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HTML
746 lines
24 KiB
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<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN"
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<html>
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<head>
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<title>Rich Text System Test</title>
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<style type="text/css">
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@import "../../../dojo/resources/dojo.css";
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<script type="text/javascript" src="../../../dojo/dojo.js"
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djConfig="parseOnLoad: true, isDebug: true"></script>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="../_testCommon.js"></script>
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dojo.require("dijit._editor.RichText");
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dojo.require("dojo.parser"); // scan page for widgets and instantiate them
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</head>
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<body>
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<h1 class="testTitle">Rich Text Test</h1>
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<div style="border: 1px dotted black;">
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<h3>test case for bug #6112</h3>
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<textarea dojoType="dijit._editor.RichText" id="editor1"
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styleSheets="../../../dojo/resources/dojo.css">
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<p>
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Faust, by Goethe
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</p>
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<p>
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This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
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re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
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with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
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</p>
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<p>
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Title: Faust
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</p>
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<p>
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Author: Goethe
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</p>
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<p>
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Release Date: December 25, 2004 [EBook #14460]
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</p>
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<p>
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Language: English
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</p>
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<p>
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Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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</p>
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<p>
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAUST ***
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</p>
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<p>
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Bidwell and the PG Online
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Distributed Proofreading Team
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</p>
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<p>
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<h1> FAUST </h1>
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<h2>A TRAGEDY</h2>
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<h5>
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TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
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<br>
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OF
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<br>
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GOETHE
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<br>
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WITH NOTES
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<br>
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BY
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<br>
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CHARLES T BROOKS
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<br>
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SEVENTH EDITION.
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<br>
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BOSTON
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<br>
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TICKNOR AND FIELDS
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<br>
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MDCCCLXVIII.
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</h5>
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<p>
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,
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by CHARLES T. BROOKS,
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In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
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of the District of Rhode Island.
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</p>
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<p>
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UNIVERSITY PRESS:
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WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY,
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CAMBRIDGE.
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</p>
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<p>
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TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
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</p>
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<p>
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Perhaps some apology ought to be given to English scholars, that is, those
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who do not know German, (to those, at least, who do not know what sort of
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a thing Faust is in the original,) for offering another translation to the
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public, of a poem which has been already translated, not only in a literal
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prose form, but also, twenty or thirty times, in metre, and sometimes with
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great spirit, beauty, and power.
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</p>
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<p>
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The author of the present version, then, has no knowledge that a rendering
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of this wonderful poem into the exact and ever-changing metre of the
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original has, until now, been so much as attempted. To name only one
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defect, the very best versions which he has seen neglect to follow the
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exquisite artist in the evidently planned and orderly intermixing of
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_male_ and _female_ rhymes, _i.e._ rhymes which fall on the last syllable
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and those which fall on the last but one. Now, every careful student of
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the versification of Faust must feel and see that Goethe did not
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intersperse the one kind of rhyme with the other, at random, as those
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translators do; who, also, give the female rhyme (on which the vivacity of
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dialogue and description often so much depends,) in so small a proportion.
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</p>
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<p>
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A similar criticism might be made of their liberty in neglecting Goethe's
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method of alternating different measures with each other.
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</p>
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<p>
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It seems as if, in respect to metre, at least, they had asked themselves,
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how would Goethe have written or shaped this in English, had that been his
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native language, instead of seeking _con amore_ (and _con fidelità_) as
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they should have done, to reproduce, both in spirit and in form, the
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movement, so free and yet orderly, of the singularly endowed and
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accomplished poet whom they undertook to represent.
