University of Virginia Library

WALPURGIS NIGHT.
HARTZ MOUNTAINS.
Shirke and Elend.
Faustus—Mephistopheles.
Mephistopheles.
Would not a broomstick be a good thing here
For a tired man to ride? I wish I had got
A buck-goat, rough and tough—neck thick, trot quick:
The road is long, and we are loitering,
The time just come—the place still far away.

Faustus.
While I feel firm upon my limbs, the road
Thus wild and intricate but pleases me;
And this knobbed staff affords support enough.
Why should we wish the way more short? To steal
Silently through the deep vale's labyrinth,
And issuing thence to climb these rocks, from which
The bubbling water gushes up for ever,
And streams a white precipitous cataract—
'Tis this—'tis this that makes such paths delightful.
The stirring breath of spring hath waked the birch,
And the slow pine already feels her power—
Shall we alone of all that live and breathe
Remain uninfluenced by her cheering spirit?

Mephistopheles.
I can feel nothing of it—all within
With me is winter—give me the bleak snow,
And the cold ice upon my desolate path.
With what a red and melancholy light
The waning moon's imperfect orb is moving,
Casting faint, cold, unserviceable beams,
And making each step dangerous—lest the foot
Dash 'gainst some straggling tree or jutting rock;
I'll call a wildfire Will-o'-the-Wisp to light us.
See, there is one burns bright and merrily.
The freakish spark, look, how he flings away
On the regardless night his spendthrift splendour.
Holla! my friend, come join our company;
Come, come, instead of wasting idly there,
Come be the pilot of our perilous way,
Move on, and light us through the desert moors.

Will-o'-the-Wisp.
Yours most respectfully—I'll strive to serve you;
But it is struggling against nature—devious
And zig-zag is our customary course.

Mephistopheles.
Ha, ha!—ha, ha! he thinks to mimic man;
Go straight—for once—in the devil's name, go straight—
On, saucy spark, on—or I'll blow thee out,
Poor gleam of marsh-light life.

Will-o'-the-Wisp.
'Tis plain to see
That the master of the house is here—my lord,
I will be all I can be, to oblige you,—
But, think, the hill to-day is mad with magic;
And, if we should not go the straightest road,
Remember that your guide is but a meteor.

Faustus, Mephistopheles, Meteor
(alternately).
Song.

Mephistopheles.
Come, be alive—so far, so well;
We're at the half-way pinnacle.—
The worst is over now—catch fast
My mantle, while we turn and cast
A glance beneath us on the mines
Where Mammon in the mountains shines!

Faustus.
What a strange glimmer stains the ground,
Like the dull heavy clouds around
The east, ere yet the sun ascends:
Far down the dusky hue extends,
For leagues below earth's surface spread,
A gloomy—thick—discoloured red,
Tinging the dreary sides of this
Desperate, hope-deadening precipice—
Here rises smoke, there vaporous whiteness,
But yonder what a blaze of brightness
On every object round is gleaming!—
Now in a narrow thread 'tis streaming,
And now the illuminating current
Bursts sparkling like a winter torrent,
Here, round the vale, you see it wind,
In long veins delicate and slender,
And there in bondage strict confined,
It brightens into burning splendour!
A thousand sparks, like gold-dust, sprinkling
The waste air, are before us twinkling,
And see the tall rock kindling, brightening,
Glows with intensity of lightning—
Turret,—'twould seem—and fence and spire
Lit up at once with festal fire.

Mephistopheles.
Well, is not Mammon's princely hall
Lit gaily for our festival!
I'm glad you've seen it—the wild night
Bodes storm, that soon will hide it quite—
Already is it swept from sight—
Wild work is on the winds—I see already
Omens that say the boisterous guests are coming.

Faustus.
The angry gale blows insolently upon us!
How keen and cold upon my neck it falls,
Like strokes of some sharp weapon.

Mephistopheles.

Witches
in Chorus.
On to the Brocken the witches are flocking—
Merry meet—merry part—how they gallop and drive,
Yellow stubble and stalk are rocking,
And young green corn is merry alive,
With the shapes and shadows swimming by,
To the highest heights they fly,
Where Sir Urian sits on high—
Throughout and about,
With clamour and shout,
Drives the maddening rout,
Over stock, over stone;
Shriek, laughter, and moan,
Before them are blown.

