Back Aa

Faust I

<h1>FAUST</h1> by <h2>Johann Wolfgang von Goethe</h2> TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH, BY <h3>Bayard Taylor</h3> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>DEDICATION</h2> Again ye come, ye hovering Forms! I find ye, As early to my clouded sight ye shone! Shall I attempt, this once, to seize and bind ye? Still o'er my heart is that illusion thrown? Ye crowd more near! Then, be the reign assigned ye, And sway me from your misty, shadowy zone! My bosom thrills, with youthful passion shaken, From magic airs that round your march awaken. Of joyous days ye bring the blissful vision; The dear, familiar phantoms rise again, And, like an old and half-extinct tradition, First Love returns, with Friendship in his train. Renewed is Pain: with mournful repetition Life tracks his devious, labyrinthine chain, And names the Good, whose cheating fortune tore them From happy hours, and left me to deplore them. They hear no longer these succeeding measures, The souls, to whom my earliest songs I sang: Dispersed the friendly troop, with all its pleasures, And still, alas! the echoes first that rang! I bring the unknown multitude my treasures; Their very plaudits give my heart a pang, And those beside, whose joy my Song so flattered, If still they live, wide through the world are scattered. And grasps me now a long-unwonted yearning For that serene and solemn Spirit-Land: My song, to faint Aeolian murmurs turning, Sways like a harp-string by the breezes fanned. I thrill and tremble; tear on tear is burning, And the stern heart is tenderly unmanned. What I possess, I see far distant lying, And what I lost, grows real and undying. <div class="left"> <ANTIMG src="images/Illus-026.jpg" alt="Faust" title="Faust" /></div> <div class="left"> <ANTIMG src="images/Illus-027.jpg" alt="Prelude at the Theatre"title="Prelude at the Theatre" /></div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>PRELUDE AT THE THEATRE</h2> MANAGER ==== DRAMATIC POET ==== MERRY-ANDREW MANAGER You two, who oft a helping hand Have lent, in need and tribulation. Come, let me know your expectation Of this, our enterprise, in German land! I wish the crowd to feel itself well treated, Especially since it lives and lets me live; The posts are set, the booth of boards completed. And each awaits the banquet I shall give. Already there, with curious eyebrows raised, They sit sedate, and hope to be amazed. I know how one the People's taste may flatter, Yet here a huge embarrassment I feel: What they're accustomed to, is no great matter, But then, alas! they've read an awful deal. How shall we plan, that all be fresh and new,— Important matter, yet attractive too? For 'tis my pleasure-to behold them surging, When to our booth the current sets apace, And with tremendous, oft-repeated urging, Squeeze onward through the narrow gate of grace: By daylight even, they push and cram in To reach the seller's box, a fighting host, And as for bread, around a baker's door, in famine, To get a ticket break their necks almost. This miracle alone can work the Poet On men so various: now, my friend, pray show it. POET Speak not to me of yonder motley masses, Whom but to see, puts out the fire of Song! Hide from my view the surging crowd that passes, And in its whirlpool forces us along! No, lead me where some heavenly silence glasses The purer joys that round the Poet throng,— Where Love and Friendship still divinely fashion The bonds that bless, the wreaths that crown his passion! Ah, every utterance from the depths of feeling The timid lips have stammeringly expressed,— Now failing, now, perchance, success revealing,— Gulps the wild Moment in its greedy breast; Or oft, reluctant years its warrant sealing, Its perfect stature stands at last confessed! What dazzles, for the Moment spends its spirit: What's genuine, shall Posterity inherit. MERRY-ANDREW Posterity! Don't name the word to me! If I should choose to preach Posterity, Where would you get contemporary fun? That men will have it, there's no blinking: A fine young fellow's presence, to my thinking, Is something worth, to every one. Who genially his nature can outpour, Takes from the People's moods no irritation; The wider circle he acquires, the more Securely works his inspiration. Then pluck up heart, and give us sterling coin! Let Fancy be with her attendants fitted,— Sense, Reason, Sentiment, and Passion join,— But have a care, lest Folly be omitted! MANAGER Chiefly, enough of incident prepare! They come to look, and they prefer to stare. Reel off a host of threads before their faces, So that they gape in stupid wonder: then By sheer diffuseness you have won their graces, And are, at once, most popular of men. Only by mass you touch the mass; for any Will finally, himself, his bit select: Who offers much, brings something unto many, And each goes home content with the effect, If you've a piece, why, just in pieces give it: A hash, a stew, will bring success, believe it! 