and scarce have heart myself To torture the poor miserable elf.

The Lord. Dost thou know Faust?

Mephistopheles. The Doctor?

The Lord. Ay: my servant.

Mephistopheles. Indeed! and of his master's will observant, In fashion quite peculiar to himself; His food and drink are of no earthly taste, A restless fever drives him to the waste. Himself half seems to understand How his poor wits have run astrand; From heaven he asks each loveliest star, Earth's chiefest joy must jump to his demand, And all that's near, and all that's far, Soothes not his deep-moved spirit's war.

The Lord. Though for a time he blindly grope his way, Soon will I lead him into open day; Well knows the gardener, when green shoots appear, That bloom and fruit await the ripening year.

Mephistopheles. What wager you? you yet shall lose that soul! Only give me full license, and you'll see How I shall lead him softly to my goal.

The Lord. As long as on the earth he lives Thou hast my license full and free; Man still must stumble while he strives.

Mephistopheles. My thanks for that! the dead for me Have little charm; my humor seeks The bloom of lusty life, with plump and rosy cheeks; For a vile corpse my tooth is far too nice, I do just as the cat does with the mice.

The Lord. So be it; meanwhile, to tempt him thou are free; Go, drag this spirit from his native fount, And lead him on, canst thou his will surmount, Into perdition down with thee; But stand ashamed at last, when thou shalt see An honest man, 'mid all his strivings dark, Finds the right way, though lit but by a spark.

Mephistopheles. Well, well; short time will show; into my net I'll draw the fish, and then I've won my bet; And when I've carried through my measure Loud blast of trump shall blaze my glory; Dust shall he eat, and that with pleasure, Like my cousin the snake in the rare old story.

The Lord. And thou mayst show thee here in upper sky Unhindered, when thou hast a mind; I never hated much thee or thy kind; Of all the spirits that deny, The clever rogue sins least against my mind. For, in good sooth, the mortal generation, When a soft pillow they may haply find, Are far too apt to sink into stagnation; And therefore man for comrade wisely gets A devil, who spurs, and stimulates, and whets. But you, ye sons of heaven's own choice, In the one living Beautiful rejoice! The self-evolving Energy divine Enclasp you round with love's embrace benign, And on the floating forms of earth and sky Stamp the fair type of thought that may not die.

Mephistopheles. From time to time the ancient gentleman I see, and keep on the best terms I can. In a great Lord 'tis surely wondrous civil So face to face to hold talk with the devil.

FAUST.

## ACT I.

## Scene I.

/Night/.

/Faust/ _discovered sitting restless at his desk, in a narrow high-vaulted Gothic chamber._

Faust. There now, I've toiled my way quite through Law, Medicine, and Philosophy, And, to my sorrow, also thee, Theology, with much ado; And here I stand, poor human fool, As wise as when I went to school. Master, ay, Doctor, titled duly, An urchin-brood of boys unruly For ten slow-creeping years and mo, Up and down, and to and fro, I lead by the nose: and this I know, That vain is all our boasted lore-- A thought that burns me to the core! True, I am wiser than all their tribe, Doctor, Master, Priest, and Scribe; No scruples nor doubts in my bosom dwell, I fear no devil, believe no hell; But with my fear all joy is gone, All rare conceit of wisdom won; All dreams so fond, all faith so fair, To make men better than they are. Nor gold have I, nor gear, nor fame, Station, or rank, or honored name, Here like a kennelled cur I lie! Therefore the magic art I'll try, From spirit's might and mouth to draw, Mayhap, some key to Nature's law; That I no more, with solemn show, May sweat to teach what I do not know; That I may ken the bond that holds The world, through all its mystic folds; The hidden seeds of things explore, And cheat my thought with words no more.

O might thou shine, thou full moon bright, For the last time upon my woes, Thou whom, by this brown desk alone, So oft my wakeful eyes have known. Then over books and paper rose On me thy sad familiar light! Oh, that beneath thy friendly ray, On peaky summit I might stray, Round mountain caves with spirits hover, And flit the glimmering meadows over, And from all fevered fumes of thinking free, Bathe me to health within thy dewy sea.

In vain! still pines my prisoned soul Within this curst dank dungeon-hole! Where dimly finds ev'n heaven's blest ray, Through painted glass, its struggling way. Shut in by heaps of books up-piled, All worm-begnawed and dust-besoiled, With yellowed papers, from the ground To the smoked ceiling, stuck around; Caged in with old ancestral lumber, Cases, boxes, without number, Broken glass, and crazy chair, Dust and brittleness everywhere; This is thy world, a world for a man's soul to breathe in!

And ask I still why in my breast, My heart beats heavy and oppressed? And why some secret unknown sorrow Freezes my blood, and numbs my marrow? 'Stead of the living sphere of Nature, Where man was placed by his Creator, Surrounds thee mouldering dust alone, The grinning skull and skeleton.