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</p>
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<p>
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As to the objections which Hayward and some of his reviewers have
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instituted in advance against the possibility of a good and faithful
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metrical translation of a poem like Faust, they seem to the present
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translator full of paradox and sophistry. For instance, take this
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assertion of one of the reviewers: "The sacred and mysterious union of
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thought with verse, twin-born and immortally wedded from the moment of
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their common birth, can never be understood by those who desire verse
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translations of good poetry." If the last part of this statement had read
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"by those who can be contented with _prose_ translations of good poetry,"
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the position would have been nearer the truth. This much we might well
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admit, that, if the alternative were either to have a poem like Faust in a
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metre different and glaringly different from the original, or to have it
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in simple and strong prose, then the latter alternative would be the one
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every tasteful and feeling scholar would prefer; but surely to every one
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who can read the original or wants to know how this great song _sung
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itself_ (as Carlyle says) out of Goethe's soul, a mere prose rendering
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must be, comparatively, a _corpus mortuum._
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</p>
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<p>
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The translator most heartily dissents from Hayward's assertion that a
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translator of Faust "must sacrifice either metre or meaning." At least he
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flatters himself that he has made, in the main, (not a compromise between
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meaning and melody, though in certain instances he may have fallen into
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that, but) a combination of the meaning with the melody, which latter is
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so important, so vital a part of the lyric poem's meaning, in any worthy
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sense. "No poetic translation," says Hayward's reviewer, already quoted,
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"can give the rhythm and rhyme of the original; it can only substitute the
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rhythm and rhyme of the translator." One might just as well say "no
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_prose_ translation can give the _sense and spirit_ of the original; it
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can only substitute the _sense and spirit of the words and phrases of the
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translator's language_;" and then, these two assertions balancing each
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other, there will remain in the metrical translator's favor, that he may
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come as near to giving both the letter and the spirit, as the effects of
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the Babel dispersion will allow.
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</p>
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<p>
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As to the original creation, which he has attempted here to reproduce, the
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translator might say something, but prefers leaving his readers to the
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poet himself, as revealed in the poem, and to the various commentaries of
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which we have some accounts, at least, in English. A French translator of
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the poem speaks in his introduction as follows: "This Faust, conceived by
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him in his youth, completed in ripe age, the idea of which he carried with
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him through all the commotions of his life, as Camoens bore his poem with
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him through the waves, this Faust contains him entire. The thirst for
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knowledge and the martyrdom of doubt, had they not tormented his early
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years? Whence came to him the thought of taking refuge in a supernatural
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realm, of appealing to invisible powers, which plunged him, for a
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considerable time, into the dreams of Illuminati and made him even invent
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a religion? This irony of Mephistopheles, who carries on so audacious a
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game with the weakness and the desires of man, is it not the mocking,
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scornful side of the poet's spirit, a leaning to sullenness, which can be
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traced even into the earliest years of his life, a bitter leaven thrown
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into a strong soul forever by early satiety? The character of Faust
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especially, the man whose burning, untiring heart can neither enjoy
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fortune nor do without it, who gives himself unconditionally and watches
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himself with mistrust, who unites the enthusiasm of passion and the
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dejectedness of despair, is not this an eloquent opening up of the most
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secret and tumultuous part of the poet's soul? And now, to complete the
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image of his inner life, he has added the transcendingly sweet person of
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Margaret, an exalted reminiscence of a young girl, by whom, at the age of
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fourteen, he thought himself beloved, whose image ever floated round him,
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and has contributed some traits to each of his heroines. This heavenly
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surrender of a simple, good, and tender heart contrasts wonderfully with
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the sensual and gloomy passion of the lover, who, in the midst of his
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love-dreams, is persecuted by the phantoms of his imagination and by the
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nightmares of thought, with those sorrows of a soul, which is crushed, but
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not extinguished, which is tormented by the invincible want of happiness
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and the bitter feeling, how hard a thing it is to receive or to bestow."
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</p>
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<p>
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DEDICATION.[1]
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</p>
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<p>
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Once more ye waver dreamily before me,
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Forms that so early cheered my troubled eyes!
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To hold you fast doth still my heart implore me?
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Still bid me clutch the charm that lures and flies?
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Ye crowd around! come, then, hold empire o'er me,
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As from the mist and haze of thought ye rise;
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The magic atmosphere, your train enwreathing,
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Through my thrilled bosom youthful bliss is breathing.
