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(A LOFTY-ARCHED, NARROW, GOTHIC CHAMBER. FAUST, IN A CHAIR AT HIS DESK, RESTLESS.)

I’ve studied now Philosophy
And Jurisprudence, Medicine —
And even, alas! Theology —
From end to end, with labor keen;
And here, poor fool! with all my lore
I stand, no wiser than before:
I’m Magister — yea, Doctor — hight,
And straight or cross-wise, wrong or right,
These ten years long, with many woes,
I’ve led my scholars by the nose —
And see, that nothing can be known!
That knowledge cuts me to the bone.
I’m cleverer, true, than those fops of teachers,
Doctors and Magisters, Scribes and Preachers;
Neither scruples nor doubts come now to smite me,
Nor Hell nor Devil can longer affright me.

For this, all pleasure am I foregoing;
I do not pretend to aught worth knowing,
I do not pretend I could be a teacher
To help or convert a fellow-creature.
Then, too, I’ve neither lands nor gold,
Nor the world’s least pomp or honor hold —
No dog would endure such a curst existence!
Wherefore, from Magic I seek assistance,
That many a secret perchance I reach
Through spirit-power and spirit-speech,
And thus the bitter task forego
Of saying the things I do not know —
That I may detect the inmost force
Which binds the world, and guides its course;
Its germs, productive powers explore,
And rummage in empty words no more!

O full and splendid Moon, whom I
Have, from this desk, seen climb the sky
So many a midnight — would thy glow
For the last time beheld my woe!
Ever thine eye, most mournful friend,
O’er books and papers saw me bend;
But would that I, on mountains grand,
Amid thy blessed light could stand,
With spirits through mountain-caverns hover,
Float in thy twilight the meadows over,
And, freed from the fumes of lore that swathe me,
To health in thy dewy fountains bathe me!

Ah, me! this dungeon still I see.
This drear, accursed masonry,
Where even the welcome daylight strains
But duskly through the painted panes.
Hemmed in by many a toppling heap
Of books worm-eaten, gray with dust,
Which to the vaulted ceiling creep,
Against the smoky paper thrust —
With glasses, boxes, round me stacked,
And instruments together hurled,
Ancestral lumber, stuffed and packed —
Such is my world: and what a world!

And do I ask, wherefore my heart
Falters, oppressed with unknown needs?
Why some inexplicable smart
All movement of my life impedes?
Alas! in living Nature’s stead,
Where God His human creature set,
In smoke and mould the fleshless dead
And bones of beasts surround me yet!

Fly! Up, and seek the broad, free land!
And this one Book of Mystery
From Nostradamus’ very hand,
Is’t not sufficient company?
When I the starry courses know,
And Nature’s wise instruction seek,
With light of power my soul shall glow,
As when to spirits spirits speak.
Tis vain, this empty brooding here,
Though guessed the holy symbols be:
Ye, Spirits, come — ye hover near —
Oh, if you hear me, answer me!

Ha! what a sudden rapture leaps from this
I view, through all my senses swiftly flowing!
I feel a youthful, holy, vital bliss
In every vein and fibre newly glowing.
Was it a God, who traced this sign,
With calm across my tumult stealing,
My troubled heart to joy unsealing,
With impulse, mystic and divine,
The powers of Nature here, around my path, revealing?
Am I a God? — so clear mine eyes!
In these pure features I behold
Creative Nature to my soul unfold.
What says the sage, now first I recognize:
“The spirit-world no closures fasten;
Thy sense is shut, thy heart is dead:
Disciple, up! untiring, hasten
To bathe thy breast in morning-red!”

How each the Whole its substance gives,
Each in the other works and lives!
Like heavenly forces rising and descending,
Their golden urns reciprocally lending,
With wings that winnow blessing
From Heaven through Earth I see them pressing,
Filling the All with harmony unceasing!
How grand a show! but, ah! a show alone.
Thee, boundless Nature, how make thee my own?
Where you, ye beasts? Founts of all Being, shining,
Whereon hang Heaven’s and Earth’s desire,
Whereto our withered hearts aspire —
Ye flow, ye feed: and am I vainly pining?

How otherwise upon me works this sign!
Thou, Spirit of the Earth, art nearer:
Even now my powers are loftier, clearer;
I glow, as drunk with new-made wine:
New strength and heart to meet the world incite me,
The woe of earth, the bliss of earth, invite me,
And though the shock of storms may smite me,
No crash of shipwreck shall have power to fright me!
Clouds gather over me —
The moon conceals her light —
The lamp’s extinguished! —
Mists rise — red, angry rays are darting
Around my head! — There falls
A horror from the vaulted roof,
And seizes me!
I feel thy presence, Spirit I invoke!
Reveal thyself!
Ha! in my heart what rending stroke!
With new impulsion
My senses heave in this convulsion!
I feel thee draw my heart, absorb, exhaust me:
Thou must! thou must! and though my life it cost me!

