The Girl. What does he want then at our ball? Faust. Is far above us all in his conceit : Whilst we enjoy, he reasons of enjoyment; Is not to be consider'd as a step. There are few things that scandalize him not: Upon the strength of the resemblance. Brocto-Phant. Fly! Oh! he Vanish! Unheard of impudence! What, still there Are we so wise, and is the pond still haunted? Come clean with all my pains !—it is a case The Girl. Then leave off teasing us so. Brocto-Phant. I tell you, spirits, to your faces now, That I should not regret this despotism Of spirits, but that mine can wield it not. To-night I shall make poor work of it, Yet I will take a round with you, and hope Before my last step in the living dance To beat the poet and the devil together. Meph. At last he will sit down in some foul puddle; That is his way of solacing himself; Until some leech, diverted with his gravity, Cures him of spirits and the spirit together. [To FAUST, who has seceded from the dance. Why do you let that fair girl pass from you, Faust. A red mouse in the middle of her singing Meph. That was all right, my friend, Be it enough that the mouse was not grey. Do not disturb your hour of happiness Faust. Then saw I Meph.. Faust. What? Seest thou not a pale, Fair girl, standing alone, far, far away? She drags herself now forward with slow steps, Is like poor Margaret. Meph. Who meet its ghastly stare are turn'd to stone, Faust. Oh, too true! Her eyes are like the eyes of a fresh corpse Which no beloved hand has closed, alas! That is the heart which Margaret yielded to me— Meph. It is all magic, poor deluded fool; She looks to every one like his first love. Faust. Oh, what delight! what woe! I cannot turn My looks from her sweet piteous countenance. How strangely does a single blood-red line, Not broader than the sharp edge of a knife, Adorn her lovely neck! Meph. Ay, she can carry Her head under her arm upon occasion; It is as airy here as in a [ And if I am not mightily deceived, I see a theatre-What may this mean? Attendant. Quite a new piece, the last of seven, for 'tis The custom now to represent that number. 'Tis written by a Dilettante, and The actors who perform are Dilettanti; FRAGMENTS.* I. SUMMER AND WINTER. T was a bright and cheerful afternoon, All things rejoiced beneath the sun; the weeds, It was a winter, such as when birds do die *Printed in "The Keepsake," 1829. A wrinkled clod, as hard as brick; and when, II. THE TOWER OF FAMINE.* MID the desolation of a city, Which was the cradle, and is now the grave Of an extinguish'd people; so that pity Weeps o'er the shipwrecks of oblivion's wave, There stands the Tower of Famine. It is built Upon some prison homes, whose dwellers rave With bread, and gold, and blood: pain, link'd to guilt, Agitates the light flame of their hours, Until its vital oil is spent or spilt: There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers Are by its presence dimm’d—they stand aloof, And are withdrawn--so that the world is bare, Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror * At Pisa there still exists the prison of Ugolino, which goes by the name of "La Torre della Fame:" in the adjoining building the galley slaves are confined. It is situated near the Ponte al Mare on the Arno. O you not hear the Aziola cry? Said Mary, as we sate In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought; This Aziola was some tedious woman, I felt to know that it was nothing human, And laugh'd, and said, “Disquiet yourself not ; 'Tis nothing but a little downy owl." Sad Aziola! many an eventide Thy music I had heard By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side, And fields and marshes wide, Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, The soul ever stirr'd; Unlike, and far sweeter than them all. Sad Aziola! from that moment I Loved thee and thy sad cry. |