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</p>
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<p>
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Ye bring with you the forms of hours Elysian,
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And shades of dear ones rise to meet my gaze;
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First Love and Friendship steal upon my vision
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Like an old tale of legendary days;
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Sorrow renewed, in mournful repetition,
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Runs through life's devious, labyrinthine ways;
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And, sighing, names the good (by Fortune cheated
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Of blissful hours!) who have before me fleeted.
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</p>
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<p>
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These later songs of mine, alas! will never
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Sound in their ears to whom the first were sung!
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Scattered like dust, the friendly throng forever!
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Mute the first echo that so grateful rung!
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To the strange crowd I sing, whose very favor
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Like chilling sadness on my heart is flung;
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And all that kindled at those earlier numbers
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Roams the wide earth or in its bosom slumbers.
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</p>
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<p>
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And now I feel a long-unwonted yearning
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For that calm, pensive spirit-realm, to-day;
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Like an Aeolian lyre, (the breeze returning,)
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Floats in uncertain tones my lisping lay;
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Strange awe comes o'er me, tear on tear falls burning,
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The rigid heart to milder mood gives way!
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What I possess I see afar off lying,
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And what I lost is real and undying.
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</p>
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<p>
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PRELUDE
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</p>
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<p>
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IN THE THEATRE.
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</p>
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<p>
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_Manager. Dramatic Poet. Merry Person._
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</p>
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<p>
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_Manager_. You who in trouble and distress
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Have both held fast your old allegiance,
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What think ye? here in German regions
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Our enterprise may hope success?
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To please the crowd my purpose has been steady,
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Because they live and let one live at least.
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The posts are set, the boards are laid already,
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And every one is looking for a feast.
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They sit, with lifted brows, composed looks wearing,
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Expecting something that shall set them staring.
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I know the public palate, that's confest;
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Yet never pined so for a sound suggestion;
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True, they are not accustomed to the best,
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But they have read a dreadful deal, past question.
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How shall we work to make all fresh and new,
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Acceptable and profitable, too?
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For sure I love to see the torrent boiling,
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When towards our booth they crowd to find a place,
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Now rolling on a space and then recoiling,
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Then squeezing through the narrow door of grace:
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Long before dark each one his hard-fought station
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In sight of the box-office window takes,
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And as, round bakers' doors men crowd to escape starvation,
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For tickets here they almost break their necks.
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This wonder, on so mixed a mass, the Poet
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Alone can work; to-day, my friend, O, show it!
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</p>
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<p>
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_Poet_. Oh speak not to me of that motley ocean,
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Whose roar and greed the shuddering spirit chill!
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Hide from my sight that billowy commotion
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That draws us down the whirlpool 'gainst our will.
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No, lead me to that nook of calm devotion,
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Where blooms pure joy upon the Muses' hill;
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Where love and friendship aye create and cherish,
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With hand divine, heart-joys that never perish.
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Ah! what, from feeling's deepest fountain springing,
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Scarce from the stammering lips had faintly passed,
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Now, hopeful, venturing forth, now shyly clinging,
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To the wild moment's cry a prey is cast.
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Oft when for years the brain had heard it ringing
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It comes in full and rounded shape at last.
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What shines, is born but for the moment's pleasure;
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The genuine leaves posterity a treasure.
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</p>
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<p>
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_Merry Person_. Posterity! I'm sick of hearing of it;
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Supposing I the future age would profit,
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Who then would furnish ours with fun?
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For it must have it, ripe and mellow;
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The presence of a fine young fellow,
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Is cheering, too, methinks, to any one.
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Whoso can pleasantly communicate,
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Will not make war with popular caprices,
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For, as the circle waxes great,
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The power his word shall wield increases.