Arise! forth to the fields, arise! And this mysterious magic page, From Nostradamus' hand so sage,[*n1] Should guide thee well. Thy raptured eyes Shall then behold what force compels The tuneful spheres to chime together; When, taught by Nature's mightiest spells, Thine innate spring of soul upwells, As speaks one spirit to another. In vain my thought gropes blindly here, To make those sacred symbols clear; Ye unseen Powers that hover near me, Answer, I charge ye, when ye hear me! [_He opens the book, and sees the sign of the Macrocosm._][*n2] Ha! what ecstatic joy this page reveals, At once through all my thrilling senses flowing! Young holy zest of life my spirit feels In every vein, in every nerve, new glowing! Was it a God whose finger drew these signs, That, with mild pulse of joy, and breath of rest, Smooth the tumultuous heaving of my breast, And with mysterious virtue spread the lines Of Nature's cipher bare to mortal sight? Am I a God? so wondrous pure the light Within me! in these tokens I behold The powers by which all Nature is besouled. Now may I reach the sage's words aright; "The world of spirits is not barred; Thy sense is shut, thy heart is dead! Up, scholars, bathe your hearts so hard, In the fresh dew of morning's red!" [_He scans carefully the sign._] How mingles here in one the soul with soul, And lives each portion in the living whole! How heavenly Powers, ascending and descending, From hand to hand their golden ewers are lending, And bliss-exhaling swing from pole to pole! From the high welkin to earth's centre bounding, Harmonious all through the great All resounding!

What wondrous show! but ah! 'tis but a show! Where grasp I thee, thou infinite Nature, where? And you, ye teeming breasts? ye founts whence flow All living influences fresh and fair? Whereon the heavens and earth dependent hang, Where seeks relief the withered bosom's pang? Your founts still well, and I must pine in vain! [_He turns the book over impatiently, and beholds the sign of the Spirit of the Earth._] What different working hath this sign? Thou Spirit of the Earth, I feel thee nearer; Already sees my strengthened spirit clearer; I glow as I had drunk new wine. New strength I feel to plunge into the strife, And bear the woes and share the joys of life, Buffet the blasts, and where the wild waves dash, Look calmly on the shipwreck's fearful crash! Clouds hover o'er me-- The moon is dim! The lamp's flame wanes! It smokes!--Red beams dart forth Around my head--and from the vaulted roof Falls a cold shudder down, And grips me!--I feel Thou hover'st near me, conjured Spirit, now; Reveal thee! Ha! how swells with wild delight My bursting heart! And feelings, strange and new, At once through all my ravished senses dart! I feel my inmost soul made thrall to thee! Thou must! thou must! and were my life the fee!

[_He seizes the book, and pronounces with a mysterious air the sign of the Spirit. A red flame darts forth, and the Spirit appears in the flame._

Spirit. Who calls me?

Faust. [_turning away_] Vision of affright!

Spirit. Thou hast with mighty spell invoked me, And to obey thy call provoked me, And now--

Faust. Hence from my sight!

Spirit. Thy panting prayer besought my might to view, To hear my voice, and know my semblance too; Now bending from my native sphere to please thee, Here am I!--ha! what pitiful terrors seize thee, And overman thee quite! where now the call Of that proud soul, that scorned to own the thrall Of earth, a world within itself created, And bore and cherished? that with its fellows sated Swelled with prophetic joy to leave its sphere, And live a spirit with spirits, their rightful peer. Where art thou, Faust? whose invocation rung Upon mine ear, whose powers all round me clung? Art thou that Faust? whom melts my breath away, Trembling even to the life-depths of thy frame, Like a poor worm that crawls into his clay!

Faust. Shall I then yield to thee, thou thing of flame? I am that Faust, and Spirit is my name!

Spirit. Where life's floods flow And its tempests rave, Up and down I wave, Flit I to and fro! Birth and the grave, Life's hidden glow, A shifting motion, A boundless ocean Whose waters heave Eternally; Thus on the sounding loom of Time I weave The living mantle of the Deity.

Faust. Thou who round the wide world wendest, Thou busy Spirit, how near I feel to thee!

Spirit. Thou'rt like the spirit whom thou comprehendest, Not me! [_Vanishes._

Faust. Not thee! Whom, then? I, image of the Godhead, Dwarfed by thee! [_Knocking is heard._] O death!--'tis Wagner's knock--I know it well, My famulus; he comes to mar the spell! Woe's me that such bright vision of the spheres Must vanish when this pedant-slave appears!

## Scene II.

_Enter_ /Wagner/ _in night-gown and night-cap; a lamp in his hand._

Wagner. Your pardon, sir, I heard your voice declaiming, No doubt some old Greek drama, and I came in, To profit by your learned recitation; For in these days the art of declamation Is held in highest estimation; And I have heard asserted that a preacher Might wisely have an actor for his teacher.

Faust. Yes; when our parsons preach to make grimaces, As here and there a not uncommon case is.

Wagner. Alack! when a poor wight is so confined Amid his books, shut up from all mankind, And sees the world scarce on a holiday, As through a telescope and far away, How may he hope, with nicely tempered skill, To bend the hearts he knows not to his will?

Faust. What you don't feel, you'll hunt to find in vain. It must gush from the soul, possess the brain, And with an instinct kindly force compel All captive hearts to own the grateful spell; Go to! sit o'er your books, and snip and glue Your wretched piece-work, dressing your ragout From others' feasts, your piteous flames still blowing From sparks beneath dull heaps of ashes glowing; Vain wonderment of children and of apes, If with such paltry meed content thou art; The human heart to heart he only shapes, Whose words flow warm from human heart to heart.