(HE SEIZES THE BOOK, AND MYSTERIOUSLY PRONOUNCES THE SIGN OF THE SPIRIT. A RUDDY FLAME FLASHES: THE SPIRIT APPEARS IN THE FLAME.)

Me hast thou long with might attracted,
Long from my sphere thy food exacted,
And now —

To view me is thine aspiration,
My voice to hear, my countenance to see;
Thy powerful yearning moveth me,
Here am I! — what mean perturbation
Thee, superhuman, shakes? Thy soul’s high calling, where?
Where is the breast, which from itself a world did bear,
And shaped and cherished — which with joy expanded,
To be our peer, with us, the Spirits, banded?
Where art thou, Faust, whose voice has pierced to me,
Who towards me pressed with all thine energy?
He art thou, who, my presence breathing, seeing,
Trembles through all the depths of being,
A writhing worm, a terror-stricken form?

In the tides of Life, in Action’s storm,

A fluctuant wave,

A shuttle free,

Birth and the Grave,

An eternal sea,

A weaving, flowing

Life, all-glowing,

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

O Death! — I know it —’tis my Famulus!
My fairest luck finds no fruition:
In all the fullness of my vision
The soulless sneak disturbs me thus!

(ENTER WAGNER, IN DRESSING-GOWN AND NIGHT-CAP, A LAMP IN HIS HAND. FAUST TURNS IMPATIENTLY.)

Pardon, I heard your declamation;
’Twas sure an old Greek tragedy you read?
In such an art I crave some preparation,
Since now it stands one in good stead.
I’ve often heard it said, a preacher
Might learn, with a comedian for a teacher.

Yes, when the priest comedian is by nature,
As haply now and then the case may be.

Ah, when one studies thus, a prisoned creature,
That scarce the world on holidays can see —
Scarce through a glass, by rare occasion,
How shall one lead it by persuasion?

You’ll ne’er attain it, save you know the feeling,
Save from the soul it rises clear,
Serene in primal strength, compelling
The hearts and minds of all who hear.
You sit forever gluing, patching;
You cook the scraps from others’ fare;
And from your heap of ashes hatching
A starveling flame, ye blow it bare!
Take children’s, monkeys’ gaze admiring,
If such your taste, and be content;
But ne’er from heart to heart you’ll speak inspiring,
Save your own heart is eloquent!

Seek thou the honest recompense!
Beware, a tinkling fool to be!
With little art, clear wit and sense
Suggest their own delivery;
And if thou’rt moved to speak in earnest,
What need, that after words thou yearnest?
Yes, your discourses, with their glittering show,
Where ye for men twist shredded thought like paper,
Are unrefreshing as the winds that blow
The rustling leaves through chill autumnal vapor!

Ah, God! but Art is long,
And Life, alas! is fleeting.
And oft, with zeal my critic-duties meeting,
In head and breast there’s something wrong.

How hard it is to compass the assistance
Whereby one rises to the source!
And, haply, ere one travels half the course
Must the poor devil quit existence.

Is parchment, then, the holy fount before thee,
A draught wherefrom thy thirst forever slakes?
No true refreshment can restore thee,
Save what from thine own soul spontaneous breaks.

Pardon! a great delight is granted
When, in the spirit of the ages planted,
We mark how, ere our times, a sage has thought,
And then, how far his work, and grandly, we have brought.

O yes, up to the stars at last!
Listen, my friend: the ages that are past
Are now a book with seven seals protected:
What you the Spirit of the Ages call
Is nothing but the spirit of you all,
Wherein the Ages are reflected.
So, oftentimes, you miserably mar it!
At the first glance who sees it runs away.
An offal-barrel and a lumber-garret,
Or, at the best, a Punch-and-Judy play,
With maxims most pragmatical and hitting,
As in the mouths of puppets are befitting!

But then, the world — the human heart and brain!
Of these one covets some slight apprehension.

Yes, of the kind which men attain!
Who dares the child’s true name in public mention?
The few, who thereof something really learned,
Unwisely frank, with hearts that spurned concealing,
And to the mob laid bare each thought and feeling,
Have evermore been crucified and burned.
I pray you, Friend, ’tis now the dead of night;
Our converse here must be suspended.

I would have shared your watches with delight,
That so our learned talk might be extended.
To-morrow, though, I’ll ask, in Easter leisure,
This and the other question, at your pleasure.
Most zealously I seek for erudition:
Much do I know — but to know all is my ambition.