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Come, then, and let us now a model see,
|
||
|
|
Let Phantasy with all her various choir,
|
||
|
|
Sense, reason, passion, sensibility,
|
||
|
|
But, mark me, folly too! the scene inspire.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Manager_. But the great point is action! Every one
|
||
|
|
Comes as spectator, and the show's the fun.
|
||
|
|
Let but the plot be spun off fast and thickly,
|
||
|
|
So that the crowd shall gape in broad surprise,
|
||
|
|
Then have you made a wide impression quickly,
|
||
|
|
You are the man they'll idolize.
|
||
|
|
The mass can only be impressed by masses;
|
||
|
|
Then each at last picks out his proper part.
|
||
|
|
Give much, and then to each one something passes,
|
||
|
|
And each one leaves the house with happy heart.
|
||
|
|
Have you a piece, give it at once in pieces!
|
||
|
|
Such a ragout your fame increases;
|
||
|
|
It costs as little pains to play as to invent.
|
||
|
|
But what is gained, if you a whole present?
|
||
|
|
Your public picks it presently to pieces.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Poet_. You do not feel how mean a trade like that must be!
|
||
|
|
In the true Artist's eyes how false and hollow!
|
||
|
|
Our genteel botchers, well I see,
|
||
|
|
Have given the maxims that you follow.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Manager_. Such charges pass me like the idle wind;
|
||
|
|
A man who has right work in mind
|
||
|
|
Must choose the instruments most fitting.
|
||
|
|
Consider what soft wood you have for splitting,
|
||
|
|
And keep in view for whom you write!
|
||
|
|
If this one from _ennui_ seeks flight,
|
||
|
|
That other comes full from the groaning table,
|
||
|
|
Or, the worst case of all to cite,
|
||
|
|
From reading journals is for thought unable.
|
||
|
|
Vacant and giddy, all agog for wonder,
|
||
|
|
As to a masquerade they wing their way;
|
||
|
|
The ladies give themselves and all their precious plunder
|
||
|
|
And without wages help us play.
|
||
|
|
On your poetic heights what dream comes o'er you?
|
||
|
|
What glads a crowded house? Behold
|
||
|
|
Your patrons in array before you!
|
||
|
|
One half are raw, the other cold.
|
||
|
|
One, after this play, hopes to play at cards,
|
||
|
|
One a wild night to spend beside his doxy chooses,
|
||
|
|
Poor fools, why court ye the regards,
|
||
|
|
For such a set, of the chaste muses?
|
||
|
|
I tell you, give them more and ever more and more,
|
||
|
|
And then your mark you'll hardly stray from ever;
|
||
|
|
To mystify be your endeavor,
|
||
|
|
To satisfy is labor sore....
|
||
|
|
What ails you? Are you pleased or pained? What notion----
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Poet_. Go to, and find thyself another slave!
|
||
|
|
What! and the lofty birthright Nature gave,
|
||
|
|
The noblest talent Heaven to man has lent,
|
||
|
|
Thou bid'st the Poet fling to folly's ocean!
|
||
|
|
How does he stir each deep emotion?
|
||
|
|
How does he conquer every element?
|
||
|
|
But by the tide of song that from his bosom springs,
|
||
|
|
And draws into his heart all living things?
|
||
|
|
When Nature's hand, in endless iteration,
|
||
|
|
The thread across the whizzing spindle flings,
|
||
|
|
When the complex, monotonous creation
|
||
|
|
Jangles with all its million strings:
|
||
|
|
Who, then, the long, dull series animating,
|
||
|
|
Breaks into rhythmic march the soulless round?
|
||
|
|
And, to the law of All each member consecrating,
|
||
|
|
Bids one majestic harmony resound?
|
||
|
|
Who bids the tempest rage with passion's power?
|
||
|
|
The earnest soul with evening-redness glow?
|
||
|
|
Who scatters vernal bud and summer flower
|
||
|
|
Along the path where loved ones go?
|
||
|
|
Who weaves each green leaf in the wind that trembles
|
||
|
|
To form the wreath that merit's brow shall crown?
|
||
|
|
Who makes Olympus fast? the gods assembles?
