Faust. [alone] Strange how his pate alone hope never leaves, Who still to shallow husks of learning cleaves! With greedy hand who digs for hidden treasure, And, when he finds a grub, rejoiceth above measure!

Durst such a mortal voice usurp mine ear When all the spirit-world was floating near? Yet, for this once, my thanks are free, Thou meanest of earth’s sons, to thee! Thy presence drew me back from sheer despair, And shock too keen for mortal nerve to bear; Alas! so giant-great the vision came, That I might feel me dwarf, ev’n as I am.

I, God’s own image that already seemed To gaze where Truth’s eternal mirror gleamed, And, clean divested of this cumbering clay, Basked in the bliss of heaven’s vivific ray; I, more than cherub, with fresh pulses glowing, Who well nigh seemed through Nature’s deep veins flowing Like a pure god, creative virtue knowing, What sharp reproof my hot presumption found! One word of thunder smote me to the ground. Alas! ’tis true! not I with thee and thine May dare to cope! the strength indeed was mine To make thee own my call, but not To chain thee to the charmèd spot. When that blest rapture thrilled my frame, I felt myself so small, so great; But thou didst spurn me back with shame, Into this crazy human state. Where find I aid? what follow? what eschew? Shall I that impulse of my soul obey? Alas! alas! but I must feel it true, The pains we suffer and the deeds we do, Are clogs alike in the free spirit’s way.

The godlike essence of our heaven-born powers Must yield to strange and still more strange intrusion; Soon as the good things of this world are ours, We deem our nobler self a vain illusion, And heaven-born instincts—very life of life— Are strangled in the low terrestrial strife.

Young fancy, that once soared with flight sublime, On venturous vans, ev’n to th’ Eternal’s throne, Now schools her down a little space to own, When in the dark engulfing stream of time, Our fair-faced pleasures perish one by one. Care nestles deep in every heart, And, cradling there the secret smart, Rocks to and fro, and peace and joy are gone. What though new masks she still may wear, Wealth, house and hall, with acres rich and rare, As wife or child appear she, water, flame, Dagger, or poison, she is still the same; And still we fear the ill which happens never, And what we lose not are bewailing ever.

Alas! alas! too deep ’tis felt! too deep! With gods may vie no son of mortal clay; More am I like to worms that crawl and creep, And dig, and dig through earth their lightless way, Which, while they feed on dust in narrow room, Find from the wanderer’s foot their death-blow and their tomb.

Is it not dust that this old wall From all its musty benches shows me? And dust the trifling trumperies all That in this world of moths enclose me? Here is it that I hope to find Wherewith to sate my craving mind? Need I spell out page after page, To know that men in every age And every clime, have spurred in vain The jaded muscle and the tortured brain, And here and there, with centuries between, One happy man belike hath been?

Thou grinning skull, what wouldst thou say, Save that thy brain, in chase of truth, like mine, With patient toil pursued its floundering way By glimmering lights that through dim twilight-shine? Ye instruments, in sooth, now laugh at me, With wheel, and cog-wheel, ring, and cylinder; At Nature’s door I stood; ye should have been the key, But though your ward be good, the bolt ye cannot stir. Mysterious Nature may not choose To unveil her secrets to the stare of day, And what from the mind’s eye she stores away, Thou canst not force from her with levers and with screws. Thou antique gear, why dost thou cumber My chamber with thy useless lumber? My father housed thee on this spot, And I must keep thee, though I need thee not! Thou parchment roll that hast been smoked upon Long as around this desk the sorry lamp-light shone; Much better had I spent my little gear, Than with this little to sit mouldering here; Why should a man possess ancestral treasures, But by possession to enlarge his pleasures? The thing we use not a dead burden lies, But what the moment brings the wise man knows to prize.

But what is this? there in the corner; why Does that flask play the magnet to mine eye? And why within me does this strange light shine, As the soft nightly moon through groves of sombre pine? I greet thee, matchless phial; and with devotion I take thee down, and in thy mellow potion I reverence human wit and human skill. Fine essence of the opiate dew of sleep, Dear extract of all subtle powers that kill, Be mine the first-fruits of thy strength to reap! I look on thee, and soothed is my heart’s pain; I grasp thee, straight is lulled my racking brain, And wave by wave my soul’s flood ebbs away. I see wide ocean’s swell invite my wistful eyes, And at my feet her sparkling mirror lies; To brighter shores invites a brighter day.

