Faust Online

Review of: Faust Online

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Faust Online

FAUST: O ja, bis an die Sterne weit! Mein Freund, die Zeiten der Vergangenheit. Sind uns ein Buch mit sieben Siegeln. Was ihr den Geist der. Goethes Faust online – Die neue, frei verfügbare Ausgabe im Netz lässt fast keine Wünsche offen. Drucken. Endlich im Klassiker-Himmel? von. Projekt Gutenberg | Die weltweit größte kostenlose deutschsprachige Volltext-​Literatursammlung | Klassische Werke von A bis Z | Bücher gratis online lesen.

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Kostenlos lesen: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Faust I, Der Tragödie erster Teil. Viele weitere kostenlose Bücher und Literatur der größten deutschen Künstler. Projekt Gutenberg | Die weltweit größte kostenlose deutschsprachige Volltext-​Literatursammlung | Klassische Werke von A bis Z | Bücher gratis online lesen. Format, Url, Size. Read this book online: HTML, rockers.nu​/h/rockers.nu, kB. EPUB (no images). Johann Wolfgang Goethe: Faust. Historisch-kritische Edition. Herausgegeben von Anne Bohnenkamp, Silke Henke und Fotis Jannidis unter Mitarbeit von Gerrit​. FAUST: O ja, bis an die Sterne weit! Mein Freund, die Zeiten der Vergangenheit. Sind uns ein Buch mit sieben Siegeln. Was ihr den Geist der. Johann Wolfgang Goethe. Faust. Der Tragödie Erster Teil. Herausgegeben von Wolf Dieter Hellberg. Reclam. Page 4. Der Text dieser Ausgabe ist seiten- und. Startseite der digitalen Faust-Edition im Internet. (Bild: rockers.nu). An seinem „Faust“ arbeitete Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (

Faust Online

Goethes Faust online – Die neue, frei verfügbare Ausgabe im Netz lässt fast keine Wünsche offen. Drucken. Endlich im Klassiker-Himmel? von. Kostenlos lesen: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Faust I, Der Tragödie erster Teil. Viele weitere kostenlose Bücher und Literatur der größten deutschen Künstler. FAUST: O ja, bis an die Sterne weit! Mein Freund, die Zeiten der Vergangenheit. Sind uns ein Buch mit sieben Siegeln. Was ihr den Geist der. Not Art and Science serve, alone; Patience must in the work be shown. Seest thou the spiral circles, Roulette Flash Gratis faster, Which he, approaching, round us seems to wind? Siebel attacca il mazzo di fiori alla porta del padiglione ed Live Ticker Dschungelcamp. Seguilo on line! No, signore!

Sei tu, Margherita? Rispondimi, rispondimi, presto! Se fosse qui! Come una damigella Mi troverebbe bella!

Continuiamo la metamorfosi! Sono ansiosa di provarmi Il braccialetto e la collana Si adorna prima con la collana, poi con il braccialetto. Si alza di nuovoin piedi.

Seigneur Dieu, que vois-je! Dio Signore! Che vedo! Come siete bella, angelo mio! Da dove viene questo ricco scrigno? Que non pas!

Questi gioielli sono per voi, Mia cara damigella! Margherita si affretta a togliesi la collana, il braccialetto e gli orecchini, e a riporli nella cassettina.

Votre mari, madame, est mort et vous salue! Margherita abbassa gli occhi sotto lo sguardo di Mefistofele, richiude la cassettina, la ripone sul davanzale della finestra e spinge le imposte.

Margherita concede il suo braccio a Faust e si allontana con lui. Mefistofele e Marta restano soli. Sans ami, sans parents, sans femme!

Senza amici, senza genitori, senza donna! Cela sied encore aux beaux jours! Ve lo potete permettere ora che siete giovane.

Mefistofele e Marta si allontanano. Faust e Margherita rientrano in scena. Pauvre ange! Elle n'aimait que Marguerite!

Pour la voir, la pauvre petite, Je reprendrais bien tout cela! Povero angelo! Mi era molto cara! Non appena si svegliava Voleva vedermi! Essa non amava che Margherita!

Per vederla ancora, la povera piccola, Tornerei a fare gli stessi sacrifici! Oui, je le crois! Se il cielo avesse un sorriso L'avrebbe fatto simile a te, Sei un angelo!

Je ne vous crois pas Et de moi tout bas Vous riez sans doute! Non vi credo E di me senza dubbio State ridendo! Io ho il torto di stare Ad ascoltarvi!

Eppure vi ascolto! Laisse-moi ton bras! Dieu ne m'a-t-il pas Conduit sur ta route? Concedimi il braccio! Il mio cuore parla; ascoltalo!

