University of Virginia Library

BEFORE THE GATE.
Persons of all descriptions strolling out.
A Party of Tradesmen.
What are you going for in that direction?

Second Party.
We are going to the Jägerhaus.

First Party.
And we
Are strolling down to the Mill.

A Tradesman.
I would advise you
Rather to take a walk to the Wasserhof.

A Second.
The road to it is not a pleasant one.

Second Party.
What are you for?

A Third.
I go with the other party.

A Fourth.
Take my advice, and let us come to Burgdorf:
There, any way, we shall be sure of finding
The prettiest girls, and the brownest beer,
And boxing in the primest style.

A Fifth.
What, boy,
Art at it still? two drubbings, one would think,
Might satisfy a reasonable man.
I wo'n't go there with you—I hate the place!

Servant Maid.
No! no!—not I—I'll go back to the town.

Another.
We'll find him surely waiting at the poplars.

The First.
Great good is that to me,—he'll give his arm
To you—and dance with you—and why should I go
For nothing in the world but your amusement?

The Second.
To-day he'll certainly not be alone,
His curly-headed friend will be with him.

Student.
Look there—look there—how well those girls step out—
Come, brother, come let's keep them company.
Stiff ale, biting tobacco, and a girl
In her smart dress, are the best things I know.

Citizen's Daughter.
Only look there—what pretty fellows these are!
'Tis quite a shame, when they might have the best
Of company, to see them running after
A pair of vulgar minxes—servant girls.

Second Student
(to the First).
Stay, easy—here are two fine girls behind us,
Showily dressed. I know one of them well—
And, I may say, am half in love with her.
Innocent things! with what a modest gait
And shy step they affect to pace; and yet,
For all their bashfulness, they'll take us with them.

First Student.
Join them, yourself—not I—I hate restraint.
Give me the girl that gives a man no trouble,
That on the week-days does her week-day work,
And, the day after, work that she loves better.

Citizen.
Well, I do not like this new burgomaster.
Not a day passes but he grows more insolent,
Forsooth! presuming on his dignity.
And what good is he to us after all?
The town is growing worse from day to day,
They are more strict upon us now than ever,
And raise continually the rates and taxes.

Beggar
(sings).
Masters good, and ladies bright,
Rosy-cheeked, and richly dressed,
Look upon a wretched sight,
And relieve the poor distressed:
Let me not in vain implore!
Pity me!—with chime and voice
Would I cheer you—let the poor
When all else are glad, rejoice!
I must beg, for I must live.
Help me! blessed they who give!
When all other men are gay
Is the beggar's harvest day.

Second Citizen.
Well! give me, on a saint's day, or a Sunday,
When we have time for it, a tale of war
And warlike doings far away in Turkey—
How they are busy killing one another.
'Tis pleasant to stand gazing from the window,
Draining your glass at times, and looking on
The painted barges calmly gliding down
The easy river. Then the homeward walk
In the cool evening hour; this makes the heart
Glad, and at peace with all things and itself.
Yes! give me peace at home, and peaceful times!

Third Citizen.
Ay, so say I—break every head abroad—
Turn all things topsy-turvy, so they leave us
Quiet at home.

Old Woman
(to the Citizen's Daughters).
Ha! but you are nicely dressed,
And very pretty creatures—you'll win hearts
To-day—ay, that you will—only don't look
So very proud—yes! that is something better—
I know what my young pets are wishing for,
And thinking of, and they shall have it too!

Citizen's Daughter.
Come, Agatha, come on—I'd not be seen
With the old witch in public; yet she showed me,
On last St. Andrew's night, in flesh and blood,
My future lover.

The Other.
In the glass she showed
Me mine. The figure was a soldier's, and
With him a band of gay bold fellows. Since,
I have been looking round, and seeking for him,
But all in vain—'tis folly—he won't come.

Soldier.

