Part 50

FAUST (alone)

Spirit sublime! Thou gav'st me, gav'st me all For which I prayed! Not vainly hast thou turn'd To me thy countenance in flaming fire: Gayest me glorious nature for my realm, And also power to feel her and enjoy; Not merely with a cold and wondering glance, Thou dost permit me in her depths profound, As in the bosom of a friend to gaze. Before me thou dost lead her living tribes, And dost in silent grove, in air and stream Teach me to know my kindred. And when roars The howling storm-blast through the groaning wood, Wrenching the giant pine, which in its fall Crashing sweeps down its neighbour trunks and boughs, While hollow thunder from the hill resounds; Then thou dost lead me to some shelter'd cave, Dost there reveal me to myself, and show Of my own bosom the mysterious depths. And when with soothing beam, the moon's pale orb Full in my view climbs up the pathless sky, From crag and dewy grove, the silvery forms Of by-gone ages hover, and assuage The joy austere of contemplative thought.

Oh, that naught perfect is assign'd to man, I feel, alas! With this exalted joy, Which lifts me near and nearer to the gods, Thou gav'st me this companion, unto whom I needs must cling, though cold and insolent, He still degrades me to myself, and turns Thy glorious gifts to nothing, with a breath. He in my bosom with malicious zeal For that fair image fans a raging fire; From craving to enjoyment thus I reel, And in enjoyment languish for desire. (MEPHISTOPHELES enters.)

MEPHISTOPHELES

Of this lone life have you not had your fill? How for so long can it have charms for you? 'Tis well enough to try it if you will; But then away again to something new!

FAUST

Would you could better occupy your leisure, Than in disturbing thus my hours of joy.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Well! Well! I'll leave you to yourself with pleasure, A serious tone you hardly dare employ. To part from one so crazy, harsh, and cross, Were not in truth a grievous loss. The live-long day, for you I toil and fret; Ne'er from his worship's face a hint I get, What pleases him, or what to let alone.

FAUST

Ay truly! that is just the proper tone! He wearies me, and would with thanks be paid

MEPHISTOPHELES

Poor Son of Earth, without my aid, How would thy weary days have flown? Thee of thy foolish whims I've cured, Thy vain imaginations banished, And but for me, be well assured, Thou from this sphere must soon have vanished. In rocky hollows and in caverns drear, Why like an owl sit moping here? Wherefore from dripping stones and moss with ooze embued, Dost suck, like any toad, thy food? A rare, sweet pastime. Verily! The doctor cleaveth still to thee.

FAUST

Dost comprehend what bliss without alloy From this wild wand'ring in the desert springs?-- Couldst thou but guess the new life-power it brings, Thou wouldst be fiend enough to envy me my joy.

MEPHISTOPHELES

What super-earthly ecstasy! at night, To lie in darkness on the dewy height, Embracing heaven and earth in rapture high, The soul dilating to a deity; With prescient yearnings pierce the core of earth, Feel in your labouring breast the six-days' birth, Enjoy, in proud delight what no one knows, While your love-rapture o'er creation flows,-- The earthly lost in beatific vision, And then the lofty intuition--. (With a gesture.)

I need not tell you how--to close!

FAUST

Fie on you!

MEPHISTOPHELES

This displeases you? "For shame!" You are forsooth entitled to exclaim; We to chaste ears it seems must not pronounce What, nathless, the chaste heart cannot renounce. Well, to be brief, the joy as fit occasions rise, I grudge you not, of specious lies. But long this mood thou'lt not retain. Already thou'rt again outworn, And should this last, thou wilt be torn By frenzy or remorse and pain. Enough of this! Thy true love dwells apart, And all to her seems flat and tame; Alone thine image fills her heart, She loves thee with an all-devouring flame. First came thy passion with o'erpowering rush, Like mountain torrent, swollen by the melted snow; Pull in her heart didst pour the sudden gush, Now has thy brookiet ceased to flow. Instead of sitting throned midst forests wild, It would become so great a lord To comfort the enamour'd child, And the young monkey for her love reward. To her the hours seem miserably long; She from the window sees the clouds float by As o'er the lofty city-walls they fly, "If I a birdie were!" so runs her song, Half through the night and all day long. Cheerful sometimes, more oft at heart full sore; Fairly outwept seem now her tears, Anon she tranquil is, or so appears, And love-sick evermore.

FAUST

Snake! Serpent vile!

MEPHISTOPHELES (aside)

Good! If I catch thee with my guile!

FAUST

Vile reprobate! go get thee hence; Forbear the lovely girl to name! Nor in my half-distracted sense, Kindle anew the smouldering flame!