That brain, alone, not loses hope, whose choice is
To stick in shallow trash forevermore —
Which digs with eager hand for buried ore,
And, when it finds an angle-worm, rejoices!

Dare such a human voice disturb the flow,
Around me here, of spirit-presence fullest?
And yet, this once my thanks I owe
To thee, of all earth’s sons the poorest, dullest!
For thou hast torn me from that desperate state
Which threatened soon to overwhelm my senses:
The apparition was so giant-great,
It dwarfed and withered all my soul’s pretences!

I, image of the Godhead, who began —
Deeming Eternal Truth secure in nearness —
Ye choirs, have ye begun the sweet, consoling chant,
Which, through the night of Death, the angels ministrant
Sang, God’s new Covenant repeating?

With spices and precious

Balm, we arrayed him;

Faithful and gracious,

We tenderly laid him:

Linen to bind him

Cleanlily wound we:

Ah! when we would find him,

Christ no more found we!

Christ is ascended!

Bliss hath invested him —

Woes that molested him,

Trials that tested him,

Gloriously ended!

Why, here in dust, entice me with your spell,
Ye gentle, powerful sounds of Heaven?
Peal rather there, where tender natures dwell.
Your messages I hear, but faith has not been given;
The dearest child of Faith is Miracle.
I venture not to soar to yonder regions
Whence the glad tidings hither float;
And yet, from childhood up familiar with the note,
To Life it now renews the old allegiance.
Once Heavenly Love sent down a burning kiss
Upon my brow, in Sabbath silence holy;
And, filled with mystic presage, chimed the church-bell slowly,
And prayer dissolved me in a fervent bliss.
A sweet, uncomprehended yearning
Drove forth my feet through woods and meadows free,
And while a thousand tears were burning,
I felt a world arise for me.
These chants, to youth and all its sports appealing,
Proclaimed the Spring’s rejoicing holiday;
And Memory holds me now, with childish feeling,
Back from the last, the solemn way.
Sound on, ye hymns of Heaven, so sweet and mild!
My tears gush forth: the Earth takes back her child!

Has He, victoriously,

Burst from the vaulted

Grave, and all-gloriously

Now sits exalted?

Is He, in glow of birth,

Rapture creative near?

Ah! to the woe of earth

Still are we native here.

We, his aspiring

Followers, Him we miss;

Weeping, desiring,

Master, Thy bliss!

Christ is arisen,

Out of Corruption’s womb:

Burst ye the prison,

Break from your gloom!

Praising and pleading him,

Lovingly needing him,

Brotherly feeding him,

Preaching and speeding him,

Blessing, succeeding Him,

Thus is the Master near —

Thus is He here!

II
BEFORE THE CITY–GATE

Come up to Burgdorf? There you’ll find good cheer,
The finest lasses and the best of beer,
And jolly rows and squabbles, trust me!

You swaggering fellow, is your hide
A third time itching to be tried?
I won’t go there, your jolly rows disgust me!

That’s no great luck for me, ’tis plain.
You’ll have him, when and where you wander:
His partner in the dance you’ll be —
But what is all your fun to me?

Deuce! how they step, the buxom wenches!
Come, Brother! we must see them to the benches.
A strong, old beer, a pipe that stings and bites,
A girl in Sunday clothes — these three are my delights.

Just see those handsome fellows, there!
It’s really shameful, I declare; —
To follow servant-girls, when they
Might have the most genteel society to-day!

Not quite so fast! Two others come behind —
Those, dressed so prettily and neatly.
My neighbor’s one of them, I find,
A girl that takes my heart, completely.
They go their way with looks demure,
But they’ll accept us, after all, I’m sure.

No, Brother! not for me their formal ways.
Quick! lest our game escape us in the press:
The hand that wields the broom on Saturdays
Will best, on Sundays, fondle and caress.

He suits me not at all, our new-made Burgomaster!
Since he’s installed, his arrogance grows faster.
How has he helped the town, I say?
Things worsen — what improvement names he?
Obedience, more than ever, claims he,
And more than ever we must pay!

Good gentlemen and lovely ladies,

So red of cheek and fine of dress,

Behold, how needful here your aid is,

And see and lighten my distress!

Let me not vainly sing my ditty;

He’s only glad who gives away:

A holiday, that shows your pity,

Shall be for me a harvest-day!

On Sundays, holidays, there’s naught I take delight in,
Like gossiping of war, and war’s array,
When down in Turkey, far away,
The foreign people are a-fighting.
One at the window sits, with glass and friends,
And sees all sorts of ships go down the river gliding:
And blesses then, as home he wends
At night, our times of peace abiding.

Yes, Neighbor! that’s my notion, too:
Why, let them break their heads, let loose their passions,
And mix things madly through and through,
So, here, we keep our good old fashions!

