In lineage so supreme, and with a genius Which penetrated with a glance the world Beneath my feet, that, won by my high merit, A king-whom I may call the king of kings, Because all others tremble in their pride Before the terrors of his countenance, In his high palace, roof'd with brightest gems Of living light-call them the stars of Heaven- Named me his counsellor. But the high praise Stung me with pride and envy, and I rose In mighty competition, to ascend
His seat and place my foot triumphantly Upon his subject thrones. Chastised, I know The depth to which ambition falls; too mad Was the attempt, and yet more mad were now Repentance of the irrevocable deed :-
Therefore I chose this ruin with the glory Of not to be subdued, before the shame Of reconciling me with him who reigns By coward cession.-Nor was I alone, Nor am I now, nor shall I be alone;
And there was hope, and there may still be hope, For many suffrages among his vassals
Hail'd me their lord and king, and many still Are mine, and many more, perchance, shall be. Thus vanquish'd, though in fact victorious, I left his seat of empire, from mine eye Shooting forth poisonous lightning, while my words With inauspicious thunderings shook Heaven, Proclaiming vengeance, public as my wrong, And imprecating on his prostrate slaves Rapine, and death, and outrage, Then I sail'd Over the mighty fabric of the world, A pirate ambush'd in its pathless sands, A lynx crouch'd watchfully among its caves And craggy shores; and I have wander'd over The expanse of these wide wildernesses In this great ship, whose bulk is now dissolved In the light breathings of the invisible wind, And which the sea has made a dustless ruin, Seeking ever a mountain, through whose forests I seek a man, whom I must now compel To keep his word with me. I came array'd In tempest; and although my power could well Bridle the forest winds in their career, For other causes I forbore to soothe Their fury to Favonian gentleness,
I could and would not (thus I wake in him [Aside A love of magic art). Let not this tempest, Nor the succeeding calm, excite thy wonder; For by my art the sun would turn as pale As his weak sister with unwonted fear. And in my wisdom are the orbs of Heaven Written as in a record; I have pierced The flaming circles of their wondrous spheres, And know them as thou knowest every corner Of this dim spot. Let it not seem to thee That I boast vainly; wouldst thou that I work A charm over this waste and savage wood, This Babylon of crags and aged trees, Filling its leafy coverts with a horror
Thrilling and strange? I am the friendless guest Of these wild oaks and pines-and as from thee I have received the hospitality
Of this rude place, I offer thee the fruit Of years of toil in recompense; whate'er Thy wildest dream presented to thy thought As object of desire, that shall be thine.
And thenceforth shall so firm an amity "Twixt thou and me be, that neither fortune, The monstrous phantom which pursues success, That careful miser, that free prodigal, Who ever alternates with changeful hand, Evil and good, reproach and fame; nor Time, That load-star of the ages, to whose beam The winged years speed o'er the intervals Of their unequal revolutions; nor Heaven itself, whose beautiful bright stars Rule and adorn the world, can ever make The least division between thee and me, Since now I find a refuge in thy favor.
The DEMON tempts JUSTINA, who is a Christian.
Abyss of Hell! I call on thee,
Thou wild misrule of thine own anarchy!
From thy prison-house set free
The spirits of voluptuous death, That with their mighty breath
They may destroy a world of virgin thoughts;
Let her chaste mind with fancies thick as motes
Be peopled from thy shadowy deep,
Till her guiltless phantasy
Full to overflowing be!
And with sweetest harmony,
To his mate, who rapt and fond Listening sits, a bough beyond. Be silent, Nightingale-no more Make me think, in hearing thee Thus tenderly thy love deplore, If a bird can feel his so,
What a man would feel for me.
And, voluptuous vine, O thou
Who seekest most when least pursuing,- To the trunk thou interlacest Art the verdure which embracest, And the weight which is its ruin,—
No more, with green embraces, vine, Make me think on what thou lovest,— For whilst thou thus thy boughs entwine, I fear lest thou shouldst teach me, sophist, How arms might be entangled too.
Let birds, and flowers, and leaves, and all things Light-enchanted sunflower, thou
To love, only to love.
Let nothing meet her eyes
But signs of Love's soft victories;
Let nothing meet her ear
But sounds of Love's sweet sorrow,
So that from faith no succor she may borrow,
But, guided by my spirit blind And in a magic snare entwined, She may now seek Cyprian. Begin, while I in silence bind
My voice, when thy sweet song thou hast begun.
A VOICE WITHIN.
What is the glory far above All else in human life?
[While these words are sung, the DEMON goes out at one door, and JUSTINA enters at another.
There is no form in which the fire Of love its traces has impress'd not. Man lives far more in love's desire Than by life's breath, soon possess'd not. If all that lives must love or die, All shapes on earth, or sea, or sky, With one consent to Heaven cry That the glory far above
Thou melancholy thought which art So fluttering and so sweet, to thee When did I give the liberty Thus to afflict my heart?
