Part 10

WAGNER

What feelings, great man, must thy breast inspire, At homage paid thee by this crowd! Thrice blest Who from the gifts by him possessed Such benefit can draw! The sire Thee to his boy with reverence shows; They press around, inquire, advance, Hush'd is the fiddle, check'd the dance. Where thou dost pass they stand in rows, And each aloft his bonnet throws, But little fails and they to thee, As though the Host came by, would bend the knee.

FAUST

A few steps further, up to yonder stone! Here rest we from our walk. In times long past, Absorb'd in thought, here oft I sat alone, And disciplin'd myself with prayer and fast. Then rich in hope, with faith sincere, With sighs, and hands in anguish press'd, The end of that sore plague, with many a tear, From heaven's dread Lord, I sought to wrest. The crowd's applause assumes a scornful tone. Oh, could'st thou in my inner being read, How little either sire or son, Of such renown deserves the meed! My sire, of good repute, and sombre mood, O'er nature's powers and every mystic zone, With honest zeal, but methods of his own, With toil fantastic loved to brood; His time in dark alchemic cell, With brother adepts he would spend, And there antagonists compel, Through numberless receipts to blend. A ruddy lion there, a suitor bold, In tepid bath was with the lily wed. Thence both, while open flames around them roll'd, Were tortur'd to another bridal bed. Was then the youthful queen descried With varied colours in the flask This was our medicine; the patients died, "Who were restored?" none cared to ask. With our infernal mixture thus, ere long, These hills and peaceful vales among, We rag'd more fiercely than the pest; Myself the deadly poison did to thousands give; They pined away, I yet must live, To hear the reckless murderers blest.

WAGNER

Why let this thought your soul o'ercast? Can man do more than with nice skill, With firm and conscientious will, Practise the art transmitted from the past? If thou thy sire dost honour in thy youth, His lore thou gladly wilt receive; In manhood, dost thou spread the bounds of truth, Then may thy son a higher goal achieve.

FAUST

How blest, in whom the fond desire From error's sea to rise, hope still renews! What a man knows not, that he doth require, And what he knoweth, that he cannot use. But let not moody thoughts their shadow throw O'er the calm beauty of this hour serene! In the rich sunset see how brightly glow Yon cottage homes, girt round with verdant green! Slow sinks the orb, the day is now no more; Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life. Oh for a pinion from the earth to soar, And after, ever after him to strive! Then should I see the world below, Bathed in the deathless evening-beams, The vales reposing, every height a-glow, The silver brooklets meeting golden streams. The savage mountain, with its cavern'd side, Bars not my godlike progress. Lo, the ocean, Its warm bays heaving with a tranquil motion, To my rapt vision opes its ample tide! But now at length the god appears to sink; A new-born impulse wings my flight, Onward I press, his quenchless light to drink, The day before me, and behind the night, The pathless waves beneath, and over me the skies. Fair dream, it vanish'd with the parting day! Alas! that when on spirit-wing we rise, No wing material lifts our mortal clay. But 'tis our inborn impulse, deep and strong, Upwards and onwards still to urge our flight, When far above us pours its thrilling song The sky-lark, lost in azure light, When on extended wing amain O'er pine-crown'd height the eagle soars, And over moor and lake, the crane Still striveth towards its native shores.

WAGNER

To strange conceits oft I myself must own, But impulse such as this I ne'er have known: Nor woods, nor fields, can long our thoughts engage, Their wings I envy not the feather'd kind; Far otherwise the pleasures of the mind, Bear us from book to book, from page to page! Then winter nights grow cheerful; keen delight Warms every limb; and ah! when we unroll Some old and precious parchment, at the sight All heaven itself descends upon the soul.

FAUST

Thy heart by one sole impulse is possess'd; Unconscious of the other still remain! Two souls, alas! are lodg'd within my breast, Which struggle there for undivided reign: One to the world, with obstinate desire, And closely-cleaving organs, still adheres; Above the mist, the other doth aspire, With sacred vehemence, to purer spheres. Oh, are there spirits in the air, Who float 'twixt heaven and earth dominion wielding, Stoop hither from your golden atmosphere, Lead me to scenes, new life and fuller yielding! A magic mantle did I but possess, Abroad to waft me as on viewless wings, I'd prize it far beyond the costliest dress, Nor would I change it for the robe of kings.

WAGNER

Call not the spirits who on mischief wait! Their troop familiar, streaming through the air, From every quarter threaten man's estate, And danger in a thousand forms prepare! They drive impetuous from the frozen north, With fangs sharp-piercing, and keen arrowy tongue From the ungenial east they issue forth, And prey, with parching breath, upon thy lungs; If, waft'd on the desert's flaming wing, They from the south heap fire upon the brain, Refreshment from the west at first they bring, Anon to drown thyself and field and plain. In wait for mischief, they are prompt to hear; With guileful purpose our behests obey; Like ministers of grace they oft appear, And lisp like angels, to betray. But let us hence! Grey eve doth all things blend,

The air grows chill, the mists descend! 'Tis in the evening first our home we prize-- Why stand you thus, and gaze with wondering eyes? What in the gloom thus moves you?

FAUST

Yon black hound See'st thou, through corn and stubble scampering round?

WAGNER

I've mark'd him long, naught strange in him I see!

FAUST

Note him! What takest thou the brute to be?

WAGNER

But for a poodle, whom his instinct serves His master's track to find once more.

FAUST

Dost mark how round us, with wide spiral curves, He wheels, each circle closer than before? And, if I err not, he appears to me A line of fire upon his track to leave.

WAGNER

Naught but a poodle black of hue I see; 'Tis some illusion doth your sight deceive.

FAUST