 | Faustus, A Dramatic Mystery ; The Bride of Corinth ; The First Walpurgis Night |  |
76
Enter Faustus, with the Dog.
Faustus.
O'er silent field, and lonely lawn
Her dusky mantle night hath drawn;
At twilight's holy heartfelt hour,
In man his better soul hath power.
The passions are at peace within,
And still each stormy thought of sin.
The yielding bosom, overawed,
Breathes love to man, and love to God!
Her dusky mantle night hath drawn;
At twilight's holy heartfelt hour,
In man his better soul hath power.
The passions are at peace within,
And still each stormy thought of sin.
The yielding bosom, overawed,
Breathes love to man, and love to God!
Rest, poodle, rest—lie down in quiet!
Why runs he up and down the floor?
What can it be he looks so shy at,
Smelling and snuffling at the door?
Pleasant wert thou in our mountain ramble,
Didst make us merry with trick and gambol,
Go to sleep on the cushion—a soft snug nest—
Take thy ease, in thine inn, like a welcome guest.
Why runs he up and down the floor?
What can it be he looks so shy at,
Smelling and snuffling at the door?
Pleasant wert thou in our mountain ramble,
Didst make us merry with trick and gambol,
Go to sleep on the cushion—a soft snug nest—
Take thy ease, in thine inn, like a welcome guest.
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When in our narrow cell each night,
The lone lamp sheds its friendly light,
When from the bosom doubt and fear
Pass off like clouds, and leave it clear—
Then reason re-assumes her reign,
And hope begins to bloom again,
And in the hush of outward strife,
We seem to hear the streams of life,
And seek, alas!—in vain essay—
Its hidden fountains far away.
The lone lamp sheds its friendly light,
When from the bosom doubt and fear
Pass off like clouds, and leave it clear—
Then reason re-assumes her reign,
And hope begins to bloom again,
And in the hush of outward strife,
We seem to hear the streams of life,
And seek, alas!—in vain essay—
Its hidden fountains far away.
Cease, dog, to growl, thy beastly howl
Ill suits the holy tone of feeling,
Whose influence o'er my soul is stealing—
With men 'tis common to contemn,
Whatever is too good, too fair,
Too high to be conceived by them,
And is't that like those wretched carles,
This dog, at what he knows not, snarls!
Ill suits the holy tone of feeling,
Whose influence o'er my soul is stealing—
With men 'tis common to contemn,
Whatever is too good, too fair,
Too high to be conceived by them,
And is't that like those wretched carles,
This dog, at what he knows not, snarls!
These withering thoughts, do what I will,
They come—the fountain of the heart is chill.
—How oft have I experienced change like this!
Yet is it not unblest in the event;
For, seeking to supply the natural dearth,
We learn to prize things loftier than the earth,
And the heart seeks support and light from heaven.
And such support and light—oh, is it given
Any where but in the New Testament?
Strong impulse sways me to translate the text
Of that most holy book with honest feeling,
In the loved language of my native land,
The mysteries of heavenly truth revealing.
[He opens a volume, and prepares to commence his translation.
“In the beginning was the Word,”—alas!
The first line stops me—how shall I proceed?
“The word” cannot express the meaning here—
I must translate the passage differently,
If by the spirit I am rightly guided.
Once more,—“In the beginning was the Thought,”—
Consider the first line attentively,
Lest hurrying on too fast you lose the meaning.
Was it then Thought that has created all things?
Can Thought make Matter? let us try the line
Once more,—“In the beginning was the Power,”—
This will not do—even while I write the phrase
I feel its faults—oh, help me, Holy Spirit,
I'll weigh the passage once again, and write
Boldly,—“In the beginning was the Act.”
They come—the fountain of the heart is chill.
—How oft have I experienced change like this!
Yet is it not unblest in the event;
For, seeking to supply the natural dearth,
We learn to prize things loftier than the earth,
And the heart seeks support and light from heaven.
And such support and light—oh, is it given
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Strong impulse sways me to translate the text
Of that most holy book with honest feeling,
In the loved language of my native land,
The mysteries of heavenly truth revealing.
[He opens a volume, and prepares to commence his translation.