Dear me, how fine! So handsome, and so young!
Who wouldn’t lose his heart, that met you?
Don’t be so proud! I’ll hold my tongue,
And what you’d like I’ll undertake to get you.

Come, Agatha! I shun the witch’s sight
Before folks, lest there be misgiving:
’Tis true, she showed me, on Saint Andrew’s Night,
My future sweetheart, just as he were living.

She showed me mine, in crystal clear,
With several wild young blades, a soldier-lover:
I seek him everywhere, I pry and peer,
And yet, somehow, his face I can’t discover.

Castles, with lofty

Ramparts and towers,

Maidens disdainful

In Beauty’s array,

Both shall be ours!

Bold is the venture,

Splendid the pay!

Lads, let the trumpets

For us be suing —

Calling to pleasure,

Calling to ruin.

Stormy our life is;

Such is its boon!

Maidens and castles

Capitulate soon.

Bold is the venture,

Splendid the pay!

And the soldiers go marching,

Marching away!

Released from ice are brook and river
By the quickening glance of the gracious Spring;
The colors of hope to the valley cling,
And weak old Winter himself must shiver,
Withdrawn to the mountains, a crownless king:
Whence, ever retreating, he sends again
Impotent showers of sleet that darkle
In belts across the green o’ the plain.
But the sun will permit no white to sparkle;
Everywhere form in development moveth;
He will brighten the world with the tints he loveth,
And, lacking blossoms, blue, yellow, and red,
He takes these gaudy people instead.
Turn thee about, and from this height
Back on the town direct thy sight.
Out of the hollow, gloomy gate,
The motley throngs come forth elate:
Each will the joy of the sunshine hoard,
To honor the Day of the Risen Lord!
They feel, themselves, their resurrection:
From the low, dark rooms, scarce habitable;
From the bonds of Work, from Trade’s restriction;
From the pressing weight of roof and gable;
From the narrow, crushing streets and alleys;
From the churches’ solemn and reverend night,
All come forth to the cheerful light.
How lively, see! the multitude sallies,
Scattering through gardens and fields remote,
While over the river, that broadly dallies,
Dances so many a festive boat;
And overladen, nigh to sinking,
The last full wherry takes the stream.
Yonder afar, from the hill-paths blinking,
Their clothes are colors that softly gleam.
I hear the noise of the village, even;
Here is the People’s proper Heaven;
Here high and low contented see!
Here I am Man — dare man to be!

To stroll with you, Sir Doctor, flatters;
’Tis honor, profit, unto me.
But I, alone, would shun these shallow matters,
Since all that’s coarse provokes my enmity.
This fiddling, shouting, ten-pin rolling
I hate — these noises of the throng:
They rave, as Satan were their sports controlling.
And call it mirth, and call it song!

All for the dance the shepherd dressed,

In ribbons, wreath, and gayest vest

Himself with care arraying:

Around the linden lass and lad

Already footed it like mad:

Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah — tarara-la!

The fiddle-bow was playing.

He broke the ranks, no whit afraid,

And with his elbow punched a maid,

Who stood, the dance surveying:

The buxom wench, she turned and said:

“Now, you I call a stupid-head!”

Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah — tarara-la!

“Be decent while you’re staying!”

Then round the circle went their flight,

They danced to left, they danced to right:

Their kirtles all were playing.

They first grew red, and then grew warm,

And rested, panting, arm in arm —

Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah — tarara-la!

And hips and elbows straying.

And yet, he coaxed her soon aside,

And round the linden sounded wide.

Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah — tarara-la!

And the fiddle-bow was playing.

Sir Doctor, it is good of you,
That thus you condescend, to-day,
Among this crowd of merry folk,
A highly-learned man, to stray.
Then also take the finest can,
We fill with fresh wine, for your sake:
I offer it, and humbly wish
That not alone your thirst is slake —
That, as the drops below its brink,
So many days of life you drink!

In truth, ’tis well and fitly timed,
That now our day of joy you share,
Who heretofore, in evil days,
Gave us so much of helping care.
Still many a man stands living here,
Saved by your father’s skillful hand,
That snatched him from the fever’s rage
And stayed the plague in all the land.
Then also you, though but a youth,
Went into every house of pain:
Many the corpses carried forth,
But you in health came out again.

With what a feeling, thou great man, must thou
Receive the people’s honest veneration!
How lucky he, whose gifts his station
With such advantages endow!
Thou’rt shown to all the younger generation:

FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY

I
NIGHT

II
BEFORE THE CITY–GATE

FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY

I NIGHT

II BEFORE THE CITY–GATE

I
NIGHT

II
BEFORE THE CITY–GATE