 | Faust |  |
3
DEDICATION
PREFIXED TO THE LATER EDITIONS OF FAUST.
Ye hover nigh, uncertain shapes, again,
That erst the misty eye of Fancy drew!
Shall I at length your shadowy flight detain,
And the fond dreaming of my youth pursue?
Ye press around!—resume your ancient reign,
As from the past's dim haze ye rise to view,
The magic breath that wafteth on your train
Stirs in my breast long-silent chords again.
That erst the misty eye of Fancy drew!
Shall I at length your shadowy flight detain,
And the fond dreaming of my youth pursue?
Ye press around!—resume your ancient reign,
As from the past's dim haze ye rise to view,
The magic breath that wafteth on your train
Stirs in my breast long-silent chords again.
Ye raise the images of happy days,
And many a dear-loved shade ye bring to view;
The echo like of half-forgotten lays,
First love and early friendship ye renew;
The pang returns, life's labyrinthine maze
Again the plaint of sorrow wanders through,
And names the loved ones, who, by Fortune reft
Of fairest hours, the world and me have left.
And many a dear-loved shade ye bring to view;
The echo like of half-forgotten lays,
First love and early friendship ye renew;
The pang returns, life's labyrinthine maze
Again the plaint of sorrow wanders through,
And names the loved ones, who, by Fortune reft
Of fairest hours, the world and me have left.
They hear no more the sequel of my song,
The souls to whom I sung my early lay;
Dispersed for ever is the friendly throng,
The echo of my lyre has died away.
My sorrow floats a careless crowd among,
Whose praise hath ceased my listless heart to sway,
And they who once were merry with my mirth,
If yet they live, are scattered o'er the earth.
The souls to whom I sung my early lay;
Dispersed for ever is the friendly throng,
The echo of my lyre has died away.
4
Whose praise hath ceased my listless heart to sway,
And they who once were merry with my mirth,
If yet they live, are scattered o'er the earth.
And I recall, with long-unfelt desire,
That realm of spirits, silent and serene!
My lisping lay, like the Æolian lyre,
Gives wavering tones, with many a pause between;
My heart is moved with youth's returning fire,
Tear follows tear where long no tear hath been;
I see the present as a distant goal,
The past, revived, is present to my soul.
That realm of spirits, silent and serene!
My lisping lay, like the Æolian lyre,
Gives wavering tones, with many a pause between;
My heart is moved with youth's returning fire,
Tear follows tear where long no tear hath been;
I see the present as a distant goal,
The past, revived, is present to my soul.
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