Vous n'entendez pas, Et de moi tout bas Vous riez sans doute! Voi non mi capite, E di me senza dubbio State ridendo! Me remettre en route.

Rimettermi in cammino. Corrimi dietro! Certe vecchie testarde, Per amore o per forza, credo, Vogliono sposare il diavolo!

Gardons-nous de troubler un si doux entretien! Achevez de troubler le coeur de Marguerite! Era tempo! Sotto l'ombra delle foglie Ecco i nostri amorosi che si ritrovano!

Sta bene! O notte, stendi su di loro la tua ombra! Amore, rendi sorde le loro anime ai rimorsi! E voi, fiori dai sottili profumi, Sbocciate sotto questa mia mano maledetta!

Turbate il cuore di Margherita! O silence! Enivrante langueur! Et je comprends cette voix solitaire Qui chante dans mon coeur!

O Silenzio! Ineffabile mistero! Languore sognante! Io ascolto! E comprendo questa voce solitaria Che canta nel mio cuore! Lasciatemi un attimo, di grazia!

Il t'aime! Comprends-tu ce mot sublime et doux? Credo in questo fiore sbocciato ai tuoi piedi! Che sia per il tuo cuore l'oracolo stesso del cielo!

Io t'amo! Comprendi questa parola sublime e dolce? Porter en nous Une ardeur toujours nouvelle! O nuit d'amour, ciel radieux!

O douces flammes! O notte d'amore, cielo radioso! O dolce fiamma! Parle encore! Je t'appartiens! Je t'adore!

Pour toi je veux mourir! Voglio amarti e adorarti! Parla ancora! Io ti appartengo! Io ti adoro! Per te voglio morire!

Ah, partez, oui, partez vite! Je tremble! J 'ai peur! Ne brisez pas le coeur De Marguerite! Io tremo! Ho paura! Non spezzate il cuore Di Margherita!

Tu veux que je te quitte! Tu me brises le coeur! Vuoi che io ti lasci! Vedi il mio dolore! Tu mi spezzi il cuore!

Per il vostro amore, per questa confessione Che avrei dovuto tacere, Ascoltate la mia preghiera! Cedete alla mia richiesta! Mais demain Divina purezza!

Obbedisco, ma domani Corre fino alla casetta. S'arresta sulla soglia e invia un bacio a Faust. Si lancia verso la porta del giardino. Mefistofele gli sbarra il passo.

Degnatevi di ascoltare per un momento Quello che lei sta raccontando alle stelle, Caro maestro! Apre la sua finestra! Margherita appare alla finestra della casetta e si appoggia al davanzale, con la testa tra le mani.

Il m'aime! Le ciel me sourit, l'air m'enivre! Est-ce de plaisir et d'amour Que la feuille tremble et palpite? Che agitazione nel mio cuore!

Il cielo mi sorride, l'aria mi intossica! E di piacere d'amore Che le foglie tremano e palpitano? Affretta il tuo ritorno Cara amato bene!

Per un attimo Margherita rimane interdetta, e lascia cadere la testa sulla spalla di Faust; Mefistofele apre la porta del giardino ed esce sghignazzando.

Elles se cachaient! Ah, cruelles! Esse si nascondono! Non trovavo mai Parole abbastanza dure Per i peccati degli altri.

En vain l'heure sonne Il ne revient pas! Il ne revient pas! Je n'ose me plaindre, Il faut me contraindre, Je pleure tout bas. Ah, le voir!

Entendre Le bruit de ses pas! Mon coeur est si las Si las de l'attendre! Mon seigneur! Quelle joie!

Invano le ore suonano, Egli non torna! Io non oso compiangermi, Devo trattenermi, Piango in continuazione. Ah, vederlo! Sentire Il rumore dei suoi passi!

Mio Signore! Mio maestro! Se stesse per apparire! Quale gioia! Lascia cadere la testa sul petto e scoppia in lacrime. Il fuso le sfugge dalle mani.

Je le tuerai! Oui, toujours, toujours! J'ai tort, Siebel, de vous parler de lui. Ho torto, Siebel, a parlarvi di lui. Je vais pour mon enfant et pour lui prier Dieu.

Quelli la cui mano crudele mi respinge Non hanno chiuso per me le porte del luogo santo. Vado a pregare Dio per il mio bambino e per lui.

Margherita entra nella chiesa e si inginocchia. Esprits du mal, accourez tous! Non devi pregare! Spiriti del male, accorrete tutti!

C'est l'enfer qui t'appelle! C'est l'enfer qui te suit! Quando balbettavi una casta preghiera Con timida voce, E portavi dentro il cuore i baci di tua madre, E di Dio nello stesso tempo!

Ascolta questi clamori! Dieu tout-puissant! Quel voile sombre sur moi descend! Dio onnipotente! Quale velo d'ombra su di me discende?