'Tis easily displayed, and easy to invent. What use, a Whole compactly to present? Your hearers pick and pluck, as soon as they receive it! POET You do not feel, how such a trade debases; How ill it suits the Artist, proud and true! The botching work each fine pretender traces Is, I perceive, a principle with you. MANAGER Such a reproach not in the least offends; A man who some result intends Must use the tools that best are fitting. Reflect, soft wood is given to you for splitting, And then, observe for whom you write! If one comes bored, exhausted quite, Another, satiate, leaves the banquet's tapers, And, worst of all, full many a wight Is fresh from reading of the daily papers. Idly to us they come, as to a masquerade, Mere curiosity their spirits warming: The ladies with themselves, and with their finery, aid, Without a salary their parts performing. What dreams are yours in high poetic places? You're pleased, forsooth, full houses to behold? Draw near, and view your patrons' faces! The half are coarse, the half are cold. One, when the play is out, goes home to cards; A wild night on a wench's breast another chooses: Why should you rack, poor, foolish bards, For ends like these, the gracious Muses? I tell you, give but more—more, ever more, they ask: Thus shall you hit the mark of gain and glory. Seek to confound your auditory! To satisfy them is a task.— What ails you now? Is't suffering, or pleasure? POET Go, find yourself a more obedient slave! What! shall the Poet that which Nature gave, The highest right, supreme Humanity, Forfeit so wantonly, to swell your treasure? Whence o'er the heart his empire free? The elements of Life how conquers he? Is't not his heart's accord, urged outward far and dim, To wind the world in unison with him? When on the spindle, spun to endless distance, By Nature's listless hand the thread is twirled, And the discordant tones of all existence In sullen jangle are together hurled, Who, then, the changeless orders of creation Divides, and kindles into rhythmic dance? Who brings the One to join the general ordination, Where it may throb in grandest consonance? Who bids the storm to passion stir the bosom? In brooding souls the sunset burn above? Who scatters every fairest April blossom Along the shining path of Love? Who braids the noteless leaves to crowns, requiting Desert with fame, in Action's every field? Who makes Olympus sure, the Gods uniting? The might of Man, as in the Bard revealed. MERRY-ANDREW So, these fine forces, in conjunction, Propel the high poetic function, As in a love-adventure they might play! You meet by accident; you feel, you stay, And by degrees your heart is tangled; Bliss grows apace, and then its course is jangled; You're ravished quite, then comes a touch of woe, And there's a neat romance, completed ere you know! Let us, then, such a drama give! Grasp the exhaustless life that all men live! Each shares therein, though few may comprehend: Where'er you touch, there's interest without end. In motley pictures little light, Much error, and of truth a glimmering mite, Thus the best beverage is supplied, Whence all the world is cheered and edified. Then, at your play, behold the fairest flower Of youth collect, to hear the revelation! Each tender soul, with sentimental power, Sucks melancholy food from your creation; And now in this, now that, the leaven works. For each beholds what in his bosom lurks. They still are moved at once to weeping or to laughter, Still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see: A mind, once formed, is never suited after; One yet in growth will ever grateful be. POET Then give me back that time of pleasures, While yet in joyous growth I sang,— When, like a fount, the crowding measures Uninterrupted gushed and sprang! Then bright mist veiled the world before me, In opening buds a marvel woke, As I the thousand blossoms broke, Which every valley richly bore me! I nothing had, and yet enough for youth— Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth. Give, unrestrained, the old emotion, The bliss that touched the verge of pain, The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,— O, give me back my youth again! MERRY ANDREW Youth, good my friend, you certainly require When foes in combat sorely press you; When lovely maids, in fond desire, Hang on your bosom and caress you; When from the hard-won goal the wreath Beckons afar, the race awaiting; When, after dancing out your breath, You pass the night in dissipating:— But that familiar harp with soul To play,—with grace and bold expression, And towards a self-erected goal To walk with many a sweet digression,— This, aged Sirs, belongs to you, And we no less revere you for that reason: Age childish makes, they say, but 'tis not true; We're only genuine children still, in Age's season! MANAGER The words you've bandied are sufficient; 'Tis deeds that I prefer to see: In compliments you're both proficient, But might, the while, more useful be. What need to talk of Inspiration? 