A Voice.
Before the rest—beyond the best—
Who to lead the group is fitter?
In savage pride see Baubo ride
On her sow about to litter.

Chorus.
Baubo—honour to whom honour—
Benediction be upon her—
Forward, mother!—as we speed us,
Who so fit as thou to lead us!
Forward—clear the way before us!
Then follow we in screaming chorus!

A Voice.
Whence came you?

A Voice.
Over Ilsenstein—
As I past I peeped into a nest,
And the night-owl, scared from her stupid rest,
Fixed her frightened eyes on mine!

A Voice.
O go to the devil—why drive you so fast?

A Voice.
She grazed my side as she hurried past,
And the skin is sore and the blast is chill:
Look there—see where—'tis bleeding still.

Chorus of Witches.
The way is long, and weary, and wide—
And the madman throng crowds on every side—
The pitchforks scratch, and the broomsticks scrape,
Will the child within escape,
When the mother, crushed to death,
Suffocating pants for breath?

Wizards and Warlocks. Semichorus 1.
Like the lazy snail, we linger and trail:
Our woman-kind, as fleet as the wind,
Have left us far and far behind—
On a road like this men droop and drivel,
While woman goes fearless and fast to the devil.

Wizards and Warlocks. Semichorus 2.
Swift they go, and swift they go,
And gain a thousand steps or so,
But slow is swift, and swift is slow.
Woman will bustle, and woman will justle,
But yet at the end will lose the day,
For hurry and hurry as best she may,
Man at one long bound clears the way.

Voices from above.
Come with us—come with us from Felsen-see,
From the lake of rocks to the eagle height
Of the hills—come with us—to-night—to-night!

Voices from below.
To wander above, is the thing we love.
Oh for one hour of this one night!
For one mad dance on the Brocken height!
When shall we join in the wild delight?
We have washed, and washed, and washed us quite,
The breasts, that have never borne, are white,
And our hearts are a-glow, our cheeks are bright—
We have watched a-left—we have watched a-right,
And we hear the sound of the far-off flight
As they hurry away, and are swept from sight.

The Two Choruses.
That wind that scattered the clouds is dead,
And they thicken soon o'er the wandering moon:
She hides her head—and the stars are fled;—
With a whispering, whistling, drizzling sound,
And a fall of meteor fires around—
Onward, onward, hurry, skurry,
The hell-driven rout of wizards hurry.

Voice from below.
Stop—stop—stop.

Voice from above.
What voice is this
Calls to us from the abyss?
Seems it that the words just spoken
From the crannied rock have broken?

Voice from below.
Stop—stop—stop—for me—for me—
Guarded and bound with slant rocks round—
Stop—stop—stop—and make me free—
Three hundred years moiling, three hundred years toiling,
Hurry work—weary work—step after step;—
I grasp and I grope, and in time I have hope
To climb to the top—sisters, stop—sisters, stop—
I anoint every joint, and I pray my own prayer,
In the May—sabbath night, to the Prince of the air.—
Are you not my kindred?—and why am I hind'red
From mixing among you, and meeting him there?

Both Choruses.
Brooms fly fast when warlocks ride 'em
Rams, with those who know to guide 'em;
Broken branches gallop lightly;
Pitchforks, too, make coursers sprightly.
A buck-goat or boar is as good as the best of them,
Each man for himself, and who cares for the rest of them?
Many an egg shell air-balloon,
To-night will land at our saloon;
He who fails in his endeavour
To join us now, is gone for ever.

Half-Witch from below.
Far away I hear their laughter,
Hopelessly I stumble after;
Cannot rest at home in quiet—
Here I cannot join the riot.

Witches in Chorus.
Strength is given us by this ointment—
We will keep to-night's appointment—
We can speed on sea, no matter
Were the sail a cobweb tatter;
And a plank as weak and thin as
Snail's abandoned shell our pinnace.
He who cannot fly to-night,
Will never soar a wizard's flight.

Both Choruses.
And when we've reached the topmost bound,
Like swallows skim the haunted ground;
Far and wide upon the heath,
Spread your circling guard beneath;
Watch and ward 'gainst treachery,
With all the hosts of witchery.

Mephistopheles.
The air is heavy and oppressive,
And the whirling din excessive;
Rattling with the ceaseless babble,
Of the tumultuous hell-driven rabble;
Sultry, vaporous, and sickening;
To a denser substance thickening,
Burning noisomely, and glittering
With fiery sparks for ever frittering,
Poisoning every thing it reaches,
Atmosphere for fiends and witches.
But cling more close to me, or we will lose
Each other soon—where art thou?