Que dirai-je alors au Seigneur? Quand l'innocent n'est pas sans peur! Addio alle notti d'amore e ai giorni pieni di ebbrezza!

A te la maledizione! A te l'inferno! Signore, accogli la preghiera Di cuori sofferenti! Che un raggio della vostra luce Discenda sopra di loro!

A sinistra la casa di Margherita. Soldati ritornano dalla guerra; fra essi Valentino. Una folla, in mezzo alla quale si trova Siebel, li aspetta sulla strada.

Si ode il suono di una marcia. Dans nos foyers enfin nous voici revenus! Deponiamo le armi! Finalmente eccoci tornati a casa!

Le nostre madri in lacrime, Le nostre madri e le nostre sorelle Hanno finito di aspettarci. Oui, priant Dieu pour moi! Et sous ton aile, Soldats vainqueurs, Dirige nos pas, enflamme nos coeurs!

Ta voix sainte nous crie: En avant, soldats! Gloire immortelle, etc. On nous attend; la paix est faite!

Plus de soupirs! Ne tardons pas! Notre pays nous tend les bras! Gloria immortale Dei nostri avi, Che tu ci sia fedele, Che possiamo morire come loro!

E sotto le tue ali, Soldati vincitori, Guida i nostri passi, infiamma i nostri cuori! Per te, madrepatria, Affrontiamo la sorte, Figli tuoi, animo guerriero, Hanno guardato in faccia la morte!

La tua santa voce ci grida: Avanti, soldati! Spada in mano, correte a combattere! Gloria immortale, etc. Verso casa affrettiamo il passo!

Non attardiamoci! Il nostro paese ci tende le braccia! L'amore ci sorride, L'amore ci fa festa! I soldati e la follasi disperdono — Valentino e Siebel restano soli.

Si allontana. Mefistofele e Faust entrano in scena; Mefistofele ha una chitarra in mano. Le sabbat nous attend!

Ci attende il sabba! Je vois que mes avis sont vains Et que l'amour l'emporte. Mais, pour vous faire ouvrir la porte, Vous avez grand besoin du secours de ma voix!

Vedo che i miei avvertimenti sono vani E che l'amore trionfa. Ma per farvi aprire la porta, Voi avete bisogno del soccorso della mia voce!

Ah, ah, ah! N'ouvre ta porte, ma belle, Que la bague au doigt! Ne donne un baiser, ma mie, Que la bague au doigt! Ah, ah, ah, ah! Assez d'outrage, assez!

A qui de vous dois-je demander compte De mon malheur et de ma honte? Qui de vous deux doit tomber sous mes coups?

Basta oltraggiare, basta! Chi di voi due deve cadere sotto i miei colpi? Permets que dans son sang Je lave mon outrage! Raddoppia, o Dio potente, La mia forza e il mio coraggio!

Permettete che nel suo sangue Io lavi il mio oltraggio! Terribile e fremente Gela il mio coraggio! Devo versare il sangue D'un fratello che ho oltraggiato?

Delle sue arie minacciose, Della sua cieca rabbia, Io rido Si battono. Al quarto assalto, Mefistofele scosta la spada di Valentino, e Faust entra nella sua guardia e lo ferisce.

Valentino cade. Porta via Faust. Arriva Marta assieme a dei borghesi che portano torce. Par ici, par ici, mes amis! On se bat dans la rue!

Regardez: le voici! Il n'est pas encor mort! On dirait qu'il remue! Vite, approchez! Il faut le secourir! Per di qua, per di qua, amici miei!

Ci si batte sulla strada! Guardate: eccolo! Sembra che si muova! Venite presto! Bisogna soccorrerlo! J'ai vu, morbleu, la mort en face Trop souvent pour en avoir peur!

Risparmiatemi i vostri pianti, di grazia! Tes blanches mains ne travailleront plus! Tu renieras, Pour vivre dans la joie, Tous les devoirs et toutes les vertus!

Le remords suit tes pas! Mais enfin, l'heure sonne! Et si Dieu te pardonne, Sois maudite ici-bas! Ascoltami bene, Margherita! Quello che deve accadere, accade all'ora giusta!

Tu ti sei messa su una cattiva strada! L'onta ti schiaccia! O terreur! O terrore! O blasfemo! Nella tua ora suprema, o sfortunato, Pensa a te stesso Perdona, se vorrai essere perdonato!

Sois maudite! La mort t'attend sur ton grabat! Moi je meurs de ta main et je tombe en soldat! Che tu sia maledetta! La morte ti attende sul tuo giaciglio!