Faustus.
River and rivulet are freed from ice
In Spring's affectionate inspiring smile—
Green are the fields with promise—far away
To the rough hills old Winter hath withdrawn
Strengthless—but still at intervals will send
Light feeble frosts, with drops of diamond white
Mocking a little while the coming bloom—
Still soils with showers of sharp and bitter sleet,
In anger impotent, the earth's green robe;
But the sun suffers not the lingering snow—
Every where life—every where vegetation—
All nature animate with glowing hues—
Or, if one spot be touched not by the spirit
Of the sweet season, there, in colours rich
As trees or flowers, are sparkling human dresses!
Turn round, and from this height look back upon
The town: from its black dungeon gate forth pours,
In thousand parties, the gay multitude,
All happy, all indulging in the sunshine!
All celebrating the Lord's resurrection,
And in themselves exhibiting as 'twere
A resurrection too—so changed are they,
So raised above themselves. From chambers damp
Of poor mean houses—from consuming toil
Laborious—from the work-yard and the shop—
From the imprisonment of walls and roofs,
And the oppression of confining streets,
And from the solemn twilight of dim churches—
All are abroad—all happy in the sun.
Look, only look, with gaiety how active,
Thro' fields and gardens they disperse themselves!
How the wide water, far as we can see,
Is joyous with innumerable boats!
See, there, one almost sinking with its load
Parts from the shore; yonder the hill-top paths
Are sparkling in the distance with gay dresses!
And, hark! the sounds of joy from the far village!
Oh! happiness like this is real heaven!
The high, the low, in pleasure all uniting—
Here may I feel that I too am a man!

Wagner.
Doctor, to be with you is creditable—
Instructive too: but never would I loiter
Here by myself—I hate these coarse amusements:
Fiddlers, and clamorous throats, and kettle-drums,
Are to my mind things quite intolerable;
Men rave, as if possessed by evil spirits,
And call their madness joy and harmony!

(Peasants dancing and singing.)

Old Peasant.
This, doctor, is so kind of you,
A man of rank and learning too;
Who, but yourself, would condescend
Thus with the poor, the poor man's friend,
To join our sports? In this brown cheer
Accept the pledge we tender here,
A draught of life may it become
And years on years, oh! may you reach,
As cheerful as these beads of foam,
As countless, too, a year for each!

Faustus.
Blest be the draught restorative!
I pledge you—happy may you live!

[The people collect in a circle round him.
Old Peasant.
Yes! witness thou the poor man's glee,
And share in his festivity:
In this hath fortune fairly dealt
With him who, in the evil day
Of the black sickness, with us dwelt,
When Plague was numbering his prey—
In strength and health how many gather
To this day's pastimes, whom thy father
Rescued from death in that last stage,
When the disease, tired out at length
Is followed by the fever's rage,
And prostrate sinks the vital strength;
And you, too, in that time of dread
And death, a young man, visited
Each house of sickness:—evermore,
Day after day, the black hearse bore
Corse after corse—still, day by day,
The good man held his fearless way
Unscathed; for God a blessing gave,
And saved the man who sought to save.

All.
For thee, tried friend, our prayers we raise,
And, when we wish thee length of days,
'Tis for himself that each man prays.

Faustus.
In thanks to the Great Father bend,
We are but servants to extend
Blessings, that flow from man's one Friend.

Wagner.
With what a sense of pure delight,
Master, must thou enjoy the sight
Of this vast crowd, and the unchecked
Expression of their deep respect!
Oh, happy he, who thus to Heaven
Can render back the talents given!
The pious father points thee out
To his young folk—they gaze, and ask,
And gaze again—and crowd about.
The blithe musician in his task
Pauses—the dancers turn to thee,
And gather into groups to see
The man they honour passing by—
And then the gratulating shout—
And then the caps flung up on high:
They almost worship thee—almost
Would bend the knee as to the host.