“In the beginning was the Word,”—alas!
The first line stops me—how shall I proceed?
“The word” cannot express the meaning here—
I must translate the passage differently,
If by the spirit I am rightly guided.
Once more,—“In the beginning was the Thought,”—
Consider the first line attentively,
Lest hurrying on too fast you lose the meaning.
Was it then Thought that has created all things?
Can Thought make Matter? let us try the line
Once more,—“In the beginning was the Power,”—
This will not do—even while I write the phrase
I feel its faults—oh, help me, Holy Spirit,
I'll weigh the passage once again, and write
Boldly,—“In the beginning was the Act.”
—Cease, teasing dog, this angry howl,
These moans dissatisfied and dull,—
Down, dog, or I must be rougher,
Noise like this I cannot suffer,—
One of us must leave the closet, if
You still keep growling—that is positive;
To use a guest so is not pleasant,
But none could bear this whine incessant!
The door you see is open yonder,
And let me hint; you're free to wander—
But can what I see be real,
Or is all some trick ideal?
'Tis surely something more than nature,—
Form is changed, and size, and stature,
Larger, loftier, erecter,
This seeming dog must be a spectre;—
With fiery eyes, jaws grinding thus,
Like an hippopotamus,
—And here to bring this whelp of hell,
Oh, at last, I know thee well,
For such half-devilish, hellish spawn,
Nought's like the lock of Solomon.
These moans dissatisfied and dull,—
Down, dog, or I must be rougher,
Noise like this I cannot suffer,—
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You still keep growling—that is positive;
To use a guest so is not pleasant,
But none could bear this whine incessant!
The door you see is open yonder,
And let me hint; you're free to wander—
But can what I see be real,
Or is all some trick ideal?
'Tis surely something more than nature,—
Form is changed, and size, and stature,
Larger, loftier, erecter,
This seeming dog must be a spectre;—
With fiery eyes, jaws grinding thus,
Like an hippopotamus,
—And here to bring this whelp of hell,
Oh, at last, I know thee well,
For such half-devilish, hellish spawn,
Nought's like the lock of Solomon.
Spirits
without.
One is in prison:
Listen to reason:
Uenture not on:
Where he hath gone
Follow him none:
Watch we all! watch we well!
The old lynx of hell
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Is trapped unaware,
Like a fox in the gin;
He is in: he is in:
Stay we without,
Sweep we about,
Backward and forward.
Southward and norward,
Our colleague assisting,
His fetters untwisting,
Lightening their pressure
By mystical measure,
At our motions and voices,
Our brother rejoices,
For us hath he offered,
His safety, and suffered,
We are his debtors,
Let's loosen his fetters.
Faustus.
To conquer him must I rehearse,
First that deep mysterious verse,
Which each elemental spirit,
Of the orders four, who hear it.
Trembling, will confess and fear it.
First that deep mysterious verse,
Which each elemental spirit,
Of the orders four, who hear it.
Trembling, will confess and fear it.
Scorching Salamander, burn,
Nymph of Water, twist and turn,
Uanish, Sylph, to thy far home,
Labour vex thee, drudging Gnome.
Nymph of Water, twist and turn,
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Labour vex thee, drudging Gnome.
He is but a sorry scholar,
To whom each elemental ruler,
Their acts and attributes essential,
And their influence potential,
And their sympathies auxiliar,
Are not matters quite familiar;
Little knows he, little merits
A dominion over Spirits.
To whom each elemental ruler,
Their acts and attributes essential,
And their influence potential,
And their sympathies auxiliar,
Are not matters quite familiar;
Little knows he, little merits
A dominion over Spirits.
Fiery Salamander, wither
In the red flame's fiery glow!
Rushing, as waves rush together,
Water-nymph, in water flow!
Gleamy Sylph of Air, glance fleeter,
And more bright, than midnight meteor!
Slave of homely drudgery,
Lubber Incubus, flee, flee
To the task that waits for thee!
Spirit, that within the beast
Art imprisoned, be releast!
Kingly sway hath Solomon
Over subject spirits won;
—Forth!—obey the spell and seal
Elemental natures feel!
In the red flame's fiery glow!