Wagner. But the delivery is a chief concern In Rhetoric; and alas! here I have much to learn.

Faust. Be thine to seek the honest gain, No shallow-tinkling fool! Sound sense finds utterance for itself, Without the critic's rule. If clear your thought, and your intention true, What need to hunt for words with much ado? The trim orations your fine speaker weaves, Crisping light shreds of thought for shallow minds, Are unrefreshing as the foggy winds That whistle through the sapless autumn leaves.

Wagner. Alas! how long is art, And human life how short! I feel at times with all my learned pains, As if a weight of lead were at my heart, And palsy on my brains. How high to climb up learning's lofty stair, How hard to find the helps that guide us there; And when scarce half the way behind him lies, His glass is run, and the poor devil dies!

Faust. The parchment-roll is that the holy river, From which one draught shall slake the thirst forever? The quickening power of science only he Can know, from whose own soul it gushes free.

Wagner. And yet the spirit of a bygone age, To re-create may well the wise engage; To know the choicest thoughts of every ancient sage, And think how far above their best we've mounted high!

Faust. O yes, I trow, even to the stars, so high! My friend, the ages that are past Are as a book with seven seals made fast; And what men call the spirit of the age, Is but the spirit of the gentlemen Who glass their own thoughts in the pliant page, And image back themselves. O, then, What precious stuff they dish, and call't a book, Your stomach turns at the first look; A heap of rubbish, and a lumber room, At best some great state farce with proclamations, Pragmatic maxims, protocols, orations, Such as from puppet-mouths do fitly come!

Wagner. But then the world!--the human heart and mind! Somewhat of this to know are all inclined.

Faust. Yes! as such knowledge goes! but what man dares To call the child by the true name it bears? The noble few that something better knew, And to the gross reach of the general view, Their finer feelings bared, and insight true, From oldest times were burnt and crucified. I do beseech thee, friend--'tis getting late, 'Twere wise to put an end to our debate.

Wagner. Such learned talk to draw through all the night With Doctor Faust were my supreme delight; But on the morrow, being Easter, I Your patience with some questions more may try. With zeal I've followed Learning's lofty call, Much I have learned, but fain would master all. [_Exit._

## Scene III.

Faust. [_alone_] Strange how his pate alone hope never leaves, Who still to shallow husks of learning cleaves! With greedy hand who digs for hidden treasure, And, when he finds a grub, rejoiceth above measure!

Durst such a mortal voice usurp mine ear When all the spirit-world was floating near? Yet, for this once, my thanks are free, Thou meanest of earth's sons, to thee! Thy presence drew me back from sheer despair, And shock too keen for mortal nerve to bear; Alas! so giant-great the vision came, That I might feel me dwarf, ev'n as I am.

I, God's own image that already seemed To gaze where Truth's eternal mirror gleamed, And, clean divested of this cumbering clay, Basked in the bliss of heaven's vivific ray; I, more than cherub, with fresh pulses glowing, Who well nigh seemed through Nature's deep veins flowing Like a pure god, creative virtue knowing, What sharp reproof my hot presumption found! One word of thunder smote me to the ground. Alas! 'tis true! not I with thee and thine May dare to cope! the strength indeed was mine To make thee own my call, but not To chain thee to the charmèd spot. When that blest rapture thrilled my frame, I felt myself so small, so great; But thou didst spurn me back with shame, Into this crazy human state. Where find I aid? what follow? what eschew? Shall I that impulse of my soul obey? Alas! alas! but I must feel it true, The pains we suffer and the deeds we do, Are clogs alike in the free spirit's way.

The godlike essence of our heaven-born powers Must yield to strange and still more strange intrusion; Soon as the good things of this world are ours, We deem our nobler self a vain illusion, And heaven-born instincts--very life of life-- Are strangled in the low terrestrial strife.

Young fancy, that once soared with flight sublime, On venturous vans, ev'n to th' Eternal's throne, Now schools her down a little space to own, When in the dark engulfing stream of time, Our fair-faced pleasures perish one by one. Care nestles deep in every heart, And, cradling there the secret smart, Rocks to and fro, and peace and joy are gone. What though new masks she still may wear, Wealth, house and hall, with acres rich and rare, As wife or child appear she, water, flame, Dagger, or poison, she is still the same; And still we fear the ill which happens never, And what we lose not are bewailing ever.

Alas! alas! too deep 'tis felt! too deep! With gods may vie no son of mortal clay; More am I like to worms that crawl and creep, And dig, and dig through earth their lightless way, Which, while they feed on dust in narrow room, Find from the wanderer's foot their death-blow and their tomb.

Is it not dust that this old wall From all its musty benches shows me? And dust the trifling trumperies all That in this world of moths enclose me? Here is it that I hope to find Wherewith to sate my craving mind? Need I spell out page after page, To know that men in every age And every clime, have spurred in vain The jaded muscle and the tortured brain, And here and there, with centuries between, One happy man belike hath been?

