Part 9

ANOTHER

And mine she show'd me also in the glass, A soldier's figure, with companions bold; I look around, I seek him as I pass, In vain, his form I nowhere can behold.

SOLDIERS

Fortress with turrets And walls high in air, Damsel disdainful, Haughty and fair, These be my prey! Bold is the venture, Costly the pay!

Hark how the trumpet Thither doth call us, Where either pleasure Or death may befall us. Hail to the tumult! Life's in the field! Damsel and fortress To us must yield. Bold is the venture, Costly the pay! Gaily the soldier Marches away.

FAUST and WAGNER

FAUST

Loosed from their fetters are streams and rills Through the gracious spring-tide's all-quickening glow; Hope's budding joy in the vale doth blow; Old Winter back to the savage hills Withdraweth his force, decrepid now. Thence only impotent icy grains Scatters he as he wings his flight, Striping with sleet the verdant plains; But the sun endureth no trace of white; Everywhere growth and movement are rife, All things investing with hues of life: Though flowers are lacking, varied of dye, Their colours the motly throng supply. Turn thee around, and from this height, Back to the town direct thy sight. Forth from the hollow, gloomy gate, Stream forth the masses, in bright array. Gladly seek they the sun to-day; The Lord's Resurrection they celebrate: For they themselves have risen, with joy,

From tenement sordid, from cheerless room, From bonds of toil, from care and annoy, From gable and roof's o'er-hanging gloom, From crowded alley and narrow street, And from the churches' awe-breathing night, All now have come forth into the light. Look, only look, on nimble feet, Through garden and field how spread the throng, How o'er the river's ample sheet, Many a gay wherry glides along; And see, deep sinking in the tide, Pushes the last boat now away. E'en from yon far hill's path-worn side, Flash the bright hues of garments gay. Hark! Sounds of village mirth arise; This is the people's paradise.

Both great and small send up a cheer; Here am I man, I feel it here.

WAGNER

Sir Doctor, in a walk with you There's honour and instruction too; Yet here alone I care not to resort, Because I coarseness hate of every sort. This fiddling, shouting, skittling, I detest; I hate the tumult of the vulgar throng; They roar as by the evil one possess'd, And call it pleasure, call it song.

PEASANTS (under the linden-tree) Dance and song The shepherd for the dance was dress'd, With ribbon, wreath, and coloured vest, A gallant show displaying. And round about the linden-trees, They footed it right merrily. Juchhe! Juchhe! Juchheisa! Heisa! He! So fiddle-bow was braying.

Our swain amidst the circle press'd, He push'd a maiden trimly dress'd, And jogg'd her with his elbow; The buxom damsel turn'd her head, "Now that's a stupid trick!" she said, Juchhe! Juchhe! Juchhesia! Heisa! He! Don't be so rude, good fellow!

Swift in the circle they advanced, They danced to right, to left they danced, And all the skirts were swinging. And they grew red, and they grew warm, Panting, they rested arm in arm, Juchhe! Juchhe! Juchheisa! Heisa! He! To hip their elbow bringing.

Don't make so free! How many a maid Has been betroth'd and then betray'd; And has repented after! Yet still he flatter'd her aside, And from the linden, far and wide, Juchhe! Juchhe! Juchheisa! Heisa! He! Rang fiddle-bow and laughter.

OLD PEASANT

Doctor, 'tis really kind of you, To condescend to come this way, A highly learned man like you, To join our mirthful throng to-day. Our fairest cup I offer you, Which we with sparkling drink have crown'd, And pledging you, I pray aloud, That every drop within its round,

While it your present thirst allays, May swell the number of your days.

FAUST

I take the cup you kindly reach, Thanks and prosperity to each! (The crowd gather round in a circle.)

OLD PEASANT

Ay, truly! 'tis well done, that you Our festive meeting thus attend; You, who in evil days of yore, So often show'd yourself our friend! Full many a one stands living here, Who from the fever's deadly blast, Your father rescu'd, when his skill The fatal sickness stay'd at last. A young man then, each house you sought, Where reign'd the mortal pestilence. Corpse after corpse was carried forth, But still unscath'd you issued thence.

Sore then your trials and severe; The Helper yonder aids the helper here.

ALL

Heaven bless the trusty friend, and long To help the poor his life prolong!

FAUST

To Him above in homage bend, Who prompts the helper and Who help doth send. (He proceeds with WAGNER.)