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Ah, G.o.d! but Art is long, And Life, alas! is fleeting.
And oft, with zeal my critic-duties meeting, In head and breast there's something wrong.
How hard it is to compa.s.s the a.s.sistance Whereby one rises to the source!
And, haply, ere one travels half the course Must the poor devil quit existence.
FAUST
Is parchment, then, the holy fount before thee, A draught wherefrom thy thirst forever slakes?
No true refreshment can restore thee, Save what from thine own soul spontaneous breaks.
WAGNER
Pardon! a great delight is granted When, in the spirit of the ages planted, We mark how, ere our times, a sage has thought, And then, how far his work, and grandly, we have brought.
FAUST
O yes, up to the stars at last!
Listen, my friend: the ages that are past Are now a book with seven seals protected: What you the Spirit of the Ages call Is nothing but the spirit of you all, Wherein the Ages are reflected.
So, oftentimes, you miserably mar it!
At the first glance who sees it runs away.
An offal-barrel and a lumber-garret, Or, at the best, a Punch-and-Judy play, With maxims most pragmatical and hitting, As in the mouths of puppets are befitting!
WAGNER
But then, the world-the human heart and brain!
Of these one covets some slight apprehension.
FAUST
Yes, of the kind which men attain!
Who dares the child's true name in public mention?
The few, who thereof something really learned, Unwisely frank, with hearts that spurned concealing, And to the mob laid bare each thought and feeling, Have evermore been crucified and burned.
I pray you, Friend, 'tis now the dead of night; Our converse here must be suspended.
WAGNER
I would have shared your watches with delight, That so our learned talk might be extended.
To-morrow, though, I'll ask, in Easter leisure, This and the other question, at your pleasure.
Most zealously I seek for erudition: Much do I know-but to know all is my ambition.
[Exit.
FAUST (solus)
That brain, alone, not loses hope, whose choice is To stick in shallow trash forevermore,- Which digs with eager hand for buried ore, And, when it finds an angle-worm, rejoices!
Dare such a human voice disturb the flow, Around me here, of spirit-presence fullest?
And yet, this once my thanks I owe To thee, of all earth's sons the poorest, dullest!
For thou hast torn me from that desperate state Which threatened soon to overwhelm my senses: The apparition was so giant-great, It dwarfed and withered all my soul's pretences!
I, image of the G.o.dhead, who began- Deeming Eternal Truth secure in nearness- Ye choirs, have ye begun the sweet, consoling chant, Which, through the night of Death, the angels ministrant Sang, G.o.d's new Covenant repeating?
CHORUS OF WOMEN
With spices and precious Balm, we arrayed him; Faithful and gracious, We tenderly laid him: Linen to bind him Cleanlily wound we: Ah! when we would find him, Christ no more found we!
CHORUS OF ANGELS
Christ is ascended!
Bliss hath invested him,- Woes that molested him, Trials that tested him, Gloriously ended!
FAUST
Why, here in dust, entice me with your spell, Ye gentle, powerful sounds of Heaven?
Peal rather there, where tender natures dwell.
Your messages I hear, but faith has not been given; The dearest child of Faith is Miracle.
I venture not to soar to yonder regions Whence the glad tidings. .h.i.ther float; And yet, from childhood up familiar with the note, To Life it now renews the old allegiance.
Once Heavenly Love sent down a burning kiss Upon my brow, in Sabbath silence holy; And, filled with mystic presage, chimed the church-bell slowly, And prayer dissolved me in a fervent bliss.
A sweet, uncomprehended yearning Drove forth my feet through woods and meadows free, And while a thousand tears were burning, I felt a world arise for me.
These chants, to youth and all its sports appealing, Proclaimed the Spring's rejoicing holiday; And Memory holds me now, with childish feeling, Back from the last, the solemn way.
Sound on, ye hymns of Heaven, so sweet and mild!
My tears gush forth: the Earth takes back her child!
CHORUS OF DISCIPLES
Has He, victoriously, Burst from the vaulted Grave, and all-gloriously Now sits exalted?
Is He, in glow of birth, Rapture creative near?
Ah! to the woe of earth Still are we native here.
We, his aspiring Followers, Him we miss; Weeping, desiring, Master, Thy bliss!
CHORUS OF ANGELS
Christ is arisen, Out of Corruption's womb: Burst ye the prison, Break from your gloom!
Praising and pleading him, Lovingly needing him, Brotherly feeding him, Preaching and speeding him, Blessing, succeeding Him, Thus is the Master near,- Thus is He here!