Thou grinning skull, what wouldst thou say, Save that thy brain, in chase of truth, like mine, With patient toil pursued its floundering way By glimmering lights that through dim twilight-shine? Ye instruments, in sooth, now laugh at me, With wheel, and cog-wheel, ring, and cylinder; At Nature's door I stood; ye should have been the key, But though your ward be good, the bolt ye cannot stir. Mysterious Nature may not choose To unveil her secrets to the stare of day, And what from the mind's eye she stores away, Thou canst not force from her with levers and with screws. Thou antique gear, why dost thou cumber My chamber with thy useless lumber? My father housed thee on this spot, And I must keep thee, though I need thee not! Thou parchment roll that hast been smoked upon Long as around this desk the sorry lamp-light shone; Much better had I spent my little gear, Than with this little to sit mouldering here; Why should a man possess ancestral treasures, But by possession to enlarge his pleasures? The thing we use not a dead burden lies, But what the moment brings the wise man knows to prize.

But what is this? there in the corner; why Does that flask play the magnet to mine eye? And why within me does this strange light shine, As the soft nightly moon through groves of sombre pine? I greet thee, matchless phial; and with devotion I take thee down, and in thy mellow potion I reverence human wit and human skill. Fine essence of the opiate dew of sleep, Dear extract of all subtle powers that kill, Be mine the first-fruits of thy strength to reap! I look on thee, and soothed is my heart's pain; I grasp thee, straight is lulled my racking brain, And wave by wave my soul's flood ebbs away. I see wide ocean's swell invite my wistful eyes, And at my feet her sparkling mirror lies; To brighter shores invites a brighter day.

A car of fire comes hovering o'er my head, With gentle wafture; now let me pursue New flight adventurous, through the starry blue, And be my wingèd steps unburdened sped To spheres of uncramped energy divine! And may indeed this life of gods be mine, But now a worm, and cased in mortal clay? Yes! only let strong will high thought obey, To turn thy back on the blest light of day, And open burst the portals which by most With fear, that fain would pass them by, are crossed. Now is the time by deeds, not words, to prove That earth-born man yields not to gods above. Before that gloomy cavern not to tremble, Where all those spectral shapes of dread assemble, Which Fancy, slave of every childish fear, Bids, to the torment of herself, appear; Forward to strive unto that passage dire, Whose narrow mouth seems fenced with hell's collected fire; With glad resolve this leap to make, even though That thing we call our soul should into nothing flow!

Now come thou forth! thou crystal goblet clear, From out thy worshipful old case, Where thou hast lain unused this many a year. In days of yore right gayly didst thou grace The festive meetings of my grey-beard sires, When passed from hand to hand the draught that glee inspires. Thy goodly round, the figures there Pictured with skill so quaint and rare, Each lusty drinker's duty to declare In ready rhyme what meaning they might bear, And at one draught to drain the brimming cup,-- All this recalls full many a youthful night. Now to no comrade shall I yield thee up, Nor whet my wit upon thy pictures bright; Here is a juice intoxicates the soul Quickly. With dark brown flood it crowns the bowl. Let this last draught, my mingling and my choice, With blithesome heart be quaffed, and joyful voice, A solemn greeting to the rising morn!

[_A sound of bells is heard, and distant quire-singing._

Quire of Angels. Christ is arisen! Joy be to mortal man, Whom, since the world began, Evils inherited, By his sins merited, Through his veins creeping, Sin-bound are keeping.

Faust. What sweet soft peals, what notes, so clear and pure, Draw from my lips the glass perforce away? Thus early do the bells their homage pay, Of holy hymning to new Easter day! Already sing the quires the soothing song That erst, round the dark grave, an angel throng Sang, to proclaim the great salvation sure!

Quire of Women. With spices and balsams All sweetly we bathed Him; With cloths of fine linen All cleanly we swathed Him; In the tomb of the rock, where His body was lain, We come, and we seek Our loved Master, in vain!

Quire of Angels. Christ is arisen! Praised be His name! Whose love shared with sinners Their sorrow and shame; Who bore the hard trial Of self-denial, And, victorious, ascends to the skies whence He came.

Faust. What seek ye here, ye gently-swaying tones, Sweet seraph-music 'mid a mortal's groans? Soft-natured men may own that soothing chaunt; I hear the message, but the faith I want. For still the child to Faith most dear Was Miracle: nor I may vaunt To mount, and mingle with the sphere Whence such fair news floats down to mortal ear. And yet, with youthful memories fraught, this strain Hath power to call me back to life again. A time there was when Heaven's own kiss, On solemn Sabbath, seemed to fall on me, The minster-bell boomed forth no human bliss, And prayer to God was burning ecstasy. A dim desire of inarticulate good Drove me o'er hill and dale, through wold and wood, And, while hot tears streamed from mine eyes, I felt a world within me rise. This hymn proclaimed the sports of youthful days, And merry-makings when the spring began; Now Memory's potent spell my spirit sways, And thoughts of childhood rule the full-grown man. O! sound thou on, thou sweet celestial strain, The tear doth gush, Earth claims her truant son again!

Quire of the Disciples. By death untimely, though Laid in the lowly grave, Soars He sublimely now Whence He came us to save. He on His Father's breast, Fountain of life and light; We on the earth oppressed, Groping through cloudy night; Comfortless left are we, Toiling through life's annoy, Weeping to envy thee, Master, thy joy!

