Faust Part 2

MANAGER

Such a reproach not in the least offends; A man who some result intends Must use the tools that best are fitting.

Reflect, soft wood is given to you for splitting, And then, observe for whom you write!

If one comes bored, exhausted quite, Another, satiate, leaves the banquet's tapers, And, worst of all, full many a wight Is fresh from reading of the daily papers.

Idly to us they come, as to a masquerade, Mere curiosity their spirits warming: The ladies with themselves, and with their finery, aid, Without a salary their parts performing.

What dreams are yours in high poetic places?

You're pleased, forsooth, full houses to behold?

Draw near, and view your patrons' faces!

The half are coa.r.s.e, the half are cold.

One, when the play is out, goes home to cards; A wild night on a wench's breast another chooses: Why should you rack, poor, foolish bards, For ends like these, the gracious Muses?

I tell you, give but more-more, ever more, they ask: Thus shall you hit the mark of gain and glory.

Seek to confound your auditory!

To satisfy them is a task.- What ails you now? Is't suffering, or pleasure?

POET

Go, find yourself a more obedient slave!

What! shall the Poet that which Nature gave, The highest right, supreme Humanity, Forfeit so wantonly, to swell your treasure?

Whence o'er the heart his empire free?

The elements of Life how conquers he?

Is't not his heart's accord, urged outward far and dim, To wind the world in unison with him?

When on the spindle, spun to endless distance, By Nature's listless hand the thread is twirled, And the discordant tones of all existence In sullen jangle are together hurled, Who, then, the changeless orders of creation Divides, and kindles into rhythmic dance?

Who brings the One to join the general ordination, Where it may throb in grandest consonance?

Who bids the storm to pa.s.sion stir the bosom?

In brooding souls the sunset burn above?

Who scatters every fairest April blossom Along the s.h.i.+ning path of Love?

Who braids the noteless leaves to crowns, requiting Desert with fame, in Action's every field?

Who makes Olympus sure, the G.o.ds uniting?

The might of Man, as in the Bard revealed.

MERRY-ANDREW

So, these fine forces, in conjunction, Propel the high poetic function, As in a love-adventure they might play!

You meet by accident; you feel, you stay, And by degrees your heart is tangled; Bliss grows apace, and then its course is jangled; You're ravished quite, then comes a touch of woe, And there's a neat romance, completed ere you know!

Let us, then, such a drama give!

Grasp the exhaustless life that all men live!

Each shares therein, though few may comprehend: Where'er you touch, there's interest without end.

In motley pictures little light, Much error, and of truth a glimmering mite, Thus the best beverage is supplied, Whence all the world is cheered and edified.

Then, at your play, behold the fairest flower Of youth collect, to hear the revelation!

Each tender soul, with sentimental power, Sucks melancholy food from your creation; And now in this, now that, the leaven works.

For each beholds what in his bosom lurks.

They still are moved at once to weeping or to laughter, Still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see: A mind, once formed, is never suited after; One yet in growth will ever grateful be.

POET

Then give me back that time of pleasures, While yet in joyous growth I sang,- When, like a fount, the crowding measures Uninterrupted gushed and sprang!

Then bright mist veiled the world before me, In opening buds a marvel woke, As I the thousand blossoms broke, Which every valley richly bore me!

I nothing had, and yet enough for youth- Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth.

Give, unrestrained, the old emotion, The bliss that touched the verge of pain, The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,- O, give me back my youth again!

MERRY ANDREW

Youth, good my friend, you certainly require When foes in combat sorely press you; When lovely maids, in fond desire, Hang on your bosom and caress you; When from the hard-won goal the wreath Beckons afar, the race awaiting; When, after dancing out your breath, You pa.s.s the night in dissipating:- But that familiar harp with soul To play,-with grace and bold expression, And towards a self-erected goal To walk with many a sweet digression,- This, aged Sirs, belongs to you, And we no less revere you for that reason: Age childish makes, they say, but 'tis not true; We're only genuine children still, in Age's season!

MANAGER

The words you've bandied are sufficient; 'Tis deeds that I prefer to see: In compliments you're both proficient, But might, the while, more useful be.

What need to talk of Inspiration?

'Tis no companion of Delay.

If Poetry be your vocation, Let Poetry your will obey!

Full well you know what here is wanting; The crowd for strongest drink is panting, And such, forthwith, I'd have you brew.

What's left undone to-day, To-morrow will not do.

Waste not a day in vain digression: With resolute, courageous trust Seize every possible impression, And make it firmly your possession; You'll then work on, because you must.

Upon our German stage, you know it, Each tries his hand at what he will; So, take of traps and scenes your fill, And all you find, be sure to show it!

Use both the great and lesser heavenly light,- Squander the stars in any number, Beasts, birds, trees, rocks, and all such lumber, Fire, water, darkness, Day and Night!

Thus, in our booth's contracted sphere, The circle of Creation will appear, And move, as we deliberately impel, From Heaven, across the World, to h.e.l.l!

PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN

THE LORD === THE HEAVENLY HOST Afterwards MEPHISTOPHELES

(The THREE ARCHANGELS come forward.)

RAPHAEL

The sun-orb sings, in emulation, 'Mid brother-spheres, his ancient round: His path predestined through Creation He ends with step of thunder-sound.

The angels from his visage splendid Draw power, whose measure none can say; The lofty works, uncomprehended, Are bright as on the earliest day.

GABRIEL

And swift, and swift beyond conceiving, The splendor of the world goes round, Day's Eden-brightness still relieving The awful Night's intense profound: The ocean-tides in foam are breaking, Against the rocks' deep bases hurled, And both, the spheric race partaking, Eternal, swift, are onward whirled!

MICHAEL