'Tis no companion of Delay. If Poetry be your vocation, Let Poetry your will obey! Full well you know what here is wanting; The crowd for strongest drink is panting, And such, forthwith, I'd have you brew. What's left undone to-day, To-morrow will not do. Waste not a day in vain digression: With resolute, courageous trust Seize every possible impression, And make it firmly your possession; You'll then work on, because you must. Upon our German stage, you know it, Each tries his hand at what he will; So, take of traps and scenes your fill, And all you find, be sure to show it! Use both the great and lesser heavenly light,— Squander the stars in any number, Beasts, birds, trees, rocks, and all such lumber, Fire, water, darkness, Day and Night! Thus, in our booth's contracted sphere, The circle of Creation will appear, And move, as we deliberately impel, From Heaven, across the World, to Hell! <div class="left"> <ANTIMG src="images/Illus-034.jpg" alt="Faust" title="Faust" /></div> <div class="left"> <ANTIMG src="images/Illus-035.jpg" alt="PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN"title="PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN" /></div> <h2>PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN</h2> THE LORD === THE HEAVENLY HOST Afterwards MEPHISTOPHELES (The THREE ARCHANGELS come forward.) RAPHAEL The sun-orb sings, in emulation, 'Mid brother-spheres, his ancient round: His path predestined through Creation He ends with step of thunder-sound. The angels from his visage splendid Draw power, whose measure none can say; The lofty works, uncomprehended, Are bright as on the earliest day. GABRIEL And swift, and swift beyond conceiving, The splendor of the world goes round, Day's Eden-brightness still relieving The awful Night's intense profound: The ocean-tides in foam are breaking, Against the rocks' deep bases hurled, And both, the spheric race partaking, Eternal, swift, are onward whirled! MICHAEL And rival storms abroad are surging From sea to land, from land to sea. A chain of deepest action forging Round all, in wrathful energy. There flames a desolation, blazing Before the Thunder's crashing way: Yet, Lord, Thy messengers are praising The gentle movement of Thy Day. THE THREE Though still by them uncomprehended, From these the angels draw their power, And all Thy works, sublime and splendid, Are bright as in Creation's hour. MEPHISTOPHELES Since Thou, O Lord, deign'st to approach again And ask us how we do, in manner kindest, And heretofore to meet myself wert fain, Among Thy menials, now, my face Thou findest. Pardon, this troop I cannot follow after With lofty speech, though by them scorned and spurned: My pathos certainly would move Thy laughter, If Thou hadst not all merriment unlearned. Of suns and worlds I've nothing to be quoted; How men torment themselves, is all I've noted. The little god o' the world sticks to the same old way, And is as whimsical as on Creation's day. Life somewhat better might content him, But for the gleam of heavenly light which Thou hast lent him: He calls it Reason—thence his power's increased, To be far beastlier than any beast. Saving Thy Gracious Presence, he to me A long-legged grasshopper appears to be, That springing flies, and flying springs, And in the grass the same old ditty sings. Would he still lay among the grass he grows in! Each bit of dung he seeks, to stick his nose in. THE LORD Hast thou, then, nothing more to mention? Com'st ever, thus, with ill intention? Find'st nothing right on earth, eternally? MEPHISTOPHELES No, Lord! I find things, there, still bad as they can be. Man's misery even to pity moves my nature; I've scarce the heart to plague the wretched creature. THE LORD Know'st Faust? MEPHISTOPHELES <div class="indented"> The Doctor Faust? </div> THE LORD <div class="indentedss"> My servant, he! </div> MEPHISTOPHELES Forsooth! He serves you after strange devices: No earthly meat or drink the fool suffices: His spirit's ferment far aspireth; Half conscious of his frenzied, crazed unrest, The fairest stars from Heaven he requireth, From Earth the highest raptures and the best, And all the Near and Far that he desireth Fails to subdue the tumult of his breast. THE LORD Though still confused his service unto Me, I soon shall lead him to a clearer morning. Sees not the gardener, even while buds his tree, Both flower and fruit the future years adorning? MEPHISTOPHELES What will you bet? There's still a chance to gain him, If unto me full leave you give, Gently upon my road to train him! THE LORD As long as he on earth shall live, So long I make no