Quire of Angels. Christ is risen From Death's corrupting thrall, Break from your prison And follow His call! Praising by deeds of love Him who now reigns above, Feeding the brethren poor, Preaching salvation sure, Joys that shall aye endure, Knowing nor doubt nor fear, While He is near.

/end of act first/.

## ACT II.

## Scene I.

_Before the gate of the town._

_Motley groups of people crowding out to walk._

Some Journeymen. Brethren, whither bound?

Others. To the Jægerhaus.

The First. We to the mill.

A Journeyman. At Wasserhof best cheer is to be found.

A Second. But then the road is not agreeable.

The Others. And what dost thou?

A Third. I go where others go.

A Fourth. Let's go to Burgdorf; there you'll find, I know, The best of beer, and maidens to your mind, And roaring frolics too, if that's your kind.

A Fifth. Thou over-wanton losel, thou! Dost itch again for some new row? I loathe the place; and who goes thither, He and I don't go together.

A Servant Girl. No! no! back to the town I'd rather fare.

Another. We're sure to find him 'neath the poplars there.

The First. No mighty matter that for me, Since he will walk with none but thee, In every dance, too, he is thine: What have thy joys to do with mine?

The Other. To-day he'll not come single; sure he said That he would bring with him the curly-head.

Student. Blitz, how the buxom wenches do their paces! Come, let us make acquaintance with their faces. A stiff tobacco, and a good strong beer, And a fine girl well-rigged, that's the true Burschen cheer!

Burghers' Daughters. Look only at those spruce young fellows there! In sooth, 'tis more than one can bear; The best society have they, if they please, And run after such low-bred queans as these!

Second Student. [_to the first_] Not quite so fast! there comes a pair behind, So smug and trim, so blithe and debonair; And one is my fair neighbor, I declare; She is a girl quite to my mind. They pass along so proper and so shy, And yet they'll take us with them by and by.

First Student. No, no! these girls with nice conceits they bore you, Have at the open game that lies before you! The hand that plies the busy broom on Monday, Caressed her love the sweetest on the Sunday.

A Burgher. No! this new burgomaster don't please me, Now that he's made, his pride mounts high and higher; And for the town, say, what does he? Are we not deep and deeper in the mire? In strictness day by day he waxes, And more than ever lays on taxes.

A Beggar. [_singing_] Ye gentle sirs, and ladies fair, With clothes so fine, and cheeks so red, O pass not by, but from your eye Be pity's gracious virtue shed! Let me not harp in vain; for blest Is he alone who gives away; And may this merry Easter-feast Be for the poor no fasting day!

Another Burgher. Upon a Sunday or a holiday, No better talk I know than war and warlike rumors, When in Turkey far away, The nations fight out their ill humors. We sit i' the window, sip our glass at ease, And see how down the stream the gay ships gently glide; Then wend us safely home at even-tide, Blessing our stars we live in times of peace.

Third Burgher. Yea, neighbor, there you speak right wisely; Ev'n so do I opine precisely. They may split their skulls, they may, And turn the world upside down, So long as we, in our good town, Keep jogging in the good old way.

Old Woman. [_to the Burghers' Daughters._] Hey-day, how fine! these be of gentle stuff, The eyes that would not look on you are blind. Only not quite so high! 'Tis well enough-- And what you wish I think I know to find.

First Burgher's Daughter. Agatha, come! I choose not to be seen With such old hags upon the public green; Though on St. Andrew's night she let me see My future lover bodily.

Second Burgher's Daughter. Mine too, bold, soldier-like, she made to pass, With his wild mates, before me in a glass; I hunt him out from place to place, But nowhere yet he shows his face.

Soldiers. Castles and turrets And battlements high, Maids with proud spirits, And looks that defy! From the red throat of death, With the spear and the glaive, We pluck the ripe glory That blooms for the brave.

The trumpet invites him, With soul-stirring call, To where joy delights him, Nor terrors appall. On storming maintains he Triumphant the field, Strong fortresses gains he, Proud maidens must yield. Thus carries the soldier The prize of the day, And merrily, merrily Dashes away!

## Scene II.

_Enter_ /Faust/ _and_ /Wagner/.

Faust. The ice is now melted from stream and brook By the Spring's genial life-giving look; Forth smiles young Hope in the greening vale, And ancient Winter, feeble and frail, Creeps cowering back to the mountains grey; And thence he sends, as he hies him away, Fitfullest brushes of icy hail, Sweeping the plain in his harmless flight. But the sun may brook no white, Everywhere stirs he the vegetive strife, Flushing the fields with the glow of life; But since few flowers yet deck the mead He takes him gay-dressed folk in their stead. Now from these heights I turn me back To view the city's busy track. Through the dark, deep-throated gate They are pouring and spreading in motley array. All sun themselves so blithe to-day. The Lord's resurrection they celebrate, For that themselves to life are arisen. From lowly dwellings' murky prison, From labor and business' fetters tight, From the press of gables and roofs that meet Over the squeezing narrow street, From the churches' solemn night Have they all been brought to the light. Lo! how nimbly the multitude Through the fields and the gardens hurry, How, in its breadth and length, the flood Wafts onward many a gleesome wherry, And this last skiff moves from the brink So laden that it seems to sink. Ev'n from the far hills' winding way I' the sunshine glitter their garments gay. I hear the hamlet's noisy mirth; Here is the people's heaven on earth, And great and small rejoice to-day. Here may I be a man, here dare The joys of men with men to share.