Muoio per mano tua, e muoio da soldato! Nelle brughiere, Nei roseti, Fra le pietre, E sulle acque, Di posto in posto, Penetrando la notte, S'accende e passa, Un fuoco che luce!

Da lontano, da vicino, Nell'erba verde, Sotto i cipressi, Fiamme in movimento, Raggi gelati, Ecco le anime Dei trapassati.

Jusqu'aux premiers feux du matin, A l'abri des regards profanes, Je t'offre une place au festin Des reines et des courtisanes! Fino ai primi fuochi del mattino, Al riparo da sguardi profani, Io ti offro un posto di feste Di regine e di cortigiani.

Que les coupes s'emplissent, Au nom des anciens dieux! Que les airs retentissent De nos rires joyeux! Che le coppe si riempiano, In nome degli antichi dei!

Che l'aria si riempia Delle nostre gioiose risa! Per guarire la febbre Del tuo cuore ferito, Prendi questa coppa e che le tue labbra Vi trovino l'oblio del passato.

Vains remords! Risible folie! Il est temps que mon coeur oublie! Vani rimorsi! Risibili follie! Dammi e beviamo fino in fondo! Una luce livida invade il palcoscenico.

Si vede apparire una visione di Margherita nella sua cella. Ne la vois-tu pas? Non la vedi? Che strano ornamento Ha attorno al suo bel collo!

Le jour va luire. Voici les clefs. Il giorno sta per sorgere. Stanno erigendo il patibolo; Persuadi senza perder tempo Margherita a seguirti.

Il carceriere dorme. Ecco le chiavi. Occorre che la tua mano umana la liberi. The English language, by and through which the greatest and most eminent poet of modern times—as contrasted with ancient classical poetry— of course I can refer only to Shakespeare was begotten and nourished, has a just claim to be called a language of the world; and it appears to be destined, like the English race, to a higher and broader sway in all quarters of the earth.

For in richness, in compact adjustment of parts, and in pure intelligence, none of the living languages can be compared with it,—not even our German, which is divided even as we are divided, and which must cast off many imperfections before it can boldly enter on its career.

The difficulties in the way of a nearly literal translation of Faust in the original metres have been exaggerated, because certain affinities between the two languages have not been properly considered.

With all the splendor of versification in the work, it contains but few metres of which the English tongue is not equally capable.

Hood has familiarized us with dactylic triple rhymes, and they are remarkably abundant and skillful in Mr.

Lowell's "Fable for the Critics": even the unrhymed iambic hexameter of the Helena occurs now and then in Milton's Samson Agonistes.

It is true that the metrical foot into which the German language most naturally falls is the trochaic , while in English it is the iambic : it is true that German is rich, involved, and tolerant of new combinations, while English is simple, direct, and rather shy of compounds; but precisely these differences are so modified in the German of Faust that there is a mutual approach of the two languages.

In Faust , the iambic measure predominates; the style is compact; the many licenses which the author allows himself are all directed towards a shorter mode of construction.

On the other hand, English metre compels the use of inversions, admits many verbal liberties prohibited to prose, and so inclines towards various flexible features of its sister-tongue that many lines of Faust may be repeated in English without the slightest change of meaning, measure, or rhyme.

There are words, it is true, with so delicate a bloom upon them that it can in no wise be preserved; but even such words will always lose less when they carry with them their rhythmical atmosphere.

The flow of Goethe's verse is sometimes so similar to that of the corresponding English metre, that not only its harmonies and caesural pauses, but even its punctuation, may be easily retained.

I am satisfied that the difference between a translation of Faust in prose or metre is chiefly one of labor,—and of that labor which is successful in proportion as it is joyously performed.

My own task has been cheered by the discovery, that the more closely I reproduced the language of the original, the more of its rhythmical character was transferred at the same time.

If, now and then, there was an inevitable alternative of meaning or music, I gave the preference to the former.

By the term "original metres" I do not mean a rigid, unyielding adherence to every foot, line, and rhyme of the German original, although this has very nearly been accomplished.

Since the greater part of the work is written in an irregular measure, the lines varying from three to six feet, and the rhymes arranged according to the author's will, I do not consider that an occasional change in the number of feet, or order of rhyme, is any violation of the metrical plan.

The single slight liberty I have taken with the lyrical passages is in Margaret's song,—"The King of Thule,"—in which, by omitting the alternate feminine rhymes, yet retaining the metre, I was enabled to make the translation strictly literal.

If, in two or three instances, I have left a line unrhymed, I have balanced the omission by giving rhymes to other lines which stand unrhymed in the original text.

For the same reason, I make no apology for the imperfect rhymes, which are frequently a translation as well as a necessity. With all its supreme qualities, Faust is far from being a technically perfect work.

