Is seldom, when he comes, a welcome guest.

Faust.

Oh! happy he to whom, in victory’s glance,

Death round his brow the bloody laurel winds!

Whom, ’mid the circling hurry of the dance,

Locked in a maiden’s close embrace he finds;

O! would to God that I had sunk that night

In tranceful death before the Spirit’s might!

Mephistopheles.

Yet, on a certain night, a certain man was slow