Faustus.
A few steps farther—and we reach yon stone;
Here sit we down, and rest after our walk—
Here have I often sate in thoughtful mood
Alone—and here in agonies of prayer,
And fast, and vigil—rich in hope—in faith
Unwavering—sought with tears and sighs, and hands
Wringing in supplication, to extort
From Him in heaven, that he would stay that plague.
These praises come upon my ear like scorn—
Oh, could you read the secrets of this heart,
You then would see how little we deserved,
Father or son, the thanks of these poor people.
My father, a reserved and moody man,
Not without pride, felt by himself and others,
Living almost alone, held strange opinions,
Tinged with the hues of his peculiar mind,
And, therefore, even the more indulged and cherished.
Thus fanciful, and serious in his fancies,
O'er Nature and her consecrated circles,
That with vain interdict sought to oppose,
Oft would he try his wild experiments:
In his black cell with crucible and fire
(One or two adepts his sole company)
He toiled; and, following many a quaint receipt,
Would force rebellious metals to obey,
And in indissoluble union link
Antagonists irreconcilable.
There, passionate adorer, the Red Lion
With the White Lily, in a tepid bath
Was strangely wedded—and his silver bride
And he from chamber hurried on to chamber,
Tortured and tried with many a fiery pang,
Suffered together, till in coloured light,
Ascending in the glass, shone the Young Queen:
This was our medicine—they who took it died,
None asked, or thought of asking, who recovered.
Thus have we with our diabolic mixture,
In these sweet valleys, 'mong these quiet hills,
Been guests more fatal than the pestilence.
I have myself to thousands given this poison,
They withered, and are dead—and I must live,
I, who have been their death, must live to hear
This lavish praise on the rash murderers.

Wagner.
How can this be so painful? Can a man
Do more than practise what his own day knows—
All that thy father taught must have been heard,
By thee, as by a young man learning then—
Heard in the docile spirit of belief.
When thy time came to teach, thou didst enlarge
The field of science; and thy son, who learns
From thee, will for himself discoveries make,
Greater than thine, perhaps—yet but for thine
Impossible. If this be so, why grieve?

Faustus.
Oh, he, indeed, is happy, who still feels,
And cherishes within his heart the hope
To lift himself above this sea of errors!
Of things we know not, each day do we find
The want of knowledge—all we know is useless:
But 'tis not wise to sadden with such thoughts
This hour of beauty and benignity:
Look yonder, with delighted heart and eye,
On those low cottages that shine so bright
(Each with its garden plot of smiling green),
Robed in the glory of the setting sun!
But he is parting—fading,—day is over—
Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life.
Oh, for a wing to raise me up from earth,
Nearer, and yet more near, to the bright orb,
That unrestrained I still might follow him!
Then should I see, in one unvarying glow
Of deathless evening, the reposing world
Beneath me—the hills kindling—the sweet vales,
Beyond the hills, asleep in the soft beams;
The silver streamlet, at the silent touch
Of heavenly light, transfigured into gold,
Flowing in brightness inexpressible!
Nothing to stop or stay my godlike motion!
The rugged hill, with its wild cliffs, in vain
Would rise to hide the sun; in vain would strive
To check my glorious course; the sea already,
With its illumined bays, that burn beneath
The lord of day, before the astonished eyes
Opens its bosom—and he seems at last
Just sinking—no—a power unfelt before—
An impulse indescribable succeeds!
Onward, entranced, I haste to drink the beams
Of the unfading light—before me day—
And night left still behind—and overhead
Wide heaven—and under me the spreading sea!—
A glorious vision, while the setting sun
Is lingëring! Oh, to the spirit's flight,
How faint and feeble are material wings!
Yet such our nature is, that when the lark,
High over us, unseen, in the blue sky
Thrills his heart-piercing song, we feel ourselves
Press up from earth, as 'twere in rivalry,—
And when above the savage hill of pines,
The eagle sweeps with outspread wings,—and when
The crane pursues, high off his homeward path,
Flying o'er watery moors and wide lakes lonely!

Wagner.
I, too, have had my hours of reverie;
But impulse such as this I never felt.
Of wood and field the eye will soon grow weary;
I'd never envy the wild birds their wings.
How different are the pleasures of the mind,
Leading from book to book, from leaf to leaf,
They make the nights of winter bright and cheerful;
They spread a sense of pleasure through the frame,
And when you see some old and treasured parchments,
All heaven descends to your delighted senses!