Faustus
(from a great distance).
Here I am!

Mephistopheles.
What, lost already—torn away so far—
Then must I show that I am master here!
Make way, good people, for my young friend yonder:—
Room for young Voland—room, sweet people, room
Here, Doctor, cling to me, and with one spring
We'll rid ourselves of the whole set at once.
They are too bad—this raving is too much
Even for me.—Look yonder at the blaze
Of brightness—a distinct and steady flame:
How different from all the brimstone torches
And wildfire lights that madden round the hill,—
It tempts me to explore that distant copse—
Come let us steal away from this wild crowd.

Faustus.
Spirit of Contradiction—well, lead on!
I cannot but admire the bright idea
Of wandering to the Brocken in May-night,
To enjoy, forsooth, the charms of solitude.

Mephistopheles.
See, see the lights! how cheerily they burn!
There seems to be a merry set assembled,
A little party met of choice gay spirits.

Faustus.
Yet would I rather be above—see! see!
Where through the whirls of smoke bursts the red light,
And glows and triumphs—in what hurrying waves
Numbers on numbers evermore increasing,
The thickening throng streams onward—still—still onward—
All under the resistless fascination—
All to the worship of the evil One—
The clue to many a puzzling mystery
May be found here—to-night will be unravelled
Many a strange riddle.

Mephistopheles.
And strange riddles, too,
May be proposed to-night, and not unravelled—
But leave we the great world and its distractions,
While we enjoy our quiet corner here.
'Tis quite established that, in all large parties,
The guests divide in small and scattered circles—
See the young witches all are naked there,
And all the old ones with coy bashfulness,
Veiling their timid charms—come, come, look pleasant,
If it were only to oblige a friend—
'Tis not much trouble, and we'll have rare sport.
I hear the music—curse upon their scraping!—
But 'twill sound better when we're used to it.
Come, come, I must insist upon your coming—
Come—I must introduce my honoured friend.
Well now, what think you? Is not this a long
And splendid room? You scarce can see the end!
A line of fires—at least a hundred, shine
Brilliantly: what a scene of gaiety
Of all kinds—chatting, dancing, drinking here—
Cooking, and making love—can any thing
In the world be pleasanter?

Faustus.
In what character
Are we to know you—devil, or conjuror?

Mephistopheles.
I travel, usually, incognito;
But upon gala days the great display
Their stars and orders.—I've no need to sport
A garter—for the horse's foot is here
In high repute.—See you that sliding snail?
Eye—smell—touch—all gathered up into one?
Hither she creeps—her trembling feelers out—
Instinctively she knows that I am here,
And touching—smelling—eyeing, on prowls she,
Crowding herself together—wide awake—
Out of her frozen sleep suddenly roused.
Even if I wished disguise, it here would be
A thing impossible—come, come with me.
Forward from fire we saunter on to fire:
Play you the lover where I introduce you.
[As they pass on, Mephistopheles addresses a party sitting round a few dying embers.
Old gentlemen, pray, how do you get on
In the corner here? Why—sure you ought to be
Alive, and flirting in some merry circle.
See, where the gay young girls are giggling, yonder,—
If you are thus dull, you might have stayed at home.

General.
Who may trust a people's favour,
Though he fight for them for ever?
To nations, as to girls ungrateful,
The young are dear, the old are hateful.

Ex-Minister.
Little now to prize or praise;
—Give me back the good old days,
When kings and courts obeyed our call,
And ourselves were all in all.

Parvenu.
I was one of Fortune's pupils,
Disregarded doubts and scruples;
Thus her golden gifts I found;
Then, alas! the wheel turned round.

Author.
How public taste declines!—they never
Read works that once were counted clever;
—And then the critics—all invidious—
Pert, prating, ignorant, fastidious!

Mephistopheles
(who has suddenly assumed the appearance of extreme old age).
I feel the world is waning into age;
All things are ripening fast for the last day.
With feeble, tottering feet, for the last time,
I've climbed the witches' hill—the wine of life
Is low with me—and therefore 'tis that I,
An old man, think the world is on the lees.