|
||
|
|
The power of manhood in the Poet shown.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Merry Person_. Come, then, put forth these noble powers,
|
||
|
|
And, Poet, let thy path of flowers
|
||
|
|
Follow a love-adventure's winding ways.
|
||
|
|
One comes and sees by chance, one burns, one stays,
|
||
|
|
And feels the gradual, sweet entangling!
|
||
|
|
The pleasure grows, then comes a sudden jangling,
|
||
|
|
Then rapture, then distress an arrow plants,
|
||
|
|
And ere one dreams of it, lo! _there_ is a romance.
|
||
|
|
Give us a drama in this fashion!
|
||
|
|
Plunge into human life's full sea of passion!
|
||
|
|
Each lives it, few its meaning ever guessed,
|
||
|
|
Touch where you will, 'tis full of interest.
|
||
|
|
Bright shadows fleeting o'er a mirror,
|
||
|
|
A spark of truth and clouds of error,
|
||
|
|
By means like these a drink is brewed
|
||
|
|
To cheer and edify the multitude.
|
||
|
|
The fairest flower of the youth sit listening
|
||
|
|
Before your play, and wait the revelation;
|
||
|
|
Each melancholy heart, with soft eyes glistening,
|
||
|
|
Draws sad, sweet nourishment from your creation;
|
||
|
|
This passion now, now that is stirred, by turns,
|
||
|
|
And each one sees what in his bosom burns.
|
||
|
|
Open alike, as yet, to weeping and to laughter,
|
||
|
|
They still admire the flights, they still enjoy the show;
|
||
|
|
Him who is formed, can nothing suit thereafter;
|
||
|
|
The yet unformed with thanks will ever glow.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Poet_. Ay, give me back the joyous hours,
|
||
|
|
When I myself was ripening, too,
|
||
|
|
When song, the fount, flung up its showers
|
||
|
|
Of beauty ever fresh and new.
|
||
|
|
When a soft haze the world was veiling,
|
||
|
|
Each bud a miracle bespoke,
|
||
|
|
And from their stems a thousand flowers I broke,
|
||
|
|
Their fragrance through the vales exhaling.
|
||
|
|
I nothing and yet all possessed,
|
||
|
|
Yearning for truth and in illusion blest.
|
||
|
|
Give me the freedom of that hour,
|
||
|
|
The tear of joy, the pleasing pain,
|
||
|
|
Of hate and love the thrilling power,
|
||
|
|
Oh, give me back my youth again!
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Merry Person_. Youth, my good friend, thou needest certainly
|
||
|
|
When ambushed foes are on thee springing,
|
||
|
|
When loveliest maidens witchingly
|
||
|
|
Their white arms round thy neck are flinging,
|
||
|
|
When the far garland meets thy glance,
|
||
|
|
High on the race-ground's goal suspended,
|
||
|
|
When after many a mazy dance
|
||
|
|
In drink and song the night is ended.
|
||
|
|
But with a free and graceful soul
|
||
|
|
To strike the old familiar lyre,
|
||
|
|
And to a self-appointed goal
|
||
|
|
Sweep lightly o'er the trembling wire,
|
||
|
|
There lies, old gentlemen, to-day
|
||
|
|
Your task; fear not, no vulgar error blinds us.
|
||
|
|
Age does not make us childish, as they say,
|
||
|
|
But we are still true children when it finds us.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Manager_. Come, words enough you two have bandied,
|
||
|
|
Now let us see some deeds at last;
|
||
|
|
While you toss compliments full-handed,
|
||
|
|
The time for useful work flies fast.
|
||
|
|
Why talk of being in the humor?
|
||
|
|
Who hesitates will never be.
|
||
|
|
If you are poets (so says rumor)
|
||
|
|
Now then command your poetry.
|
||
|
|
You know full well our need and pleasure,
|
||
|
|
We want strong drink in brimming measure;
|
||
|
|
Brew at it now without delay!
|
||
|
|
To-morrow will not do what is not done to-day.