If I were young and reckless enough, I would purposely offend all such technical caprices: I would use alliteration, assonance, false rhyme, just according to my own will or convenience—but, at the same time, I would attend to the main thing, and endeavor to say so many good things that every one would be attracted to read and remember them.

The feminine and dactylic rhymes, which have been for the most part omitted by all metrical translators except Mr.

Brooks, are indispensable. The characteristic tone of many passages would be nearly lost, without them. They give spirit and grace to the dialogue, point to the aphoristic portions especially in the Second Part , and an ever-changing music to the lyrical passages.

The English language, though not so rich as the German in such rhymes, is less deficient than is generally supposed. The difficulty to be overcome is one of construction rather than of the vocabulary.

The present participle can only be used to a limited extent, on account of its weak termination, and the want of an accusative form to the noun also restricts the arrangement of words in English verse.

I cannot hope to have been always successful; but I have at least labored long and patiently, bearing constantly in mind not only the meaning of the original and the mechanical structure of the lines, but also that subtile and haunting music which seems to govern rhythm instead of being governed by it.

I Erhabener Geist, im Geisterreich verloren! Again ye come, ye hovering Forms! I find ye, As early to my clouded sight ye shone!

Shall I attempt, this once, to seize and bind ye? Still o'er my heart is that illusion thrown? Ye crowd more near! Then, be the reign assigned ye, And sway me from your misty, shadowy zone!

My bosom thrills, with youthful passion shaken, From magic airs that round your march awaken. Of joyous days ye bring the blissful vision; The dear, familiar phantoms rise again, And, like an old and half-extinct tradition, First Love returns, with Friendship in his train.

Renewed is Pain: with mournful repetition Life tracks his devious, labyrinthine chain, And names the Good, whose cheating fortune tore them From happy hours, and left me to deplore them.

They hear no longer these succeeding measures, The souls, to whom my earliest songs I sang: Dispersed the friendly troop, with all its pleasures, And still, alas!

I bring the unknown multitude my treasures; Their very plaudits give my heart a pang, And those beside, whose joy my Song so flattered, If still they live, wide through the world are scattered.

And grasps me now a long-unwonted yearning For that serene and solemn Spirit-Land: My song, to faint Aeolian murmurs turning, Sways like a harp-string by the breezes fanned.

I thrill and tremble; tear on tear is burning, And the stern heart is tenderly unmanned. What I possess, I see far distant lying, And what I lost, grows real and undying.

Come, let me know your expectation Of this, our enterprise, in German land! I wish the crowd to feel itself well treated, Especially since it lives and lets me live; The posts are set, the booth of boards completed.

And each awaits the banquet I shall give. Already there, with curious eyebrows raised, They sit sedate, and hope to be amazed. I know how one the People's taste may flatter, Yet here a huge embarrassment I feel: What they're accustomed to, is no great matter, But then, alas!

How shall we plan, that all be fresh and new,— Important matter, yet attractive too? For 'tis my pleasure-to behold them surging, When to our booth the current sets apace, And with tremendous, oft-repeated urging, Squeeze onward through the narrow gate of grace: By daylight even, they push and cram in To reach the seller's box, a fighting host, And as for bread, around a baker's door, in famine, To get a ticket break their necks almost.

This miracle alone can work the Poet On men so various: now, my friend, pray show it. Hide from my view the surging crowd that passes, And in its whirlpool forces us along!

No, lead me where some heavenly silence glasses The purer joys that round the Poet throng,— Where Love and Friendship still divinely fashion The bonds that bless, the wreaths that crown his passion!

Ah, every utterance from the depths of feeling The timid lips have stammeringly expressed,— Now failing, now, perchance, success revealing,— Gulps the wild Moment in its greedy breast; Or oft, reluctant years its warrant sealing, Its perfect stature stands at last confessed!

What dazzles, for the Moment spends its spirit: What's genuine, shall Posterity inherit. Don't name the word to me! If I should choose to preach Posterity, Where would you get contemporary fun?

That men will have it, there's no blinking: A fine young fellow's presence, to my thinking, Is something worth, to every one. Who genially his nature can outpour, Takes from the People's moods no irritation; The wider circle he acquires, the more Securely works his inspiration.

Then pluck up heart, and give us sterling coin! They come to look, and they prefer to stare. Reel off a host of threads before their faces, So that they gape in stupid wonder: then By sheer diffuseness you have won their graces, And are, at once, most popular of men.

Only by mass you touch the mass; for any Will finally, himself, his bit select: Who offers much, brings something unto many, And each goes home content with the effect, If you've a piece, why, just in pieces give it: A hash, a stew, will bring success, believe it!

What use, a Whole compactly to present? Your hearers pick and pluck, as soon as they receive it!