Faustus.
Thy heart, my friend, now knows but one desire;
Oh, never learn another! in my breast,
Alas! two souls have taken their abode,
And each is struggling there for mastery!
One to the world, and the world's sensual pleasures,
Clings closely, with scarce separable organs;
The other struggles to redeem itself,
And rise from the entanglements of earth—
Still feels its true home is not here—still longs
And strives—and would with violence regain
The fields, its own by birthright—realms of light
And joy, where,—Man in vain would disbelieve
The instincts of his nature, that confirm
The loved tradition,—dwelt our sires of old.
If—as 'tis said—spirits be in the air,
Moving, with lordly wings, 'tween earth and heaven,
And if, oh if ye listen when we call,
Come from your golden “incense-breathing” clouds,
Bear me away to new and varied life!
Oh, were the magic mantle mine, which bore
The wearer at his will to distant lands,
How little would I prize the envied robes
Of princes, and the purple pomp of kings!

Wagner.
Venture not thus to invoke the well-known host,
Who spread, a living stream, through the waste air,
Who watch industriously man's thousand motions,
For ever active in the work of evil.
From all sides pour they on us: from the north,
With thrilling hiss, they drive their arrowy tongues;
And, speeding from the parching east, they feed
On the dry lungs, and drink the breath of life;
And the south sends them forth, at middle day,
From wildernesses dry and desolate,
To heap fresh fire upon the burning brain;
And from the west they flow, a cloudy deluge,
That, like the welcome shower of early spring,
First promises refreshment and relief,
Then rushing down, with torrents ruinous,
Involves in one unsparing desolation
Valley, and meadow-field, and beast, and man:—
Ready for evil, with delight they hear,
Obey man's bidding to deceive his soul.
Like angel-ministers of Heaven they seem,
And utter falsehoods with an angel's voice.
But let's away—the sky is grey already,
The air grows chill—the mist is falling heavy—
At evening home's the best place for a man!
What ails thee? why, with such astonished eyes,
Dost thou stand staring into the dusk twilight?
What seest thou there that can affect thee thus?

Faustus.
Do you see that black dog, where through the green blades
Of the soft springing corn, and the old stubble,
He runs, just glancing by them for a moment?

Wagner.
I've seen him this while past, but thought not of him
As any way strange.

Faustus.
Look at him carefully,
What do you take him now to be?

Wagner.
Why, nothing
But a rough poodle-dog, who, in the way
Of dogs, is searching for his master's footsteps.

Faustus.
Do you observe how in wide serpent circles
He courses round us? nearer and yet nearer
Each turn,—and if my eyes do not deceive me,
Sparkles of fire whirl where his foot hath touched

Wagner.
I can see nothing more than a black dog;
It must be some deception of your eyes.

Faustus.
Methinks he draws light magic threads around us,
Hereafter to entangle and ensnare!

Wagner.
In doubt and fear the poodle's leaping round us,
Seeing two strangers in his master's stead.

Faustus.
The circle, see, how much more narrow 'tis,—
He's very near us!

Wagner.
'Tis a dog, you see,
And not a spectre; see, he snarls at strangers,
Barks, lies upon his belly, wags his tail,
As all dogs do.

Faustus.
We'll bring him home with us.—
Come, pretty fellow!

Wagner.
He's a merry dog,—
If you stand still, he stands and waits for you,—
Speak to him, and he straight leaps up upon you,—
Leave something after you, no doubt he'll bring it,
Or plunge into the water for your stick.

Faustus.
You're right—I can see nothing of the spectre
In him; it can be nothing more than training.

Wagner.
A dog, well-trained, soon learns the art
To win upon a good man's heart;—
The wisest love them best—and see,
Our friend already follows thee—
Soon shall we see the happy creature,
Prime favourite, round the doctor skip:
With every student for his teacher,
How can we doubt his scholarship?