Night.

Faust discovered sitting restless at his desk, in a narrow high-vaulted Gothic chamber.

Faust. There now, I’ve toiled my way quite through Law, Medicine, and Philosophy, And, to my sorrow, also thee, Theology, with much ado; And here I stand, poor human fool, As wise as when I went to school. Master, ay, Doctor, titled duly, An urchin-brood of boys unruly For ten slow-creeping years and mo, Up and down, and to and fro, I lead by the nose: and this I know, That vain is all our boasted lore— A thought that burns me to the core! True, I am wiser than all their tribe, Doctor, Master, Priest, and Scribe; No scruples nor doubts in my bosom dwell, I fear no devil, believe no hell; But with my fear all joy is gone, All rare conceit of wisdom won; All dreams so fond, all faith so fair, To make men better than they are. Nor gold have I, nor gear, nor fame, Station, or rank, or honored name, Here like a kennelled cur I lie! Therefore the magic art I’ll try, From spirit’s might and mouth to draw, Mayhap, some key to Nature’s law; That I no more, with solemn show, May sweat to teach what I do not know; That I may ken the bond that holds The world, through all its mystic folds; The hidden seeds of things explore, And cheat my thought with words no more.

O might thou shine, thou full moon bright, For the last time upon my woes, Thou whom, by this brown desk alone, So oft my wakeful eyes have known. Then over books and paper rose On me thy sad familiar light! Oh, that beneath thy friendly ray, On peaky summit I might stray, Round mountain caves with spirits hover, And flit the glimmering meadows over, And from all fevered fumes of thinking free, Bathe me to health within thy dewy sea.

In vain! still pines my prisoned soul Within this curst dank dungeon-hole! Where dimly finds ev’n heaven’s blest ray, Through painted glass, its struggling way. Shut in by heaps of books up-piled, All worm-begnawed and dust-besoiled, With yellowed papers, from the ground To the smoked ceiling, stuck around; Caged in with old ancestral lumber, Cases, boxes, without number, Broken glass, and crazy chair, Dust and brittleness everywhere; This is thy world, a world for a man’s soul to breathe in!

And ask I still why in my breast, My heart beats heavy and oppressed? And why some secret unknown sorrow Freezes my blood, and numbs my marrow? ’Stead of the living sphere of Nature, Where man was placed by his Creator, Surrounds thee mouldering dust alone, The grinning skull and skeleton.

Arise! forth to the fields, arise! And this mysterious magic page, From Nostradamus’ hand so sage, Should guide thee well. Thy raptured eyes Shall then behold what force compels The tuneful spheres to chime together; When, taught by Nature’s mightiest spells, Thine innate spring of soul upwells, As speaks one spirit to another. In vain my thought gropes blindly here, To make those sacred symbols clear; Ye unseen Powers that hover near me, Answer, I charge ye, when ye hear me! [He opens the book, and sees the sign of the Macrocosm.] Ha! what ecstatic joy this page reveals, At once through all my thrilling senses flowing! Young holy zest of life my spirit feels In every vein, in every nerve, new glowing! Was it a God whose finger drew these signs, That, with mild pulse of joy, and breath of rest, Smooth the tumultuous heaving of my breast, And with mysterious virtue spread the lines Of Nature’s cipher bare to mortal sight? Am I a God? so wondrous pure the light Within me! in these tokens I behold The powers by which all Nature is besouled. Now may I reach the sage’s words aright; “The world of spirits is not barred; Thy sense is shut, thy heart is dead! Up, scholars, bathe your hearts so hard, In the fresh dew of morning’s red!” [He scans carefully the sign.] How mingles here in one the soul with soul, And lives each portion in the living whole! How heavenly Powers, ascending and descending, From hand to hand their golden ewers are lending, And bliss-exhaling swing from pole to pole! From the high welkin to earth’s centre bounding, Harmonious all through the great All resounding!

What wondrous show! but ah! ’tis but a show! Where grasp I thee, thou infinite Nature, where? And you, ye teeming breasts? ye founts whence flow All living influences fresh and fair? Whereon the heavens and earth dependent hang, Where seeks relief the withered bosom’s pang? Your founts still well, and I must pine in vain! [He turns the book over impatiently, and beholds the sign of the Spirit of the Earth.] What different working hath this sign? Thou Spirit of the Earth, I feel thee nearer; Already sees my strengthened spirit clearer; I glow as I had drunk new wine. New strength I feel to plunge into the strife, And bear the woes and share the joys of life, Buffet the blasts, and where the wild waves dash, Look calmly on the shipwreck’s fearful crash! Clouds hover o’er me— The moon is dim! The lamp’s flame wanes! It smokes!—Red beams dart forth Around my head—and from the vaulted roof Falls a cold shudder down, And grips me!—I feel Thou hover’st near me, conjured Spirit, now; Reveal thee! Ha! how swells with wild delight My bursting heart! And feelings, strange and new, At once through all my ravished senses dart! I feel my inmost soul made thrall to thee! Thou must! thou must! and were my life the fee!

[He seizes the book, and pronounces with a mysterious air the sign of the Spirit. A red flame darts forth, and the Spirit appears in the flame.

Spirit. Who calls me?

Faust. [turning away]

Vision of affright!

Spirit. Thou hast with mighty spell invoked me, And to obey thy call provoked me, And now—

Faust.

Hence from my sight!

Spirit. Thy panting prayer besought my might to view, To hear my voice, and know my semblance too; Now bending from my native sphere to please thee, Here am I!—ha! what pitiful terrors seize thee, And overman thee quite! where now the call Of that proud soul, that scorned to own the thrall Of earth, a world within itself created, And bore and cherished? that with its fellows sated Swelled with prophetic joy to leave its sphere, And live a spirit with spirits, their rightful peer. Where art thou, Faust? whose invocation rung Upon mine ear, whose powers all round me clung? Art thou that Faust? whom melts my breath away, Trembling even to the life-depths of thy frame, Like a poor worm that crawls into his clay!

Faust. Shall I then yield to thee, thou thing of flame? I am that Faust, and Spirit is my name!

Spirit.

Where life’s floods flow

And its tempests rave,

Up and down I wave,

Flit I to and fro!

Birth and the grave,

Life’s hidden glow,

A shifting motion,

A boundless ocean

Whose waters heave

Eternally;

Thus on the sounding loom of Time I weave

The living mantle of the Deity.

Faust. Thou who round the wide world wendest, Thou busy Spirit, how near I feel to thee!

Spirit. Thou’rt like the spirit whom thou comprehendest, Not me! [Vanishes.

Faust. Not thee! Whom, then? I, image of the Godhead, Dwarfed by thee! [Knocking is heard.] O death!—’tis Wagner’s knock—I know it well, My famulus; he comes to mar the spell! Woe’s me that such bright vision of the spheres Must vanish when this pedant-slave appears!