The Lord. All right, I give thee full permission!
Draw down this spirit from its source,
And, canst thou catch him, to perdition
Carry him with thee in thy course,
But stand abashed, if thou must needs confess,
That a good man, though passion blur his vision,
Has of the right way still a consciousness.
Mephistopheles. Good! but I'll make it a short story.
About my wager I'm by no means sorry.
And if I gain my end with glory
Allow me to exult from a full breast.
Dust shall he eat and that with zest,
Like my old aunt, the snake, whose fame is hoary.
The Lord. Well, go and come, and make thy trial;
The like of thee I never yet did hate.
Of all the spirits of denial
The scamp is he I best can tolerate.
Man is too prone, at best, to seek the way that's easy,
He soon grows fond of unconditioned rest;
And therefore such a comrade suits him best,
Who spurs and works, true devil, always busy.
But you, true sons of God, in growing measure,
Enjoy rich beauty's living stores of pleasure!
The Word[3] divine that lives and works for aye,
Fold you in boundless love's embrace alluring,
And what in floating vision glides away,
That seize ye and make fast with thoughts enduring.
[Heaven closes, the archangels disperse.]
Mephistopheles. [Alone.] I like at times to exchange with him a word,
And take care not to break with him. 'Tis civil
In the old fellow[4] and so great a Lord
To talk so kindly with the very devil.
FAUST.
Night. In a narrow high-arched Gothic room,
FAUST sitting uneasy at his desk.
Faust. Have now, alas! quite studied through
Philosophy and Medicine,
And Law, and ah! Theology, too,
With hot desire the truth to win!
And here, at last, I stand, poor fool!
As wise as when I entered school;
Am called Magister, Doctor, indeed,—
Ten livelong years cease not to lead
Backward and forward, to and fro,
My scholars by the nose—and lo!
Just nothing, I see, is the sum of our learning,
To the very core of my heart 'tis burning.
'Tis true I'm more clever than all the foplings,
Doctors, Magisters, Authors, and Popelings;
Am plagued by no scruple, nor doubt, nor cavil,
Nor lingering fear of hell or devil—
What then? all pleasure is fled forever;
To know one thing I vainly endeavor,
There's nothing wherein one fellow-creature
Could be mended or bettered with me for a teacher.
And then, too, nor goods nor gold have I,
Nor fame nor worldly dignity,—
A condition no dog could longer live in!
And so to magic my soul I've given,
If, haply, by spirits' mouth and might,
Some mysteries may not be brought to light;
That to teach, no longer may be my lot,
With bitter sweat, what I need to be taught;
That I may know what the world contains
In its innermost heart and finer veins,
See all its energies and seeds
And deal no more in words but in deeds.
O full, round Moon, didst thou but thine
For the last time on this woe of mine!
Thou whom so many a midnight I
Have watched, at this desk, come up the sky:
O'er books and papers, a dreary pile,
Then, mournful friend! uprose thy smile!
Oh that I might on the mountain-height,
Walk in the noon of thy blessed light,
Round mountain-caverns with spirits hover,
Float in thy gleamings the meadows over,
And freed from the fumes of a lore-crammed brain,
Bathe in thy dew and be well again!
Woe! and these walls still prison me?
Dull, dismal hole! my curse on thee!
Where heaven's own light, with its blessed beams,
Through painted panes all sickly gleams!
Hemmed in by these old book-piles tall,
Which, gnawed by worms and deep in must,
Rise to the roof against a wall
Of smoke-stained paper, thick with dust;
'Mid glasses, boxes, where eye can see,
Filled with old, obsolete instruments,
Stuffed with old heirlooms of implements—
That is thy world! There's a world for thee!
And still dost ask what stifles so
The fluttering heart within thy breast?
By what inexplicable woe
The springs of life are all oppressed?
Instead of living nature, where
God made and planted men, his sons,
Through smoke and mould, around thee stare
Grim skeletons and dead men's bones.
Up! Fly! Far out into the land!
And this mysterious volume, see!
By Nostradamus's[5] own hand,
Is it not guide enough for thee?
Then shalt thou thread the starry skies,
And, taught by nature in her walks,
The spirit's might shall o'er thee rise,
As ghost to ghost familiar talks.
Vain hope that mere dry sense should here
Explain the holy signs to thee.
I feel you, spirits, hovering near;
Oh, if you hear me, answer me!
[_He opens the book and beholds the sign of the Macrocosm.[_6]
Ha! as I gaze, what ecstasy is this,
In one full tide through all my senses flowing!
I feel a new-born life, a holy bliss
Through nerves and veins mysteriously glowing.
Was it a God who wrote each sign?
Which, all my inner tumult stilling,
And this poor heart with rapture filling,
Reveals to me, by force divine,
Great Nature's energies around and through me thrilling?
Am I a God? It grows so bright to me!
Each character on which my eye reposes
Nature in act before my soul discloses.
The sage's word was truth, at last I see:
"The spirit-world, unbarred, is waiting;
Thy sense is locked, thy heart is dead!
Up, scholar, bathe, unhesitating,
The earthly breast in morning-red!"
[He contemplates the sign.]
How all one whole harmonious weaves,
Each in the other works and lives!
See heavenly powers ascending and descending,
The golden buckets, one long line, extending!
See them with bliss-exhaling pinions winging
Their way from heaven through earth—their singing
Harmonious through the universe is ringing!
Majestic show! but ah! a show alone!
Nature! where find I thee, immense, unknown?
Where you, ye breasts? Ye founts all life sustaining,
On which hang heaven and earth, and where
Men's withered hearts their waste repair—
Ye gush, ye nurse, and I must sit complaining?
[He opens reluctantly the book and sees the sign of the earth-spirit.]
How differently works on me this sign!
Thou, spirit of the earth, art to me nearer;
I feel my powers already higher, clearer,
I glow already as with new-pressed wine,
I feel the mood to brave life's ceaseless clashing,
To bear its frowning woes, its raptures flashing,
To mingle in the tempest's dashing,
And not to tremble in the shipwreck's crashing;
Clouds gather o'er my head—
Them moon conceals her light—
The lamp goes out!
It smokes!—Red rays are darting, quivering
Around my head—comes down
A horror from the vaulted roof
And seizes me!
Spirit that I invoked, thou near me art,
Unveil thyself!
Ha! what a tearing in my heart!
Upheaved like an ocean
My senses toss with strange emotion!
I feel my heart to thee entirely given!
Thou must! and though the price were life—were heaven!
[He seizes the book and pronounces mysteriously the sign of the spirit.
A ruddy flame darts out, the spirit appears in the flame.]
Spirit. Who calls upon me?
Faust. [Turning away.] Horrid sight!