|
||
|
|
Let not a day be lost in dallying,
|
||
|
|
But seize the possibility
|
||
|
|
Right by the forelock, courage rallying,
|
||
|
|
And forth with fearless spirit sallying,--
|
||
|
|
Once in the yoke and you are free.
|
||
|
|
Upon our German boards, you know it,
|
||
|
|
What any one would try, he may;
|
||
|
|
Then stint me not, I beg, to-day,
|
||
|
|
In scenery or machinery, Poet.
|
||
|
|
With great and lesser heavenly lights make free,
|
||
|
|
Spend starlight just as you desire;
|
||
|
|
No want of water, rocks or fire
|
||
|
|
Or birds or beasts to you shall be.
|
||
|
|
So, in this narrow wooden house's bound,
|
||
|
|
Stride through the whole creation's round,
|
||
|
|
And with considerate swiftness wander
|
||
|
|
From heaven, through this world, to the world down yonder.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
PROLOGUE
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
IN HEAVEN.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
[THE LORD. THE HEAVENLY HOSTS _afterward_ MEPHISTOPHELES.
|
||
|
|
_The three archangels_, RAPHAEL, GABRIEL, _and_ MICHAEL, _come forward_.]
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Raphael_. The sun, in ancient wise, is sounding,
|
||
|
|
With brother-spheres, in rival song;
|
||
|
|
And, his appointed journey rounding,
|
||
|
|
With thunderous movement rolls along.
|
||
|
|
His look, new strength to angels lending,
|
||
|
|
No creature fathom can for aye;
|
||
|
|
The lofty works, past comprehending,
|
||
|
|
Stand lordly, as on time's first day.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Gabriel_. And swift, with wondrous swiftness fleeting,
|
||
|
|
The pomp of earth turns round and round,
|
||
|
|
The glow of Eden alternating
|
||
|
|
With shuddering midnight's gloom profound;
|
||
|
|
Up o'er the rocks the foaming ocean
|
||
|
|
Heaves from its old, primeval bed,
|
||
|
|
And rocks and seas, with endless motion,
|
||
|
|
On in the spheral sweep are sped.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Michael_. And tempests roar, glad warfare waging,
|
||
|
|
From sea to land, from land to sea,
|
||
|
|
And bind round all, amidst their raging,
|
||
|
|
A chain of giant energy.
|
||
|
|
There, lurid desolation, blazing,
|
||
|
|
Foreruns the volleyed thunder's way:
|
||
|
|
Yet, Lord, thy messengers[2] are praising
|
||
|
|
The mild procession of thy day.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_All Three_. The sight new strength to angels lendeth,
|
||
|
|
For none thy being fathom may,
|
||
|
|
The works, no angel comprehendeth,
|
||
|
|
Stand lordly as on time's first day.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Mephistopheles_. Since, Lord, thou drawest near us once again,
|
||
|
|
And how we do, dost graciously inquire,
|
||
|
|
And to be pleased to see me once didst deign,
|
||
|
|
I too among thy household venture nigher.
|
||
|
|
Pardon, high words I cannot labor after,
|
||
|
|
Though the whole court should look on me with scorn;
|
||
|
|
My pathos certainly would stir thy laughter,
|
||
|
|
Hadst thou not laughter long since quite forsworn.
|
||
|
|
Of sun and worlds I've nought to tell worth mention,
|
||
|
|
How men torment themselves takes my attention.
|
||
|
|
The little God o' the world jogs on the same old way
|
||
|
|
And is as singular as on the world's first day.
|
||
|
|
A pity 'tis thou shouldst have given
|
||
|
|
The fool, to make him worse, a gleam of light from heaven;
|
||
|
|
He calls it reason, using it
|
||
|
|
To be more beast than ever beast was yet.
|
||
|
|
He seems to me, (your grace the word will pardon,)
|
||
|
|
Like a long-legg'd grasshopper in the garden,
|
||
|
|
Forever on the wing, and hops and sings
|
||
|
|
The same old song, as in the grass he springs;
|
||
|
|
Would he but stay there! no; he needs must muddle
|
||
|
|
His prying nose in every puddle.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_The Lord_. Hast nothing for our edification?
|
||
|
|
Still thy old work of accusation?
|
||
|
|
Will things on earth be never right for thee?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Mephistopheles_. No, Lord! I find them still as bad as bad can be.
|
||
|
|
Poor souls! their miseries seem so much to please 'em,
|
||
|
|
I scarce can find it in my heart to tease 'em.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_The Lord_. Knowest thou Faust?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Mephistopheles_. The Doctor?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_The Lord_. Ay, my servant!
