Peasants. [beneath a lime-tree] The shepherd for the dance was dressed, With ribbon, wreath, and spotted vest, Right sprucely he did show. And round and round the linden-tree All danced as mad as mad could be. Juchhe, juchhe! Juchheisa, heisa, he! So went the fiddle bow.

Then with a jerk he wheeled him by, And on a maiden that stood nigh He with his elbow came. Quick turned the wench, and, “Sir,” quoth she, “Such game is rather rough for me.” Juchhe, juchhe! Juchheisa, heisa, he! “For shame, I say, for shame!”

Yet merrily went it round and round, And right and left they swept the ground, And coat and kirtle flew; And they grew red, and they grew warm, And, panting, rested arm in arm; Juchhe, juchhe! Juchheisa, heisa, he! And hips on elbows too.

And “Softly, softly,” quoth the quean, “How many a bride hath cheated been By men as fair as you!” But he spoke a word in her ear aside, And from the tree it shouted wide Juchhe, juchhe! Juchheisa, heisa, he! With fife and fiddle too.

An Old Peasant. Herr Doctor, ’tis most kind in you, And all here prize the boon, I’m sure, That one so learned should condescend To share the pastimes of the poor. Here, take this pitcher, filled ev’n now With cooling water from the spring. May God with grace to slake your thirst, Bless the libation that we bring; Be every drop a day to increase Your years in happiness and peace!

Faust. Your welcome offering I receive; the draught By kind hands given, with grateful heart be quaffed!

[The people collect round him in a circle.

Old Peasant. Soothly, Herr Doctor, on this tide, Your grace and kindness passes praise; Good cause had we whileome to bless The name of Faust in evil days. Here stand there not a few whose lives Your father’s pious care attest, Saved from fell fever’s rage, when he Set limits to the deadly pest. You were a young man then, and went From hospital to hospital; Full many a corpse they bore away, But you came scaithless back from all; Full many a test severe you stood Helping helped by the Father of Good.

All the Peasants. Long may the man who saved us live, His aid in future need to give!

Faust. Give thanks to Him above, who made The hand that helped you strong to aid.

[He goes on farther with Wagner.

Wagner. How proud must thou not feel, most learnèd man, To hear the praises of this multitude; Thrice happy he who from his talents can Reap such fair harvest of untainted good! The father shows you to his son, And all in crowds to see you run; The dancers cease their giddy round, The fiddle stops its gleesome sound; They form a ring where’er you go, And in the air their caps they throw; A little more, and they would bend the knee, As if the Holy Host came by in thee!

Faust. Yet a few paces, till we reach yon stone, And there our wearied strength we may repair. Here oft I sat in moody thought alone, And vexed my soul with fasting and with prayer. Rich then in hope, in faith then strong, With tears and sobs my hands I wrung, And weened the end of that dire pest, From heaven’s high-counselled lord to wrest. Now their applause with mockery flouts mine ear. O could’st thou ope my heart and read it here, How little sire and son For such huge meed of thanks have done! My father was a grave old gentleman, Who o’er the holy secrets of creation, Sincere, but after his peculiar plan, Brooded, with whimsied speculation. Who, with adepts in painful gropings spent His days, within the smoky kitchen pent, And, after recipes unnumbered, made The unnatural mixtures of his trade. The tender lily and the lion red, A suitor bold, in tepid bath were wed, With open fiery flame well baked together, And squeezed from one bride-chamber to another; Then, when the glass the queen discovered, Arrayed in youthful glistening pride, Here was the medicine, and the patient died, But no one questioned who recovered. Thus in these peaceful vales and hills, The plague was not the worst of ills, And Death his ghastly work pursued, The better for the hellish brewst we brewed. Myself to thousands the curst juice supplied; They pined away, and I must live to hear The praise of mercy in the murderer’s ear.

Wagner. How can you with such whims be grieved? Surely a good man does his part With scrupulous care to use the art Which from his father he received. When we, in youth, place on our sire reliance, He opes to us his stores of information; When we, as men, extend the bounds of science, Our sons build higher upon our foundation.

