University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Peasants
beneath a lime-tree.
DANCE AND SONG.

AN OLD PEASANT.
Doctor, the boon we know to prize,
That, though so famed the learned among,
You on this day do not despise
To mingle with the vulgar throng.
Then from our hands the pitcher take,
Which we have fill'd with water fresh,
We bring it you, and loud we wish,
Not only that your thirst it slake—
The drops that it contains, may they,
Each number to your life a day.

FAUST.
With thankful welcome I receive it,
And wish all good to them that gave it.

(The people collect round about him in a circle.)
OLD PEASANT.
In sooth, learned sir, 'tis very kind
That mid our feasts you now appear,
And help us to call back to mind
How good in olden times you were.
Here stand there living not a few
Whom your most worthy father drew
From the wild fever's ruthless rage,
When he set limits to the plague.
You, who were then a brave young man,
Enter'd the hospitals every one,
Though many corpses forth they bore,
You came out healthful as before:
Full many a test severe you stood
Helping, help'd by the Father of Good.

ALL THE PEASANTS.
Long may the man who saved us live,
His aid in future need to give!

FAUST.
To Him above your thanks be paid,
Who aids alone, and sendeth aid.

(He goes on farther with Wagner.)
WAGNER.
How proud must thou not feel, most learned man,
To hear the praises of this multitude;
Oh! happy he who from his talents can
Derive such unadulterated good!
The father shews you to his son,
And all in crowds to see you run.
The dancers cease their giddy round,
And the fiddle stops its sound.
They form a ring where'er you go,
And in the air their hats they throw,
A little more, and they would bend the knee,
As if they saw the Venerabile.

FAUST.
Yet a few paces, till we reach yon stone,
And there may we our wearied strength repair.
Here sat I oft, plunged in deep thought, alone,
And wore me out with fasting and with prayer.
Rich then in hope, in faith then strong,
With tears and sobs my hands I wrung,
And ween'd the end of that dire pest,
From the will of Heaven to wrest.
Now sounds their loud applause like mockery.
Oh! could'st thou read it in my inward man,
How little sire and son
Of such bepraisings worthy be!
My father was a stern old gentleman,
Who Nature's holy secrets sought to trace,
Sincere, but after his peculiar plan,
With whimsical laboriousness;
Who, in society of adepts spent
His days, within the smoky kitchen pent,
And, after recipes unnumber'd, made
The unnatural mixtures of his trade.
The Lion red, the Lily's tender frame,
In tepid bath were closely wed together,
And both were then, with open fiery flame,
From one bride-chamber squeez'd into another:
Appeared then in the glass the queen,
With her many-coloured sheen,
Here was the medicine, and the patient died,
But no one questioned—who survived?
And thus have we, with drugs more curst than hell,
Within these vales, these mountains here,
Raged than the very pest more fell!
I have myself to thousands poison given;
They pin'd away, and I must live to hear
Men for the reckless murd'rers thanking heaven.

WAGNER.
How can you for such whims be grieved?
'Tis sure enough for any honest man,
The art which from his fathers he received
With conscientious care to carry on.
When we, in youth, place on our sire reliance,
He teaches us, his lore becomes our own;
When we, as men, extend the bounds of science,
Then may our sons improve what we have done.

FAUST.
O happy he who yet hath hope to merge
Forth from the night of error's troubled surge!
What most we need to know can ne'er be known,
And what we know were better still unknown.
But let us not this evening's fleeting joy
By idle sadness thus destroy!
Lo! where the glow of the descending sun
Shimmers the green-encircled huts upon;
He bends him down, his daily race is run,
Yet with unwearied progress hies he on,
New life to further in another sphere.
Ah that no wing may from the ground me heave
To follow still and still in his career!
Then should I see, borne on the beam of eve,
The silent world at my feet appear,
Each flame-tipt height, each placid vale below,
Each mountain-brook, whose silver waters flow,
Into the golden river of the plain;
The mountain wild, with ravines dark and wide,
Might then oppose my godlike course in vain;
Ev'n now, methinks, the ocean's genial tide
Before my wondering vision opens wide.
Yet seems the god at length to sink away;
But, borne by this new impulse of my mind,
I hasten onward on his quenchless ray,
The day before me, and the night behind,
The heavens above me, under me the sea.
A lovely dream! meanwhile away fast fleeteth he.
Alas! not soon the pinioned soul will find
A wing to waft the body on the wind.
Yet in each bosom is it deeply graven,
With soaring feeling forward still to pant,
When over us, lost in the blue of heaven,
Her quavering song the lark doth chaunt;
When over cliffy pine-girt peaks,
The eagle hovers at his ease,
And over plains, and over seas,
The crane his native region seeks.

