Faust. In every dress I well may feel the sore
Of this low earth-life's melancholy.
I am too old to live for folly,
Too young, to wish for nothing more.
Am I content with all creation?
Renounce! renounce! Renunciation—
Such is the everlasting song
That in the ears of all men rings,
Which every hour, our whole life long,
With brazen accents hoarsely sings.
With terror I behold each morning's light,
With bitter tears my eyes are filling,
To see the day that shall not in its flight
Fulfil for me one wish, not one, but killing
Every presentiment of zest
With wayward skepticism, chases
The fair creations from my breast
With all life's thousand cold grimaces.
And when at night I stretch me on my bed
And darkness spreads its shadow o'er me;
No rest comes then anigh my weary head,
Wild dreams and spectres dance before me.
The God who dwells within my soul
Can heave its depths at any hour;
Who holds o'er all my faculties control
Has o'er the outer world no power;
Existence lies a load upon my breast,
Life is a curse and death a long'd-for rest.
Mephistopheles. And yet death never proves a wholly welcome guest.
Faust. O blest! for whom, when victory's joy fire blazes,
Death round his brow the bloody laurel windeth,
Whom, weary with the dance's mazes,
He on a maiden's bosom findeth.
O that, beneath the exalted spirit's power,
I had expired, in rapture sinking!
Mephistopheles. And yet I knew one, in a midnight hour, Who a brown liquid shrank from drinking.
Faust. Eaves-dropping seems a favorite game with thee.
Mephistopheles. Omniscient am I not; yet much is known to me.
Faust. Since that sweet tone, with fond appealing,
Drew me from witchcraft's horrid maze,
And woke the lingering childlike feeling
With harmonies of happier days;
My curse on all the mock-creations
That weave their spell around the soul,
And bind it with their incantations
And orgies to this wretched hole!
Accursed be the high opinion
Hugged by the self-exalting mind!
Accursed all the dream-dominion
That makes the dazzled senses blind!
Curs'd be each vision that befools us,
Of fame, outlasting earthly life!
Curs'd all that, as possession, rules us,
As house and barn, as child and wife!
Accurs'd be mammon, when with treasure
He fires our hearts for deeds of might,
When, for a dream of idle pleasure,
He makes our pillow smooth and light!
Curs'd be the grape-vine's balsam-juices!
On love's high grace my curses fall!
On faith! On hope that man seduces,
On patience last, not least, of all!
Choir of spirits. [Invisible.] Woe! Woe!
Thou hast ground it to dust,
The beautiful world,
With mighty fist;
To ruins 'tis hurled;
A demi-god's blow hath done it!
A moment we look upon it,
Then carry (sad duty!)
The fragments over into nothingness,
With tears unavailing
Bewailing
All the departed beauty.
Lordlier
Than all sons of men,
Proudlier
Build it again,
Build it up in thy breast anew!
A fresh career pursue,
Before thee
A clearer view,
And, from the Empyréan,
A new-born Paean
Shall greet thee, too!
Mephistopheles. Be pleased to admire
My juvenile choir!
Hear how they counsel in manly measure
Action and pleasure!
Out into life,
Its joy and strife,
Away from this lonely hole,
Where senses and soul
Rot in stagnation,
Calls thee their high invitation.
Give over toying with thy sorrow
Which like a vulture feeds upon thy heart;
Thou shalt, in the worst company, to-morrow
Feel that with men a man thou art.
Yet I do not exactly intend
Among the canaille to plant thee.
I'm none of your magnates, I grant thee;
Yet if thou art willing, my friend,
Through life to jog on beside me,
Thy pleasure in all things shall guide me,
To thee will I bind me,
A friend thou shalt find me,
And, e'en to the grave,
Shalt make me thy servant, make me thy slave!