Rushing, as waves rush together,
Water-nymph, in water flow!
Gleamy Sylph of Air, glance fleeter,
And more bright, than midnight meteor!
Slave of homely drudgery,
Lubber Incubus, flee, flee
To the task that waits for thee!
Spirit, that within the beast
Art imprisoned, be releast!
Kingly sway hath Solomon
Over subject spirits won;
—Forth!—obey the spell and seal
Elemental natures feel!
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By Spirits of a different kind,
Is the brute possessed, I find;
Grinning he lies, and mocks the charm
That has no power to work him harm.
Is the brute possessed, I find;
Grinning he lies, and mocks the charm
That has no power to work him harm.
Spectre! by a stronger spell
Thy obedience I compel—
Methinks the brute at last has trembled;
As behind the stove he lies,
See him swell and see him pant;
And his bristles how they rise
As he rouses,—and his size
Large as is the elephant,—
Larger yet the room he crowds,—
He will vanish in the clouds.
—Spare the roof in thy retreat,
Lie down at the master's feet.
Thou shalt feel the scorching glow
(Mine is not an idle threat)
Of the heat divine—shalt know
Pangs of fiercer torment yet.
—Still resisting?—Tarry not
For the three-times glowing light,
Blaze beyond endurance bright—
Reluctantly must I at length
Speak the spell of greatest strength.
Thy obedience I compel—
Outcast creature, see the sign
Of the Human and Divine.
Bow before the Uncreated,
Whom the world has seen and hated:
Canst thou read Him? Canst thou see?
Dread to hear me name His name,
Through all heaven diffused is He,
Died on earth a death of shame.
Ha! with terror undissembled,
Of the Human and Divine.
Bow before the Uncreated,
Whom the world has seen and hated:
Canst thou read Him? Canst thou see?
Dread to hear me name His name,
Through all heaven diffused is He,
Died on earth a death of shame.
Methinks the brute at last has trembled;
As behind the stove he lies,
See him swell and see him pant;
And his bristles how they rise
As he rouses,—and his size
Large as is the elephant,—
Larger yet the room he crowds,—
He will vanish in the clouds.
—Spare the roof in thy retreat,
Lie down at the master's feet.
Thou shalt feel the scorching glow
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Of the heat divine—shalt know
Pangs of fiercer torment yet.
—Still resisting?—Tarry not
For the three-times glowing light,
Blaze beyond endurance bright—
Reluctantly must I at length
Speak the spell of greatest strength.
Mephistopheles comes forward, as the mist sinks, in the dress of a travelling scholar, from behind the stove.
Mephistopheles.
Why all this uproar? Is there any thing
In my poor power to serve you?
Faustus.
This then was
The poodle's kernel—travelling scholar—psha!—
A most strange case of the kind—I cannot but
Laugh when I think of it.
Mephistopheles.
Most learned master,
Your humble servant—you've been broiling me
After a pretty fashion—sweated me
To the very vengeance. I'm in a fine stew.
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Thy name.
Mephistopheles.
What! ask so frivolous a question?
You, who esteem the Word so very lightly,
Manifestations being nothing worth;—
Who, undeluded by the shows that cheat
The gross material eye, would look into
Nothing less than the very depth and essence
Of beings!
Faustus.
With you, gentlemen, we learn
The nature of the being from the name.
Generally, 'tis a most expressive one:
For instance, one of you is called the God
Of Flies—one the Corrupter—one the Liar—
What are you now?
Mephistopheles.
A member of that power
Which evermore wills evil, and does good.
Faustus.
What may this riddle mean?
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I am the Spirit
That evermore deny,—and in denying
Evermore am I right—“No!” say I, “No!”
To all projected or produced—whate'er
Comes into being merits nothing but
Perdition—better then that nothing were
Brought into being;—what you men call sin—
Destruction—in short, evil—is my province,
My proper element.
Faustus.
You call yourself
A part, yet stand before me whole.
Mephistopheles.