WAGNER.
I too have had my hours of revery
But from such longings yet may boast me free.
Of fields and forests one is quickly tired,
The eagle's pinion have I ne'er desired.
How otherwise the mind and its delights!
From book to book, from page to page, we go.
Thus sweeten we the dreary winter nights,
New life we feel through all our members glow,
And chance we but unrol some worthy parchment scroll,
The very heavens descend upon our soul.

FAUST.
Thou know'st but the one impulse—it is well!
Oh! may'st thou long be stranger to the other!
Two souls, alas! within my bosom dwell,
Whose hostile natures ceaseless strive together;
The one, by stubborn power of love compelled,
With clutching organs to the world is held;
The other from earth's misty region soars
To join the realms of high progenitors.
Oh! be there spirits in the air,
Betwixt the heavens and earth that hover,
Descend ye from your golden atmosphere,
And waft, to new and varied life, me over!
Yes! were but an enchanted mantle mine,
To distant climes that bore me on its wing,
More than the costliest raiment I should prize it,
More than the purple mantle of a king.

WAGNER.
Invoke not rash the well known spirit-throng,
That stream unseen the atmosphere along,
And dangers thousandfold prepare,
Weak men from every quarter to ensnare.
From the keen North in swarms they float,
With sharpest teeth and arrow-pointed tongues;
From Orient they bring a blasting drought,
And feed their thirst upon thy lungs.
When they invade thee from the desert South,
Fire upon fire upheaping on thy crown,
The West sends forth his swarms, which only soothe
That thee and thine they may more surely drown.
Quick-ear'd they are, on wanton mischief bent,
And, listening, every cheating art they try,
They show as fair as if from heaven sent,
And lisp like angels when they lie.
But let us hence! the world is grey-clad all,
The air is cool'd, the mists of evening fall!
'Tis now that best we learn the worth of home to know—
Why standest thou and starest wildly so?
What twilight-vision can thy fancy trouble?

FAUST.
See'st thou that swarthy dog sweeping through corn and stubble?

WAGNER.
I saw him long ago—not strange he seem'd to me.

FAUST.
Look at him well—what should the creature be?

WAGNER.
He seems a poodle, snuffing at the wind,
Who seeks in vain his master's track to find.

FAUST.
Dost thou not see, how nigher still and nigher
His spiral circles round us wind?
And, err I not, he leaves behind
His path a train of sparkling fire.

WAGNER.
A small black poodle is all I see;
Surely some strange delusion blinds thee!

FAUST.
Methinks soft magic circles winds he,
To form a snare for thee and me.

WAGNER.
I see him only doubtful spring around,
Having two strangers for his master found.

FAUST.
He draws him closer—now is he quite near!

WAGNER.
You see!—a dog, and not a ghost, is here.
He growls, and crouches down, and looks at you,
And wags his tail—as dogs are wont to do.

FAUST.
Come hither poodle! do not fear.

WAGNER.
It is, in sooth, a drollish brute,
When you stand still then stands he mute,
But, when you speak, he springs, as he would speak to you;
He will bring back what you let fall,
And for your stick into the water spring.

FAUST.
You are quite right—I can find no such thing
As spirit here. Training has done it all.

WAGNER.
A dog who has received good education
May claim ev'n from the wise consideration;
In sooth, the poodle well deserves your favour,
In meed of his most scholar-like endeavour.

(Exeunt, going in through the gate of the town.)