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Mephistopheles_. He!
|
||
|
|
Forsooth! he serves you in a famous fashion;
|
||
|
|
No earthly meat or drink can feed his passion;
|
||
|
|
Its grasping greed no space can measure;
|
||
|
|
Half-conscious and half-crazed, he finds no rest;
|
||
|
|
The fairest stars of heaven must swell his treasure.
|
||
|
|
Each highest joy of earth must yield its zest,
|
||
|
|
Not all the world--the boundless azure--
|
||
|
|
Can fill the void within his craving breast.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_The Lord_. He serves me somewhat darkly, now, I grant,
|
||
|
|
Yet will he soon attain the light of reason.
|
||
|
|
Sees not the gardener, in the green young plant,
|
||
|
|
That bloom and fruit shall deck its coming season?
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Mephistopheles_. What will you bet? You'll surely lose your wager!
|
||
|
|
If you will give me leave henceforth,
|
||
|
|
To lead him softly on, like an old stager.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_The Lord_. So long as he shall live on earth,
|
||
|
|
Do with him all that you desire.
|
||
|
|
Man errs and staggers from his birth.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Mephistopheles_. Thank you; I never did aspire
|
||
|
|
To have with dead folk much transaction.
|
||
|
|
In full fresh cheeks I take the greatest satisfaction.
|
||
|
|
A corpse will never find me in the house;
|
||
|
|
I love to play as puss does with the mouse.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_The Lord_. All right, I give thee full permission!
|
||
|
|
Draw down this spirit from its source,
|
||
|
|
And, canst thou catch him, to perdition
|
||
|
|
Carry him with thee in thy course,
|
||
|
|
But stand abashed, if thou must needs confess,
|
||
|
|
That a good man, though passion blur his vision,
|
||
|
|
Has of the right way still a consciousness.
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Mephistopheles_. Good! but I'll make it a short story.
|
||
|
|
About my wager I'm by no means sorry.
|
||
|
|
And if I gain my end with glory
|
||
|
|
Allow me to exult from a full breast.
|
||
|
|
Dust shall he eat and that with zest,
|
||
|
|
Like my old aunt, the snake, whose fame is hoary.
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
_The Lord_. Well, go and come, and make thy trial;
|
||
|
|
The like of thee I never yet did hate.
|
||
|
|
Of all the spirits of denial
|
||
|
|
The scamp is he I best can tolerate.
|
||
|
|
Man is too prone, at best, to seek the way that's easy,
|
||
|
|
He soon grows fond of unconditioned rest;
|
||
|
|
And therefore such a comrade suits him best,
|
||
|
|
Who spurs and works, true devil, always busy.
|
||
|
|
But you, true sons of God, in growing measure,
|
||
|
|
Enjoy rich beauty's living stores of pleasure!
|
||
|
|
The Word[3] divine that lives and works for aye,
|
||
|
|
Fold you in boundless love's embrace alluring,
|
||
|
|
And what in floating vision glides away,
|
||
|
|
That seize ye and make fast with thoughts enduring.
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
[_Heaven closes, the archangels disperse._]
|
||
|
|
|
||
|
|
</p>
|
||
|
|
<p>
|
||
|
|
_Mephistopheles. [Alone.]_ I like at times to exchange with him a word,
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And take care not to break with him. 'Tis civil
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In the old fellow[4] and so great a Lord
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To talk so kindly with the very devil.
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