I speak
The truth—the modest truth—though man may deem,
—World that he is of folly,—of himself,
As of a whole, such am not I—I am
Part of a part, which part at first was all,
A part of Darkness who gave birth to Light;
Proud Light, who each day is diminishing
Her mother's rank, confines each day her range,
Yet conquers not, for in the constant strife
Light still must cling to body for existence;
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Body opposes and arrests her beams;
And so, I trust, when body is no more,
Light, too, will share the inevitable doom.
Faustus.
A creditable line of business this;
If I conceive you rightly, wholesale dealing
Has with you been a most unprosperous trade.
Nothing can you reduce to nothing, and
After your failure are beginning business
Upon a smaller scale.
Mephistopheles.
And even in this way
But little can be done,—there ever is
To that, which would make nothing, still the something
Opposed of the coarse world,—the clumsy lump—
There stands it still resisting. I have tried
Every thing—deluges, storms, earthquakes, lightnings—
Still rests it there the self-same sea and land.
Even o'er the death-doomed race of men and beasts,
How little is the conquest I have gained!
How many generations in their graves
Have I seen laid, and still the young fresh blood
Will circulate, and still the spirit of life
Decays not! 'Tis enough to drive me mad.
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A thousand bursting germs; in dry and damp,
In warm and cold—all things are full of life.
Fire is the one exception—were there not
A saving clause of that kind, I'd have nothing,
Nothing whatever, I could call my own.
Faustus.
So thou opposest thy cold devil's fist,
And clenchest it in malice impotent,
'Gainst nature's first and holiest principle—
Strange son of chaos, this may well move laughter.
Mephistopheles.
Well—this point we may talk about hereafter—
But now, with your permission, I would go.
Faustus.
That you can, whether I permit or no.
Why ask me? Now that you have found your way,
I hope to see you often here. Good day!—
This the window—that the door—and yonder
The chimney. Why thus stare about and ponder?
Mephistopheles.
I am not free: a little obstacle,
I did not see, confines me to your cell,—
The druid foot upon the threshold traced.
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The pentagram?—is it not to your taste?
But, son of hell, if this indeed be so,
How came you in, I should be glad to know,—
How was it, that the charm no earlier wrought?
Mephistopheles.
The lines were not as perfect as they ought:
The outer angle's incomplete.
Faustus.
Well—'twas a pleasant evening's feat—
A most unlooked-for accident—
Strange prize, and yet more strangely sent.
Mephistopheles.
The dog, without perceiving it,
Leaped in—the devil has somehow
Seen it—is in the house—and now
Can find no way of leaving it.
Faustus.
Why not the window?
Mephistopheles.
Why?—because
It is enacted in the laws
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Whatever point we enter at,
We at the same return:”—thus we
In our first choice are ever free;—
—Choose,—and the right of choice is o'er,
We, who were free, are free no more.
Faustus.
Hell has its codes of law then—well,
I will think better now of hell.
If laws be binding and obeyed,
Then compacts with you may be made.
Mephistopheles.
Made and fulfilled, too—nowhere better—
We keep our promise to the letter;
But points of law like this require
Some time and thought—are apt to tire,
And I am hurried—we may treat
On them at leisure when we meet
Again—but now I ask permission
To go.
Faustus.
One moment—I am wishing
To question further one who brings
Good news, and tells such pleasant things.
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Let me go now—I come again,
You may ask any question then.
Faustus.
Ay, old fox, ay, come, catch me there—
I laid no net—I set no snare,
And if you walked into the trap—
'Twas your own act, and my good hap;
Luck like this can hardly last—
Catch the devil and keep him fast—
Part with a prize, on which none could have reckoned!
The first chance gone, pray who will give a second?
Mephistopheles.
If you insist on it—I stay;
And just to while the hours away,
I would amuse you, as I may;
For I have pleasant arts and power,
With shows to while the passing hour.
Faustus.
If it be pleasant, try your art—
As audience I will play my part.
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In one hour shall more intense
Pleasure flow on every sense,
Than the weary year could give,
In such life as here you live—
The songs soft spirits sing to thee,
The images they bring to thee,
Are no empty exhibition
Of the skill of a magician;
Pictures fair and music's tone,
Speak to eye and ear alone;
But odours sweet around thee sporting,
Lingering tastes thy palate courting,
Feelings gratified, enraptured,
All thy senses shall be captured.