The botching work each fine pretender traces Is, I perceive, a principle with you. Reflect, soft wood is given to you for splitting, And then, observe for whom you write!

If one comes bored, exhausted quite, Another, satiate, leaves the banquet's tapers, And, worst of all, full many a wight Is fresh from reading of the daily papers.

Idly to us they come, as to a masquerade, Mere curiosity their spirits warming: The ladies with themselves, and with their finery, aid, Without a salary their parts performing.

What dreams are yours in high poetic places? You're pleased, forsooth, full houses to behold? Draw near, and view your patrons' faces! The half are coarse, the half are cold.

One, when the play is out, goes home to cards; A wild night on a wench's breast another chooses: Why should you rack, poor, foolish bards, For ends like these, the gracious Muses?

I tell you, give but more—more, ever more, they ask: Thus shall you hit the mark of gain and glory. Seek to confound your auditory! To satisfy them is a task.

Is't suffering, or pleasure? POET Go, find yourself a more obedient slave! Whence o'er the heart his empire free? The elements of Life how conquers he?

Is't not his heart's accord, urged outward far and dim, To wind the world in unison with him? When on the spindle, spun to endless distance, By Nature's listless hand the thread is twirled, And the discordant tones of all existence In sullen jangle are together hurled, Who, then, the changeless orders of creation Divides, and kindles into rhythmic dance?

Who brings the One to join the general ordination, Where it may throb in grandest consonance? Who bids the storm to passion stir the bosom?

In brooding souls the sunset burn above? Who scatters every fairest April blossom Along the shining path of Love? Who braids the noteless leaves to crowns, requiting Desert with fame, in Action's every field?

Who makes Olympus sure, the Gods uniting? The might of Man, as in the Bard revealed. You meet by accident; you feel, you stay, And by degrees your heart is tangled; Bliss grows apace, and then its course is jangled; You're ravished quite, then comes a touch of woe, And there's a neat romance, completed ere you know!

Let us, then, such a drama give! Grasp the exhaustless life that all men live! Each shares therein, though few may comprehend: Where'er you touch, there's interest without end.

In motley pictures little light, Much error, and of truth a glimmering mite, Thus the best beverage is supplied, Whence all the world is cheered and edified.

Then, at your play, behold the fairest flower Of youth collect, to hear the revelation! Each tender soul, with sentimental power, Sucks melancholy food from your creation; And now in this, now that, the leaven works.

For each beholds what in his bosom lurks. They still are moved at once to weeping or to laughter, Still wonder at your flights, enjoy the show they see: A mind, once formed, is never suited after; One yet in growth will ever grateful be.

POET Then give me back that time of pleasures, While yet in joyous growth I sang,— When, like a fount, the crowding measures Uninterrupted gushed and sprang!

Then bright mist veiled the world before me, In opening buds a marvel woke, As I the thousand blossoms broke, Which every valley richly bore me! I nothing had, and yet enough for youth— Joy in Illusion, ardent thirst for Truth.

Give, unrestrained, the old emotion, The bliss that touched the verge of pain, The strength of Hate, Love's deep devotion,— O, give me back my youth again!

MERRY ANDREW Youth, good my friend, you certainly require When foes in combat sorely press you; When lovely maids, in fond desire, Hang on your bosom and caress you; When from the hard-won goal the wreath Beckons afar, the race awaiting; When, after dancing out your breath, You pass the night in dissipating:— But that familiar harp with soul To play,—with grace and bold expression, And towards a self-erected goal To walk with many a sweet digression,— This, aged Sirs, belongs to you, And we no less revere you for that reason: Age childish makes, they say, but 'tis not true; We're only genuine children still, in Age's season!

What need to talk of Inspiration? If Poetry be your vocation, Let Poetry your will obey! Full well you know what here is wanting; The crowd for strongest drink is panting, And such, forthwith, I'd have you brew.

What's left undone to-day, To-morrow will not do. Waste not a day in vain digression: With resolute, courageous trust Seize every possible impression, And make it firmly your possession; You'll then work on, because you must.

Upon our German stage, you know it, Each tries his hand at what he will; So, take of traps and scenes your fill, And all you find, be sure to show it!

Use both the great and lesser heavenly light,— Squander the stars in any number, Beasts, birds, trees, rocks, and all such lumber, Fire, water, darkness, Day and Night!

Thus, in our booth's contracted sphere, The circle of Creation will appear, And move, as we deliberately impel, From Heaven, across the World, to Hell!

Has He, victoriously, Burst from the vaulted Grave, and all-gloriously Now sits exalted? Is He, in glow of birth, Rapture creative near?

Christ is arisen, Out of Corruption's womb: Burst ye the prison, Break from your gloom! Praising and pleading him, Lovingly needing him, Brotherly feeding him, Preaching and speeding him, Blessing, succeeding Him, Thus is the Master near,— Thus is He here!

