Part 55

FAUST

What are, within her arms, the heavenly blisses? Though I be glowing with her kisses, Do I not always share her need? I am the fugitive, all houseless roaming, The monster without air or rest, That like a cataract, down rocks and gorges foaming, Leaps, maddened, into the abyss’s breast! And side-wards she, with young unwakened senses, Within her cabin on the Alpine field Her simple, homely life commences, Her little world therein concealed. And I, God’s hate flung o’er me, Had not enough, to thrust The stubborn rocks before me And strike them into dust! She and her peace I yet must undermine: Thou, Hell, hast claimed this sacrifice as thine! Help, Devil! through the coming pangs to push me; What must be, let it quickly be! Let fall on me her fate, and also crush me,— One ruin whelm both her and me!

MEPHISTOPHELES

Again it seethes, again it glows! Thou fool, go in and comfort her! When such a head as thine no outlet knows, It thinks the end must soon occur. Hail him, who keeps a steadfast mind! Thou, else, dost well the devil-nature wear: Naught so insipid in the world I find As is a devil in despair.

MARGARET’S ROOM

MARGARET

(at the spinning-wheel, alone)

My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore!

Save I have him near. The grave is here; The world is gall And bitterness all.

My poor weak head Is racked and crazed; My thought is lost, My senses mazed.

My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore!

To see him, him only, At the pane I sit; To meet him, him only, The house I quit.

His lofty gait, His noble size, The smile of his mouth, The power of his eyes,

And the magic flow Of his talk, the bliss In the clasp of his hand, And, ah! his kiss!

My peace is gone, My heart is sore: I never shall find it, Ah, nevermore!

My bosom yearns For him alone; Ah, dared I clasp him, And hold, and own!

And kiss his mouth, To heart’s desire, And on his kisses At last expire!

XVI

MARTHA’S GARDEN

MARGARET FAUST

MARGARET

Promise me, Henry!—

FAUST

What I can!

MARGARET

How is’t with thy religion, pray? Thou art a dear, good-hearted man, And yet, I think, dost not incline that way.

FAUST

Leave that, my child! Thou know’st my love is tender; For love, my blood and life would I surrender, And as for Faith and Church, I grant to each his own.