Wagner. With you, Herr Doctor, one is proud to walk, Sharing your fame, improving by your talk; But, for myself, I shun the multitude, Being a foe to everything that's rude. I may not brook their senseless howling, Their fiddling, screaming, ninepin bowling; Like men possessed, they rave along, And call it joy, and call it song.

## Scene III.

Peasants. [_beneath a lime-tree_] The shepherd for the dance was dressed, With ribbon, wreath, and spotted vest, Right sprucely he did show. And round and round the linden-tree All danced as mad as mad could be. Juchhe, juchhe! Juchheisa, heisa, he! So went the fiddle bow.

Then with a jerk he wheeled him by, And on a maiden that stood nigh He with his elbow came. Quick turned the wench, and, "Sir," quoth she, "Such game is rather rough for me." Juchhe, juchhe! Juchheisa, heisa, he! "For shame, I say, for shame!"

Yet merrily went it round and round, And right and left they swept the ground, And coat and kirtle flew; And they grew red, and they grew warm, And, panting, rested arm in arm; Juchhe, juchhe! Juchheisa, heisa, he! And hips on elbows too.

And "Softly, softly," quoth the quean, "How many a bride hath cheated been By men as fair as you!" But he spoke a word in her ear aside, And from the tree it shouted wide Juchhe, juchhe! Juchheisa, heisa, he! With fife and fiddle too.

An Old Peasant. Herr Doctor, 'tis most kind in you, And all here prize the boon, I'm sure, That one so learned should condescend To share the pastimes of the poor. Here, take this pitcher, filled ev'n now With cooling water from the spring. May God with grace to slake your thirst, Bless the libation that we bring; Be every drop a day to increase Your years in happiness and peace!

Faust. Your welcome offering I receive; the draught By kind hands given, with grateful heart be quaffed!

[_The people collect round him in a circle._

Old Peasant. Soothly, Herr Doctor, on this tide, Your grace and kindness passes praise; Good cause had we whileome to bless The name of Faust in evil days. Here stand there not a few whose lives Your father's pious care attest, Saved from fell fever's rage, when he Set limits to the deadly pest. You were a young man then, and went From hospital to hospital; Full many a corpse they bore away, But you came scaithless back from all; Full many a test severe you stood Helping helped by the Father of Good.

All the Peasants. Long may the man who saved us live, His aid in future need to give!

Faust. Give thanks to Him above, who made The hand that helped you strong to aid.

[_He goes on farther with_ /Wagner/.

Wagner. How proud must thou not feel, most learnèd man, To hear the praises of this multitude; Thrice happy he who from his talents can Reap such fair harvest of untainted good! The father shows you to his son, And all in crowds to see you run; The dancers cease their giddy round, The fiddle stops its gleesome sound; They form a ring where'er you go, And in the air their caps they throw; A little more, and they would bend the knee, As if the Holy Host came by in thee!

Faust. Yet a few paces, till we reach yon stone, And there our wearied strength we may repair. Here oft I sat in moody thought alone, And vexed my soul with fasting and with prayer. Rich then in hope, in faith then strong, With tears and sobs my hands I wrung, And weened the end of that dire pest, From heaven's high-counselled lord to wrest. Now their applause with mockery flouts mine ear. O could'st thou ope my heart and read it here, How little sire and son For such huge meed of thanks have done! My father was a grave old gentleman, Who o'er the holy secrets of creation, Sincere, but after his peculiar plan, Brooded, with whimsied speculation. Who, with adepts in painful gropings spent His days, within the smoky kitchen pent, And, after recipes unnumbered, made The unnatural mixtures of his trade. The tender lily and the lion red, A suitor bold, in tepid bath were wed, With open fiery flame well baked together, And squeezed from one bride-chamber to another; Then, when the glass the queen discovered, Arrayed in youthful glistening pride, Here was the medicine, and the patient died, But no one questioned who recovered. Thus in these peaceful vales and hills, The plague was not the worst of ills, And Death his ghastly work pursued, The better for the hellish brewst we brewed. Myself to thousands the curst juice supplied; They pined away, and I must live to hear The praise of mercy in the murderer's ear.

Wagner. How can you with such whims be grieved? Surely a good man does his part With scrupulous care to use the art Which from his father he received. When we, in youth, place on our sire reliance, He opes to us his stores of information; When we, as men, extend the bounds of science, Our sons build higher upon our foundation.