Come up to Burgdorf? There you'll find good cheer, The finest lasses and the best of beer, And jolly rows and squabbles, trust me! You swaggering fellow, is your hide A third time itching to be tried?

I won't go there, your jolly rows disgust me! That's no great luck for me, 'tis plain. You'll have him, when and where you wander: His partner in the dance you'll be,— But what is all your fun to me?

Come, Brother! A strong, old beer, a pipe that stings and bites, A girl in Sunday clothes,—these three are my delights. Just see those handsome fellows, there!

It's really shameful, I declare;— To follow servant-girls, when they Might have the most genteel society to-day! Not quite so fast! Two others come behind,— Those, dressed so prettily and neatly.

My neighbor's one of them, I find, A girl that takes my heart, completely. They go their way with looks demure, But they'll accept us, after all, I'm sure.

No, Brother! He suits me not at all, our new-made Burgomaster! Since he's installed, his arrogance grows faster. How has he helped the town, I say?

Things worsen,—what improvement names he? Obedience, more than ever, claims he, And more than ever we must pay! On Sundays, holidays, there's naught I take delight in, Like gossiping of war, and war's array, When down in Turkey, far away, The foreign people are a-fighting.

One at the window sits, with glass and friends, And sees all sorts of ships go down the river gliding: And blesses then, as home he wends At night, our times of peace abiding.

Yes, Neighbor! Dear me, how fine! So handsome, and so young! Who wouldn't lose his heart, that met you?

Don't be so proud! I'll hold my tongue, And what you'd like I'll undertake to get you. Come, Agatha! I shun the witch's sight Before folks, lest there be misgiving: 'Tis true, she showed me, on Saint Andrew's Night, My future sweetheart, just as he were living.

She showed me mine, in crystal clear, With several wild young blades, a soldier-lover: I seek him everywhere, I pry and peer, And yet, somehow, his face I can't discover.

Bold is the venture, Splendid the pay! Lads, let the trumpets For us be suing,— Calling to pleasure, Calling to ruin. Stormy our life is; Such is its boon!

Maidens and castles Capitulate soon. And the soldiers go marching, Marching away! Released from ice are brook and river By the quickening glance of the gracious Spring; The colors of hope to the valley cling, And weak old Winter himself must shiver, Withdrawn to the mountains, a crownless king: Whence, ever retreating, he sends again Impotent showers of sleet that darkle In belts across the green o' the plain.

But the sun will permit no white to sparkle; Everywhere form in development moveth; He will brighten the world with the tints he loveth, And, lacking blossoms, blue, yellow, and red, He takes these gaudy people instead.

Turn thee about, and from this height Back on the town direct thy sight. Out of the hollow, gloomy gate, The motley throngs come forth elate: Each will the joy of the sunshine hoard, To honor the Day of the Risen Lord!

They feel, themselves, their resurrection: From the low, dark rooms, scarce habitable; From the bonds of Work, from Trade's restriction; From the pressing weight of roof and gable; From the narrow, crushing streets and alleys; From the churches' solemn and reverend night, All come forth to the cheerful light.

How lively, see! Yonder afar, from the hill-paths blinking, Their clothes are colors that softly gleam. I hear the noise of the village, even; Here is the People's proper Heaven; Here high and low contented see!

Here I am Man,—dare man to be! To stroll with you, Sir Doctor, flatters; 'Tis honor, profit, unto me. But I, alone, would shun these shallow matters, Since all that's coarse provokes my enmity.

This fiddling, shouting, ten-pin rolling I hate,—these noises of the throng: They rave, as Satan were their sports controlling. And call it mirth, and call it song!

All for the dance the shepherd dressed, In ribbons, wreath, and gayest vest Himself with care arraying: Around the linden lass and lad Already footed it like mad: Hurrah!

The fiddle-bow was playing. He broke the ranks, no whit afraid, And with his elbow punched a maid, Who stood, the dance surveying: The buxom wench, she turned and said: "Now, you I call a stupid-head!

They first grew red, and then grew warm, And rested, panting, arm in arm,— Hurrah! And hips and elbows straying. Now, don't be so familiar here!

How many a one has fooled his dear, Waylaying and betraying! And yet, he coaxed her soon aside, And round the linden sounded wide. And the fiddle-bow was playing.

Sir Doctor, it is good of you, That thus you condescend, to-day, Among this crowd of merry folk, A highly-learned man, to stray. Then also take the finest can, We fill with fresh wine, for your sake: I offer it, and humbly wish That not alone your thirst is slake,— That, as the drops below its brink, So many days of life you drink!