Preparation need not we—
Spirits, begin your melody.
Spirits
sing.
Uanish, dark arches,
That over us bend,
Let the blue sky in beauty
Look in like a friend.
Oh, that the black clouds
Asunder were riven,
That the small stars were brightening
All through the wide heaven!
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In beautiful splendour,
Suns, but with glory
More placid and tender;
Children of heaven,
In spiritual beauty,
Descending, and bending
With billowy motion,
And others, their brothers,
Downward are thronging,
Willing devotion
Flowing to meet them,
Loving hearts longing,
Sighing to greet them.
O'er field and o'er flower,
On bank and in bower,
Ribands are fluttering,
Graceful they move,
Where lovers are uttering
Feelings of love,
Bower on bower,
Tendril and flower:
Clustering grapes,
The vine's purple treasure,
Have fallen in the wine-vat,
And bleed in its pressure—
Foaming and steaming, the new wine is streaming,
Over bright precious stones
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Leaving behind it
Meadow and mountain,
It lingers in wide lakes, more leisurely flowing
Where the hills to behold it with pleasure are glowing.
And the winged throng
Fly rejoicing along,
Onward and onward,
With wings steering sun-ward,
To where the bright islands, with magical motion,
Stir with the waves of the stirring ocean.
Where we hear 'em shout in chorus,
Or see 'em dance on lawns before us,
As over land or over waters
Chance the idle parties scatters.
Some upon the far hills gleaming,
Some along the bright lakes streaming,
Some their forms in air suspending,
Float in circles never-ending.
All their feeling and employment
Is the spirit of enjoyment,
While the gracious stars above them
Smile to say how much they love them.
Mephistopheles.
He sleeps,—thanks to my little favourites—
Why ye have fairly sung away his wits,
And so he thought the devil to catch and keep!—
Well, well, I am a concert in your debt—
Still cloud with dreams his unsuspecting sleep,
Antic and wild!—still in illusion steep
His fancy!—hover round and round him yet,
Haply dreaming, that I am
Prisoner of the pentagram!
—Tooth of rat ... gets rid of that ...
Gnawing, sawing, bit by bit,
Till there be no trace of it;—
Little need of conjuring,
Rats to such a place to bring;
One is rustling in the wall,
He will hear my whispered call—
Why ye have fairly sung away his wits,
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Well, well, I am a concert in your debt—
Still cloud with dreams his unsuspecting sleep,
Antic and wild!—still in illusion steep
His fancy!—hover round and round him yet,
Haply dreaming, that I am
Prisoner of the pentagram!
—Tooth of rat ... gets rid of that ...
Gnawing, sawing, bit by bit,
Till there be no trace of it;—
Little need of conjuring,
Rats to such a place to bring;
One is rustling in the wall,
He will hear my whispered call—
The master of the Mice and Rats,
Flies and Frogs, and Bugs and Bats,
Sends his summons to appear;—
Forth! and gnaw the threshold here:—
He hath spilt the fragrant oil,
Till it vanish tooth must toil:—
—Sir Rat hath heard me—see him run
To the task that soon is done;
Yonder angle, 'tis, confines
Your master—gnaw the meeting-lines:—
Now the corner, near the door,
All is done in one bite more.
Flies and Frogs, and Bugs and Bats,
Sends his summons to appear;—
Forth! and gnaw the threshold here:—
He hath spilt the fragrant oil,
Till it vanish tooth must toil:—
—Sir Rat hath heard me—see him run
To the task that soon is done;
Yonder angle, 'tis, confines
Your master—gnaw the meeting-lines:—
Now the corner, near the door,
All is done in one bite more.
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The prisoner and the pentagram are gone,
Dream, Faustus, till we meet again, dream on!
Dream, Faustus, till we meet again, dream on!
Faustus
(awaking).
Am I again deceived?—and must I deem
These gorgeous images, but phantoms shaped
In the delusion of a lying dream?
And so there was no devil at all, 'twould seem—
And it was but a poodle that escaped!
| Faustus, A Dramatic Mystery ; The Bride of Corinth ; The First Walpurgis Night | |