Faust. O happy he who yet hath hope to float Above this sea of crude distempered thought! What we know not is what we need to know, And what we know, we might as well let go; But cease; cheat not the moment of its right By curious care and envious repining; Behold how fair, in evening's mellow light, The green-embosomed cottages are shining. The sun slants down, the day hath lived his date, But on he hies to tend another sphere. O that no wing upon my wish may wait To follow still and still in his career! Upborne on evening's quenchless beams to greet The noiseless world illumined at my feet, Each peaceful vale, each crimson-flaming peak, Each silver rill whose tinkling waters seek The golden flood that feeds the fruitful plain. Then savage crags, and gorges dark, would rein My proud careering course in vain; Ev'n now the sea spreads out its shimmering bays, And charms the sense with ectasy of gaze. Yet seems the god at length to sink; But, borne by this new impulse of my mind, I hasten on, his quenchless ray to drink, The day before me, and the night behind, The heavens above me, under me the sea. A lovely dream! meanwhile the god is gone. Alas! the soul, in wingèd fancy free, Seeks for a corporal wing, and findeth none. Yet in each breast 'tis deeply graven, Upward and onward still to pant, When over us, lost in the blue of heaven, Her quavering song the lark doth chaunt; When over piny peaks sublime The eagle soars with easy strain, And over lands and seas the crane Steers homeward to a sunnier clime.

Wagner. I too have had my hours of whim, But feeling here runs over reason's brim. Forest and field soon tire the eye to scan, And eagle's wings were never made for man. How otherwise the mind and its delights! From book to book, from page to page, we go. Thus sweeten we the dreary winter nights, Till every limb with new life is aglow; And chance we but unroll some rare old parchment scroll, All heaven stoops down, and finds a lodgment in the soul.

Faust. Thou know'st but the one impulse--it is well! Tempt not the yearning that divides the heart. Two souls, alas! within my bosom dwell! This strives from that with adverse strain to part. The one, bound fast by stubborn might of love, To this low earth with grappling organs clings; The other spurns the clod, and soars on wings To join a nobler ancestry above. Oh! be there spirits in the air, 'Twixt earth and heaven that float with potent sway, Drop from your sphere of golden-glowing day, And waft me hence new varied life to share! Might I but own a mantle's fold enchanted, To climes remote to bear me on its wing, More than the costliest raiment I should vaunt it, More than the purple robe that clothes a king.

Wagner. Invoke not rash the well-known spirit-throng, That stream unseen the atmosphere along, And dangers thousandfold prepare, Weak men from every quarter to ensnare. From the keen north in troops they float, With sharpest teeth and arrow-pointed tongues; From the harsh east they bring a blasting drought, And feed with wasting greed upon thy lungs. When from the arid south their sultry powers They send, hot fires upheaping on thy crown, The West brings forth his swarms with cooling showers, To end in floods that sweep thy harvests down. Quick-ear'd are they, on wanton mischief bent, And work our will with surer bait to ply us; They show as fair as heaven's own couriers sent, And lisp like angels when they most belie us. But let us hence! the air is chill, The cold gray mists are creeping down the hill, Now is the time to seek the bright fireside. Why standest thou with strange eyes opened wide? What twilight-spectre may thy fancy trouble?

Faust. See'st thou that swarthy dog sweeping through corn and stubble?

Wagner. I saw him long ago--not strange he seemed to me.

Faust. Look at him well--what should the creature be?

Wagner. He seems a poodle who employs his snout Now here, now there, to snuff his master out.

Faust. Dost thou not see how nigher still and nigher His spiral circles round us wind? And, err I not, he leaves behind His track a train of sparkling fire.

Wagner. A small black poodle is all I see; Surely some strange delusion blinds thee!

Faust. Methinks soft magic circles winds he, About, about, a snare for thee and me.

Wagner. I see him only doubtful springing round, Having two strangers for his master found.

Faust. He draws him closer--now he comes quite near!

Wagner. A dog, be sure, and not a ghost, is here. He growls, and looks about in fear, And crouches down, and looks to you, And wags his tail--what any dog will do.

Faust. Come hither, poodle!

Wagner. 'Tis a drollish brute; When you stand still, then stands he mute, But when you speak, he springs as he would speak to you; He will bring back what you let fall, And fetch your stick out of the water.

Faust. You are quite right. There's no such matter. No trace of ghost--a dog well trained, that's all!

Wagner. A well-trained dog may well engage The favor of a man most sage; This poodle well deserves your recognition; Few students learn so much from good tuition.

[_Exeunt, going in through the gate of the city._

## Scene IV.

/Faust's/ _Study._

Faust. [_entering with the_ /Poodle/.] Now field and meadow lie behind me, Hushed 'neath the veil of deepest night, And thoughts of solemn seeming find me, Too holy for the garish light. Calm now the blood that wildly ran, Asleep the hand of lawless strife; Now wakes to life the love of man, The love of God now wakes to life.

Cease, poodle! why snuff'st and snifflest thou so, Running restless to and fro? Behind the stove there lie at rest, And take for bed my cushion the best! And as without, on our mountain-ramble, We joyed to see thy freakish gambol, So here, my hospitable care, A quiet guest, and welcome share.

When in our narrow cell confined, The friendly lamp begins to burn, Then clearer sees the thoughtful mind, With searching looks that inward turn. Bright Hope again within us beams, And Reason's voice again is strong, We thirst for life's untroubled streams, For the pure fount of life we long.

Quiet thee, poodle! it seems not well To break, with thy growling, the holy spell Of my soul's music, that refuses All fellowship with bestial uses. Full well we know that the human brood, What they don't understand condemn, And murmur in their peevish mood At things too fair and good for them; Belike the cur, as curs are they, Thus growls and snarls his bliss away.