Faust. O happy he who yet hath hope to float Above this sea of crude distempered thought! What we know not is what we need to know, And what we know, we might as well let go; But cease; cheat not the moment of its right By curious care and envious repining; Behold how fair, in evening’s mellow light, The green-embosomed cottages are shining. The sun slants down, the day hath lived his date, But on he hies to tend another sphere. O that no wing upon my wish may wait To follow still and still in his career! Upborne on evening’s quenchless beams to greet The noiseless world illumined at my feet, Each peaceful vale, each crimson-flaming peak, Each silver rill whose tinkling waters seek The golden flood that feeds the fruitful plain. Then savage crags, and gorges dark, would rein My proud careering course in vain; Ev’n now the sea spreads out its shimmering bays, And charms the sense with ectasy of gaze. Yet seems the god at length to sink; But, borne by this new impulse of my mind, I hasten on, his quenchless ray to drink, The day before me, and the night behind, The heavens above me, under me the sea. A lovely dream! meanwhile the god is gone. Alas! the soul, in wingèd fancy free, Seeks for a corporal wing, and findeth none. Yet in each breast ’tis deeply graven, Upward and onward still to pant, When over us, lost in the blue of heaven, Her quavering song the lark doth chaunt; When over piny peaks sublime The eagle soars with easy strain, And over lands and seas the crane Steers homeward to a sunnier clime.

Wagner. I too have had my hours of whim, But feeling here runs over reason’s brim. Forest and field soon tire the eye to scan, And eagle’s wings were never made for man. How otherwise the mind and its delights! From book to book, from page to page, we go. Thus sweeten we the dreary winter nights, Till every limb with new life is aglow; And chance we but unroll some rare old parchment scroll, All heaven stoops down, and finds a lodgment in the soul.

Faust. Thou know’st but the one impulse—it is well! Tempt not the yearning that divides the heart. Two souls, alas! within my bosom dwell! This strives from that with adverse strain to part. The one, bound fast by stubborn might of love, To this low earth with grappling organs clings; The other spurns the clod, and soars on wings To join a nobler ancestry above. Oh! be there spirits in the air, ’Twixt earth and heaven that float with potent sway, Drop from your sphere of golden-glowing day, And waft me hence new varied life to share! Might I but own a mantle’s fold enchanted, To climes remote to bear me on its wing, More than the costliest raiment I should vaunt it, More than the purple robe that clothes a king.

Wagner. Invoke not rash the well-known spirit-throng, That stream unseen the atmosphere along, And dangers thousandfold prepare, Weak men from every quarter to ensnare. From the keen north in troops they float, With sharpest teeth and arrow-pointed tongues; From the harsh east they bring a blasting drought, And feed with wasting greed upon thy lungs. When from the arid south their sultry powers They send, hot fires upheaping on thy crown, The West brings forth his swarms with cooling showers, To end in floods that sweep thy harvests down. Quick-ear’d are they, on wanton mischief bent, And work our will with surer bait to ply us; They show as fair as heaven’s own couriers sent, And lisp like angels when they most belie us. But let us hence! the air is chill, The cold gray mists are creeping down the hill, Now is the time to seek the bright fireside. Why standest thou with strange eyes opened wide? What twilight-spectre may thy fancy trouble?

Faust. See’st thou that swarthy dog sweeping through corn and stubble?

Wagner. I saw him long ago—not strange he seemed to me.

Faust. Look at him well—what should the creature be?

Wagner. He seems a poodle who employs his snout Now here, now there, to snuff his master out.

Faust. Dost thou not see how nigher still and nigher His spiral circles round us wind? And, err I not, he leaves behind His track a train of sparkling fire.

Wagner. A small black poodle is all I see; Surely some strange delusion blinds thee!

Faust. Methinks soft magic circles winds he, About, about, a snare for thee and me.

Wagner. I see him only doubtful springing round, Having two strangers for his master found.

Faust. He draws him closer—now he comes quite near!

Wagner. A dog, be sure, and not a ghost, is here. He growls, and looks about in fear, And crouches down, and looks to you, And wags his tail—what any dog will do.

Faust. Come hither, poodle!

Wagner. ’Tis a drollish brute; When you stand still, then stands he mute, But when you speak, he springs as he would speak to you; He will bring back what you let fall, And fetch your stick out of the water.

Faust. You are quite right. There’s no such matter. No trace of ghost—a dog well trained, that’s all!

Wagner. A well-trained dog may well engage The favor of a man most sage; This poodle well deserves your recognition; Few students learn so much from good tuition.

[Exeunt, going in through the gate of the city.