Huckster-Witch.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?—great bargains going!
Rare things here to tempt the knowing!—
Stop and see them!—my collection
Well deserves minute inspection.
Such variety, in vain
Would you hope to meet again,
Of the curious articles,
Which your own old woman sells:
Rare and precious! every one
Hath on earth its business done.
Will you have the dagger knife,
That hath drained a brother's life?
Or the cup that held a draft,
Which was death to him that quaffed?
—This was from a royal feast,
And a queen had drugged the bowl:
—This a chalice, and the priest
—On him a confiding soul
Looked for comfort—poured in it
Venom of the aconite:
Here are trinkets—chain and gem—
Young man, you should purchase them—
Pearls, with which the wealthy donor
Won vain woman to dishonour.
Poor things! poor things!—the best and kindest
Fall soonest, for their heart is blindest,
And feels, and loves, and does not reason—
And they are lost—poor things! poor things!
—Here are swords, the gift of kings,
That have done the work of treason;
Or pierced, some coward hand directing,
The sleeping or the unsuspecting.

Mephistopheles.
Old lady, you mistake the times we live in—
Every one's heart to novelty is given:
Throw out your box of relics—such antiques
As these no creature fancies now or seeks.
The past is dead and gone—the present passion
Is novelty—this trash is out of fashion.

Faustus.
Scarce know I who I am or where—
They crowd and crush as at a fair.

Mephistopheles.
Forward the whirling crowd is striving,
All driven along the stream and driving,
All rushing on in one direction,
And each enjoying the reflection
That he to-night is his own sovereign,
That his own thoughts his movements govern,
Unconscious that the same broad river
Bears down its wave each self-deceiver.

Faustus.
Who's that?

Mephistopheles.
Her features closely scan—
'Tis the first wife of the first man.

Faustus.
Who say you?

Mephistopheles.
Adam's first wife, Lilith.
Beware—beware of her bright hair,
And the strange dress that glitters there:
Many a young man she beguileth,
Smiles winningly on youthful faces,
But woe to him whom she embraces!

Faustus
(looking at another group).
The old grey witch—how she squats down—poor devil!
Panting for breath—half-dead—fainting and floundering—
And the young vixen with her finds the revel
Rather too much for her—she, too, is foundering.

Mephistopheles.
Nonsense—the fun will ne'er be over.
Advance, my friend, and play the lover.
Look, man, the girl's well worth the winning—
Come, join the dances just beginning.

[Faustus and Mephistopheles take partners.
Faustus
(dancing with the young witch).
'Twas my fortune once to see
In a dream an apple-tree;
Rosy apples—one, two, three—
With a glad smile tempted me;
And to-night again I seem,
In the trance of that sweet dream,
Lovely is the tree I wis,
And the apple pleasant is.

His Partner.
Dear little apples—ay! their price
Was more than gold in paradise—
And pleasant to the sight and touch
I come from gardens rich in such.

Mephistopheles
(with the old witch).
I had a troubled dream, and it
Was haggard as a night-mare fit.
I saw an old tree torn and split,
And yet it pleased me, I admit.

His Partner.
With lowest courtesy I salute
The gay knight of the Horse's Foot:
The tree of knowledge, trunk and root,
Is his—and his must be the fruit.

Proctophantasmist.
Cursed devils—how they murder
All attempts at keeping order:
All in vain it is to prove
To Spirits by what laws they move:—
Mocking at all regulation,
Ridiculing demonstration,
See them onward still advancing,
Ghosts! like men and women dancing.

Faustus's Partner.
Who's this presumes to interfere?
What means the forward fellow here?

Faustus.
What—he?—why he is every where—
He never dances—but he guides
Opinion—disapproves—decides—
On carriage and the true division
Of time gives laws with calm precision.
While others dance he criticizes,
And all is perfect that he prizes;
And what he does not prate about
Is but of small account, no doubt:
Nay, such his wondrous powers of seeing,
What he beholds not has no being;
Our careless grouping must perplex him,
But dancing forward's sure to vex him.
The only figures he approves
Are where the set in circles moves,
Still turning his own humdrum round
Within the same contracted bound,
Holding, at times, grave consultation,
Listening to him with veneration,
As he with magisterial rigour
Commands a change of tune and figure.