But, alas! already I feel it well, No more may peace within this bosom dwell. Why must the stream so soon dry up, And I lie panting for the cup That mocks my lips? so often why Drink pleasure's shallow fount, when scarce yet tasted, dry? Yet is this evil not without remeid; We long for heavenly food to feed Our heaven-born spirit, and the heart, now bent On things divine, to revelation turns, Which nowhere worthier or purer burns, Than here in our New Testament. I feel strange impulse in my soul The sacred volume to unroll, With honest purpose, once for all, The holy Greek Original Into my honest German to translate. [_He opens the Bible and reads._] "In the beginning was the /Word/:" thus here The text stands written; but no clear Meaning shines here for me, and I must wait, A beggar at dark mystery's gate, Lamed in the start of my career. The naked word I dare not prize so high, I must translate it differently, If by the Spirit I am rightly taught. "In the beginning of all things was /Thought/." The first line let me ponder well, Lest my pen outstrip my sense; Is it Thought wherein doth dwell All-creative omnipotence? I change the phrase, and write--the course Of the great stream of things was shaped by /Force/. But even here, before I lift my pen, A voice of warning bids me try again. At length, at length, the Spirit helps my need, I write--"In the beginning was the /Deed/."

Wilt thou keep thy dainty berth, Poodle, use a gentler mirth, Cease thy whimpering and howling, And keep for other place thy growling. Such a noisy inmate may Not my studious leisure cumber; You or I, without delay, Restless cur, must leave the chamber! Not willingly from thee I take The right of hospitality. But if thou wilt my quiet break, Seek other quarters--thou hast exit free. But what must I see? What vision strange Beyond the powers Of Nature's range? Am I awake, or bound with a spell? How wondrously the brute doth swell! Long and broad Uprises he, In a form that no form Of a dog may be! What spectre brought I into the house? He stands already, with glaring eyes, And teeth in grinning ranks that rise, Large as a hippopotamus! O! I have thee now! For such half-brood of hell as thou The key of Solomon the wise Is surest spell to exorcise.[*n3]

Spirits. [_in the passage without_] Brother spirits, have a care! One within is prisoned there! Follow him none!--for he doth quail Like a fox, trap-caught by the tail. But let us watch! Hover here, hover there, Up and down amid the air; For soon this sly old lynx of hell Will tear him free, and all be well. If we can by foul or fair, We will free him from the snare, And repay good service thus, Done by him oft-times for us.

Faust. First let the charm of the elements four The nature of the brute explore. Let the Salamander glow, Undene twine her crested wave, Silphe into ether flow, And Kobold vex him, drudging slave![*n4]

Whoso knows not The elements four, Their quality, And hidden power, In the magic art Hath he no part.

Spiring in flames glow Salamander! Rushing in waves flow Undene! Shine forth in meteor-beauty Silphe! Work thy domestic duty Incubus Incubus! Step forth and finish the spell. None of the four In the brute doth dwell. It lies quite still with elfish grinning there. It shall know a stronger charm, It shall shrink from sharper harm, When by a mightier name I swear.

Art thou a fugitive Urchin of hell? So yield thee at length To this holiest spell! Bend thee this sacred Emblem before, Which the powers of darkness Trembling adore.[*n5]

Already swells he up with bristling hair.

Can'st thou read it, The holy sign, Reprobate spirit, The emblem divine? The unbegotten, Whom none can name, Moving and moulding The wide world's frame, Yet nailed to the cross With a death of shame.

Now behind the stove he lies, And swells him up to an elephant's size, And fills up all the space. He'll melt into a cloud; not so! Down, I say, down, proud imp, and know Here, at thy master's feet, thy place! In vain, in vain, thou seek'st to turn thee, With an holy flame I burn thee! Wait not the charm Of the triple-glowing light! Beware the harm If thou invite Upon thy head my spell of strongest might!

[_The clouds vanish, and_ /Mephistopheles/ _comes forward from behind the fireplace, dressed like an itinerant scholar._

## Scene V.

/Faust/ _and_ /Mephistopheles/.

Mephistopheles. What's all the noise about? I'm here at leisure To work your worship's will and pleasure.

Faust. So, so! such kernel cracked from such a shell! A travelling scholar! the jest likes me well!

Mephistopheles. I greet the learned gentleman! I've got a proper sweating 'neath your ban.

Faust. What is thy name?

Mephistopheles. What is my power were better, From one who so despises the mere letter, Who piercing through the coarse material shell, With Being's inmost substance loves to dwell.

Faust. Yes, but you gentlemen proclaim Your nature mostly in your name; Destroyer, God of Flies, the Adversary,[*1] Such names their own interpretation carry. But say, who art thou?

Mephistopheles. I am a part of that primordial Might, Which always wills the wrong, and always works the right.

Faust. You speak in riddles; the interpretation?

Mephistopheles. I am the Spirit of Negation: And justly so; for all that is created Deserves to be annihilated. 'Twere better, thus, that there were no creation. Thus everything that you call evil, Destruction, ruin, death, the devil, Is my pure element and sphere.

Faust. Thou nam'st thyself a part, yet standest wholly here.

Mephistopheles. I speak to thee the truth exact, The plain, unvarnished, naked fact, Though man, that microcosm of folly deems Himself the compact whole he seems. Part of the