prohibition. While Man's desires and aspirations stir, He cannot choose but err. MEPHISTOPHELES My thanks! I find the dead no acquisition, And never cared to have them in my keeping. I much prefer the cheeks where ruddy blood is leaping, And when a corpse approaches, close my house: It goes with me, as with the cat the mouse. THE LORD Enough! What thou hast asked is granted. Turn off this spirit from his fountain-head; To trap him, let thy snares be planted, And him, with thee, be downward led; Then stand abashed, when thou art forced to say: A good man, through obscurest aspiration, Has still an instinct of the one true way. MEPHISTOPHELES Agreed! But 'tis a short probation. About my bet I feel no trepidation. If I fulfill my expectation, You'll let me triumph with a swelling breast: Dust shall he eat, and with a zest, As did a certain snake, my near relation. THE LORD Therein thou'rt free, according to thy merits; The like of thee have never moved My hate. Of all the bold, denying Spirits, The waggish knave least trouble doth create. Man's active nature, flagging, seeks too soon the level; Unqualified repose he learns to crave; Whence, willingly, the comrade him I gave, Who works, excites, and must create, as Devil. But ye, God's sons in love and duty, Enjoy the rich, the ever-living Beauty! Creative Power, that works eternal schemes, Clasp you in bonds of love, relaxing never, And what in wavering apparition gleams Fix in its place with thoughts that stand forever! (Heaven closes: the ARCHANGELS separate.) MEPHISTOPHELES (solus) I like, at times, to hear The Ancient's word, And have a care to be most civil: It's really kind of such a noble Lord So humanly to gossip with the Devil! <div class="center"> <ANTIMG src="images/Illus-040.jpg" alt="Faust" title="Faust" /></div> <div class="center"> <ANTIMG src="images/Illus-041.jpg" alt="Faust" title="Faust" /></div> <h2>FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY</h2> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>I</h2> NIGHT (A lofty-arched, narrow, Gothic chamber. FAUST, in a chair at his desk, restless.) FAUST 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! (He opens the Book, and perceives the sign of the Macrocosm.) 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!" (He contemplates the sign.) 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? (He turns the leaves impatiently, and perceives the sign of the Earth-Spirit.) 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.) SPIRIT Who calls me? FAUST (with averted head) <div class="indented"> Terrible to see! </div>SPIRIT Me hast thou long with might attracted, Long from my sphere thy food exacted, And now— FAUST Woe! I endure not thee! SPIRIT 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? FAUST Thee, form of flame, shall I then fear? Yes, I am Faust: I am thy peer! SPIRIT 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, Thus at Time's humming loom 'tis my hand prepares The garment of Life which the Deity wears! FAUST Thou, who around the wide world wendest, Thou busy Spirit, how near I feel to thee! SPIRIT Thou'rt like the Spirit which thou comprehendest, Not me! (Disappears.) FAUST (overwhelmed) Not thee! Whom then? I, image of the Godhead! Not even like thee! (A knock). 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.) WAGNER 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. FAUST Yes, when the priest comedian is by nature, As haply now and then the case may be. WAGNER 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? FAUST 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! WAGNER Yet through delivery orators succeed; I feel that I am far behind, indeed. FAUST 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! WAGNER 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. FAUST 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. WAGNER 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. FAUST 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! WAGNER But then, the world—the human heart and brain! Of these one covets some slight apprehension. FAUST 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. WAGNER 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. [Exit. FAUST (solus) 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? CHORUS OF WOMEN 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! CHORUS OF ANGELS Christ is ascended! Bliss hath invested him,— Woes that molested him, Trials that tested him, Gloriously ended! FAUST 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! CHORUS OF DISCIPLES 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! CHORUS OF ANGELS 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! <div class="center"> <ANTIMG src="images/Illus-053.jpg" alt="Before the City-Gate"title="Before the City-Gate" /></div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.