The Lord—The Heavenly Hosts: afterwards Mephistopheles.

Raphael. The Sun doth chime his ancient music ’Mid brothered spheres’ contending song. And on his fore-appointed journey With pace of thunder rolls along. Strength drink the angels from his glory, Though none may throughly search his way: God’s works rehearse their wondrous story As bright as on Creation’s day.

Gabriel. And swift and swift beyond conceiving The pomp of earth is wheeled around, Alternating Elysian brightness With awful gloom of night profound. Up foams the sea, a surging river, And smites the steep rock’s echoing base, And rock and sea, unwearied ever, Spin their eternal circling race.

Michael. And storm meets storm with rival greeting, From sea to land, from land to sea, While from their war a virtue floweth, That thrills with life all things that be. The lightning darts his fury, blazing Before the thunder’s sounding way; But still thy servants, Lord, are praising The gentle going of thy day.

All the Three. Strength drink the angels from thy glory, Though none may search thy wondrous way; Thy works repeat their radiant story, As bright as on Creation’s day.

Mephistopheles. Sith thou, O Lord, approachest near, And how we fare would’st fain have information, And thou of old wert glad to see me here, I stand to-day amid the courtly nation. Pardon; no words of fine address I know, Nor could, though all should hoot me down with sneers; My pathos would move laughter, and not tears, Wert thou not weaned from laughter long ago. Of suns and worlds I’ve nought to say, I only see how men must fret their lives away. The little god o’ the world jogs and jogs on, the same As when from ruddy clay he took his name; And, sooth to say, remains a riddle, just As much as when you shaped him from the dust. Perhaps a little better he had thriven, Had he not got the show of glimmering light from heaven: He calls it reason, and it makes him free To be more brutish than a brute can be; He is, methinks, with reverence of your grace, Like one of the long-leggèd race Of grasshoppers that leap in the air, and spring, And straightway in the grass the same old song they sing; ’Twere well that from the grass he never rose, On every stubble he must break his nose!

The Lord. Hast thou then nothing more to say? And art thou here again to-day To vent thy grudge in peevish spite Against the earth, still finding nothing right?

Mephistopheles. True, Lord; I find things there no better than before; I must confess I do deplore Man’s hopeless case, and scarce have heart myself To torture the poor miserable elf.

The Lord. Dost thou know Faust?

Mephistopheles.

The Doctor?

The Lord.

Ay: my servant.

Mephistopheles. Indeed! and of his master’s will observant, In fashion quite peculiar to himself; His food and drink are of no earthly taste, A restless fever drives him to the waste. Himself half seems to understand How his poor wits have run astrand; From heaven he asks each loveliest star, Earth’s chiefest joy must jump to his demand, And all that’s near, and all that’s far, Soothes not his deep-moved spirit’s war.

The Lord. Though for a time he blindly grope his way, Soon will I lead him into open day; Well knows the gardener, when green shoots appear, That bloom and fruit await the ripening year.

Mephistopheles. What wager you? you yet shall lose that soul! Only give me full license, and you’ll see How I shall lead him softly to my goal.

The Lord. As long as on the earth he lives Thou hast my license full and free; Man still must stumble while he strives.

Mephistopheles. My thanks for that! the dead for me Have little charm; my humor seeks The bloom of lusty life, with plump and rosy cheeks; For a vile corpse my tooth is far too nice, I do just as the cat does with the mice.

The Lord. So be it; meanwhile, to tempt him thou are free; Go, drag this spirit from his native fount, And lead him on, canst thou his will surmount, Into perdition down with thee; But stand ashamed at last, when thou shalt see An honest man, ’mid all his strivings dark, Finds the right way, though lit but by a spark.

Mephistopheles. Well, well; short time will show; into my net I’ll draw the fish, and then I’ve won my bet; And when I’ve carried through my measure Loud blast of trump shall blaze my glory; Dust shall he eat, and that with pleasure, Like my cousin the snake in the rare old story.

The Lord. And thou mayst show thee here in upper sky Unhindered, when thou hast a mind; I never hated much thee or thy kind; Of all the spirits that deny, The clever rogue sins least against my mind. For, in good sooth, the mortal generation, When a soft pillow they may haply find, Are far too apt to sink into stagnation; And therefore man for comrade wisely gets A devil, who spurs, and stimulates, and whets. But you, ye sons of heaven’s own choice, In the one living Beautiful rejoice! The self-evolving Energy divine Enclasp you round with love’s embrace benign, And on the floating forms of earth and sky Stamp the fair type of thought that may not die.

Mephistopheles. From time to time the ancient gentleman I see, and keep on the best terms I can. In a great Lord ’tis surely wondrous civil So face to face to hold talk with the devil.