Proctophantasmist.
Still here! defying me! this rabble
Of rude ghosts!—'tis intolerable!
What! restlessly still thronging hither?
Vanish from my sight—fade—wither—
How can men say that spectres haunt 'em?
—The mind, does it not make the phantom?
Who and what are they?—mere relations
That we may see or not at pleasure—
And here they come and—grant me patience—
Mix in the dance—converse at leisure.
I thought, that, by my labours brightened,
The world for this was too enlightened.
These devils—they rise, and in derision
Of all I say, still cross my vision.
What—beings, that have no existence,
To mock each law of time and distance!
Why, after this, the Tegel ghost
May grin again at his old post.
I thought I'd swept away these fancies
Of plays, and poems, and romances!
Still here! with all the noise of Babel,
These dreams of a forgotten fable!

Faustus's Partner.
Silence, silence, old intruder!

Proctophantasmist.
What! the ghosts are growing ruder—
How they beard me, in defiance
Of every inference of science!
Fiends, I tell you to your faces,
I will make you know your places!
What! in public thus to fool us!
A mob of ghosts, forsooth, to rule us!
[The dancing goes on.
To-night—why this is Goblin-hall,
Spirits and spectres all in all.
My comments—what are they?—the cavils,
Of a sour cynic on his travels,
A passing stranger's jealous spite.
—But Time will set the matter right,
Good sense assert its proper power,
Dethrone the tyrant of the hour,
And take revenge on my tormentors,
Goblins, and ghosts, and ghost-inventors!

Mephistopheles.
He'll throw himself into a puddle:
There will he, stupefying, muddle,
Till leeches, clinging to his body,
Are weary of their banquet bloody:
For spirits sinking—spirits rising
The one cure is phlebotomizing;
Delusions vanish soon—the leech
Diseases of the head can reach
And cure them—biting on the breech.—
Blue devils fade fast, and, disappearing,
Smile on the sage with aspect cheering.
The brain will thus correct and clear its
Vague whims, and vexing thoughts of spirits.
—Why have you quitted thus already
Your sweet and captivating lady,
Who sang so lovingly and well,
And danced so—

Faustus.
Why, I fear to tell;
But from her mouth, while she was singing,
I saw a little red mouse springing.

Mephistopheles.
Why start at trifles, my good fellow?
'Tis well it was not grey or yellow.
What can these dull suspicions profit?
The mouse—why make a mountain of it?
A pretty sort of reason this is
To fly a loving lady's kisses.

Faustus.
And then I saw—

Mephistopheles.
What?

Faustus.
Look, Mephisto, there,
See you far off, and shadow-like, a fair
Pale form—a lovely girl—almost a child—
Standing alone—with sweet eyes, sad and mild?
She looks on us—she moves—she leaves the place—
Her feet are bound—she slides with mournful pace.
I cannot from my heart dispel the wild,
Strange thought, that her's is my own Margaret's face.

Mephistopheles.
Repel that thought; 'tis but an idle trick
Of heated fancy, and the form you see
Is nothing but a magic mockery.
To gaze on it most dangerous may be.
Charmed by its marble stare, the blood grows thick
And hardens into marble; but ere now
You must have heard of pale Medusa's brow.

Faustus.
Ah, no! a corpse's eyes are those
Whose lids no loving fingers close.
'Tis she—that form—that face—that breast
So often to my bosom prest.

Mephistopheles.
Fool! 'tis delusion! every lover
Would there his charmer's looks discover.

Faustus.
What mirth is here—and, oh! what grief—my glance
Still—still returns to that pale countenance;
And see around her neck a slender chain,
That stripes the snowy skin with crimson stain:
Scarce broader than a knife's thin edge it gleams—
A strangely chosen ornament it seems.

Mephistopheles.
Yes, you are right; for I can see it too,
—But think no more of it than others do.
Be not surprised, if you should see her carry
Her head under her arm—'twere like enough;
For since the day that Perseus cut it off,
Such things are not at all extraordinary.
But see, all others here are pleasant;
Cease moping, and enjoy the present:
All round the hill is merriment—
Try thou the same experiment.
Never did crowded capital
A gayer throng together call;
And if my senses do not err,
Yonder's an open theatre.
—Well, what's your business?

Servibilis.
We are just beginning—
'Tis a new piece—the last of seven—seven is
The customary number here—'twas written
By a young amateur of fancy—the actors
Are dilettanti all—your pardon, gentlemen,
But I must vanish—I'm an amateur
Myself—and for this one night draw the curtain.

Mephistopheles.
Blocksberg for ever!—not a player
On earth but merits to be there!