A car of fire comes hovering o’er my head, With gentle wafture; now let me pursue New flight adventurous, through the starry blue, And be my wingèd steps unburdened sped To spheres of uncramped energy divine! And may indeed this life of gods be mine, But now a worm, and cased in mortal clay? Yes! only let strong will high thought obey, To turn thy back on the blest light of day, And open burst the portals which by most With fear, that fain would pass them by, are crossed. Now is the time by deeds, not words, to prove That earth-born man yields not to gods above. Before that gloomy cavern not to tremble, Where all those spectral shapes of dread assemble, Which Fancy, slave of every childish fear, Bids, to the torment of herself, appear; Forward to strive unto that passage dire, Whose narrow mouth seems fenced with hell’s collected fire; With glad resolve this leap to make, even though That thing we call our soul should into nothing flow!

Now come thou forth! thou crystal goblet clear, From out thy worshipful old case, Where thou hast lain unused this many a year. In days of yore right gayly didst thou grace The festive meetings of my grey-beard sires, When passed from hand to hand the draught that glee inspires. Thy goodly round, the figures there Pictured with skill so quaint and rare, Each lusty drinker’s duty to declare In ready rhyme what meaning they might bear, And at one draught to drain the brimming cup,— All this recalls full many a youthful night. Now to no comrade shall I yield thee up, Nor whet my wit upon thy pictures bright; Here is a juice intoxicates the soul Quickly. With dark brown flood it crowns the bowl. Let this last draught, my mingling and my choice, With blithesome heart be quaffed, and joyful voice, A solemn greeting to the rising morn!

[A sound of bells is heard, and distant quire-singing.

Quire of Angels. Christ is arisen! Joy be to mortal man, Whom, since the world began, Evils inherited, By his sins merited, Through his veins creeping, Sin-bound are keeping.

Faust. What sweet soft peals, what notes, so clear and pure, Draw from my lips the glass perforce away? Thus early do the bells their homage pay, Of holy hymning to new Easter day! Already sing the quires the soothing song That erst, round the dark grave, an angel throng Sang, to proclaim the great salvation sure!

Quire of Women. With spices and balsams All sweetly we bathed Him; With cloths of fine linen All cleanly we swathed Him; In the tomb of the rock, where His body was lain, We come, and we seek Our loved Master, in vain!

Quire of Angels. Christ is arisen! Praised be His name! Whose love shared with sinners Their sorrow and shame; Who bore the hard trial Of self-denial, And, victorious, ascends to the skies whence He came.

Faust. What seek ye here, ye gently-swaying tones, Sweet seraph-music ’mid a mortal’s groans? Soft-natured men may own that soothing chaunt; I hear the message, but the faith I want. For still the child to Faith most dear Was Miracle: nor I may vaunt To mount, and mingle with the sphere Whence such fair news floats down to mortal ear. And yet, with youthful memories fraught, this strain Hath power to call me back to life again. A time there was when Heaven’s own kiss, On solemn Sabbath, seemed to fall on me, The minster-bell boomed forth no human bliss, And prayer to God was burning ecstasy. A dim desire of inarticulate good Drove me o’er hill and dale, through wold and wood, And, while hot tears streamed from mine eyes, I felt a world within me rise. This hymn proclaimed the sports of youthful days, And merry-makings when the spring began; Now Memory’s potent spell my spirit sways, And thoughts of childhood rule the full-grown man. O! sound thou on, thou sweet celestial strain, The tear doth gush, Earth claims her truant son again!

Quire of the Disciples. By death untimely, though Laid in the lowly grave, Soars He sublimely now Whence He came us to save. He on His Father’s breast, Fountain of life and light; We on the earth oppressed, Groping through cloudy night; Comfortless left are we, Toiling through life’s annoy, Weeping to envy thee, Master, thy joy!

Quire of Angels. Christ is risen From Death’s corrupting thrall, Break from your prison And follow His call! Praising by deeds of love Him who now reigns above, Feeding the brethren poor, Preaching salvation sure, Joys that shall aye endure, Knowing nor doubt nor fear, While He is near.