What is the cause of this new power Which doth my fever'd being move, Momently raging more and more? What subtle pain is kindled now Which from my heart doth overflow Into my senses ?—
"Tis that enamor'd nightingale Who gives me the reply;
He ever tells the same soft tale Of passion and of constancy
Who gazest ever true and tender On the sun's revolving splendor! Follow not his faithless glance With thy faded countenance, Nor teach my beating heart to fear, If leaves can mourn without a tear, How eyes must weep! O Nightingale, Cease from thy enamor'd tale,— Leafy vine, unwreathe thy bower, Restless sunflower, cease to move,- Or tell me all, what poisonous power Ye use against me-
It cannot be !-Whom have I ever loved? Trophies of my oblivion and disdain, Floro and Lelio did I not reject? And Cyprian?-
[She becomes troubled at the name of Cyprian Did I not requite him
With such severity, that he has fled Where none has ever heard of him again?- Alas! I now begin to fear that this
May be the occasion whence desire grows bold, As if there were no danger. From the moment That I pronounced to my own listening heart, Cyprian is absent, O me miserable!
Appeal to Heaven against thee; so that Heaven May scatter thy delusions, and the blot Upon my fame vanish in idle thought, Even as flame dies in the envious air,
And as the floweret wanes at morning frost, And thou shouldst never-But, alas! to whom Do I still speak?-Did not a man but now Stand here before me?-No, I am alone, And yet I saw him. Is he gone so quickly? Or can the heated mind engender shapes From its own fear? Some terrible and strange Peril is near. Lisander! father! lord! Livia!-
It were bought I dare say it was Moscon whom she saw, For he was lock'd up in my room.
"Twill soothe thy heart to softest peace.
Have been some image of thy phantasy: Such melancholy as thou feedest, is Skilful in forming such in the vain air Out of the motes and atoms of the day.
My master's in the right.
O, would it were Delusion! But I fear some greater ill.
I feel as if out of my bleeding bosom My heart were torn in fragments; ay, Some mortal spell is wrought against my frame, So potent was the charm, that had not God Shielded my humble innocence from wrong, I should have sought my sorrow and my shame With willing steps.-Livia, quick bring my cloak, For I must seek refuge from these extremes Even in the temple of the highest God Which secretly the faithful worship.
TRANSLATION FROM MOSCHUS.
PAN loved his neighbor Echo-but that child Of Earth and Air pined for the Satyr leaping; The Satyr loved with wasting madness wild The bright nymph Lyda,-and so three went weeping.
As Pan loved Echo, Echo loved the Satyr; The Satyr, Lyda-and thus love consumed them.- And thus to each-which was a woful matter- To bear what they inflicted, justice doom'd them; For inasmuch as each might hate the lover,
Each loving, so was hated.-Ye that love not Be warn'd-in thought turn this example over, That when ye love, the like return ye prove not.
A flashing desolation there,
Flames before the thunder's way, But thy servants, Lord! revere The gentle changes of thy day.
CHORUS OF THE THREE.
The Angels draw strength from thy glance, Though no one comprehend thee may;- Thy world's unwither'd countenance Is bright as on creation's day.*
Enter MEPHISTOPHELES.
MEPHISTOPHELES.
As thou, O Lord! once more art kind enough
To interest thyself in our affairs
And ask, "How goes it with you there below?" And as indulgently at other times
Thou tookest not my visits in ill part,
Thou seest me here once more among thy household. Though I should scandalize this company,
You will excuse me if I do not talk
In the high style which they think fashionable; My pathos would certainly make you laugh too, Had you not long since given over laughing. Nothing know I to say of suns and worlds; I observe only how men plague themselves;- The little god o' the world keeps the same stamp, As wonderful as on creation's day :- A little better would he live, hadst thou Not given him a glimpse of heaven's light Which he calls reason, and employs it only To live more beastlily than any beast. With reverence to your Lordship be it spoken, He's like one of those long-legg'd grasshoppers, Who flits and jumps about, and sings for ever
it is impossible to represent in another language ne melody of the versification; even the volatile strength and deli cacy of the ideas escape in the crucible of translation, and the reader is surprised to find a caput mortuum.-Author's Note.
And, among all the Spirits who rebell'd, The knave was ever the least tedious to me. The active spirit of man soon sleeps, and soon He seeks unbroken quiet; therefore I Have given him the Devil for a companion, Who may provoke him to some sort of work, And must create for ever.-But ye, pure Children of God, enjoy eternal beauty;— Not that which ever operates and lives Clasp you within the limits of its love; And seize with sweet and melancholy thoughts The floating phantoms of its loveliness.
[Heaven closes; the Archangels exeunt.
From time to time I visit the old fellow, And I take care to keep on good terms with him. Civil enough is this same God Almighty,
To talk so freely with the Devil himself.
SCENE-The Hartz Mountain, a desolate Country. FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES.
WOULD you not like a broomstick? As for me, I wish I had a good stout ram to ride; For we are still far from the appointed place.
This knotted staff is help enough for me, Whilst I feel fresh upon my legs. What good Is there in making short a pleasant way? To creep along the labyrinths of the vales, And climb those rocks, where ever-babbling springs Precipitate themselves in waterfalls,
Is the true sport that seasons such a path. Already Spring kindles the birchen spray, And the hoar pines already feel her breath: Shall she not work also within our limbs ?
Nothing of such an influence do I feel : My body is all wintry, and I wish
The flowers upon our path were frost and snow But see, how melancholy rises now,
Dimly uplifting her belated beam,
The blank unwelcome round of the red moon, And gives so bad a light, that every step
One stumbles 'gainst some crag. With your permission I'll call an Ignis-fatuus to our aid;
I see one yonder burning jollily.
Halloo, my friend! may I request that you Would favor us with your bright company? Why should you blaze away there to no purpose? Pray be so good as light us up this way.
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