In truth, 'tis well and fitly timed, That now our day of joy you share, Who heretofore, in evil days, Gave us so much of helping care. Still many a man stands living here, Saved by your father's skillful hand, That snatched him from the fever's rage And stayed the plague in all the land.

Then also you, though but a youth, Went into every house of pain: Many the corpses carried forth, But you in health came out again.

With what a feeling, thou great man, must thou Receive the people's honest veneration! How lucky he, whose gifts his station With such advantages endow!

Thou'rt shown to all the younger generation: Each asks, and presses near to gaze; The fiddle stops, the dance delays. Thou goest, they stand in rows to see, And all the caps are lifted high; A little more, and they would bend the knee As if the Holy Host came by.

A few more steps ascend, as far as yonder stone! Here, lost in thought, I've lingered oft alone, When foolish fasts and prayers my life tormented.

Here, rich in hope and firm in faith, With tears, wrung hands and sighs, I've striven, The end of that far-spreading death Entreating from the Lord of Heaven!

Now like contempt the crowd's applauses seem: Couldst thou but read, within mine inmost spirit, How little now I deem, That sire or son such praises merit!

My father's was a sombre, brooding brain, Which through the holy spheres of Nature groped and wandered, And honestly, in his own fashion, pondered With labor whimsical, and pain: Who, in his dusky work-shop bending, With proved adepts in company, Made, from his recipes unending, Opposing substances agree.

There was a Lion red, a wooer daring, Within the Lily's tepid bath espoused, And both, tormented then by flame unsparing, By turns in either bridal chamber housed.

If then appeared, with colors splendid, The young Queen in her crystal shell, This was the medicine—the patients' woes soon ended, And none demanded: who got well?

Thus we, our hellish boluses compounding, Among these vales and hills surrounding, Worse than the pestilence, have passed.

Thousands were done to death from poison of my giving; And I must hear, by all the living, The shameless murderers praised at last!

Why, therefore, yield to such depression? A good man does his honest share In exercising, with the strictest care, The art bequeathed to his possession!

Dost thou thy father honor, as a youth? Then may his teaching cheerfully impel thee: Dost thou, as man, increase the stores of truth?

Then may thine own son afterwards excel thee. O happy he, who still renews The hope, from Error's deeps to rise forever! That which one does not know, one needs to use; And what one knows, one uses never.

But let us not, by such despondence, so The fortune of this hour embitter! Mark how, beneath the evening sunlight's glow, The green-embosomed houses glitter!

The glow retreats, done is the day of toil; It yonder hastes, new fields of life exploring; Ah, that no wing can lift me from the soil, Upon its track to follow, follow soaring!

Then would I see eternal Evening gild The silent world beneath me glowing, On fire each mountain-peak, with peace each valley filled, The silver brook to golden rivers flowing.

The mountain-chain, with all its gorges deep, Would then no more impede my godlike motion; And now before mine eyes expands the ocean With all its bays, in shining sleep!

Yet, finally, the weary god is sinking; The new-born impulse fires my mind,— I hasten on, his beams eternal drinking, The Day before me and the Night behind, Above me heaven unfurled, the floor of waves beneath me,— A glorious dream!

Yet in each soul is born the pleasure Of yearning onward, upward and away, When o'er our heads, lost in the vaulted azure, The lark sends down his flickering lay,— When over crags and piny highlands The poising eagle slowly soars, And over plains and lakes and islands The crane sails by to other shores.

I've had, myself, at times, some odd caprices, But never yet such impulse felt, as this is. One soon fatigues, on woods and fields to look, Nor would I beg the bird his wing to spare us: How otherwise the mental raptures bear us From page to page, from book to book!

Then winter nights take loveliness untold, As warmer life in every limb had crowned you; And when your hands unroll some parchment rare and old, All Heaven descends, and opens bright around you!

One impulse art thou conscious of, at best; O, never seek to know the other! Two souls, alas! One with tenacious organs holds in love And clinging lust the world in its embraces; The other strongly sweeps, this dust above, Into the high ancestral spaces.

If there be airy spirits near, 'Twixt Heaven and Earth on potent errands fleeing, Let them drop down the golden atmosphere, And bear me forth to new and varied being!

Yea, if a magic mantle once were mine, To waft me o'er the world at pleasure, I would not for the costliest stores of treasure— Not for a monarch's robe—the gift resign.

Invoke not thus the well-known throng, Which through the firmament diffused is faring, And danger thousand-fold, our race to wrong.

In every quarter is preparing. They gladly hearken, prompt for injury,— Gladly obey, because they gladly cheat us; From Heaven they represent themselves to be, And lisp like angels, when with lies they meet us.

But, let us go! At night, one learns his house to prize:— Why stand you thus, with such astonished eyes? What, in the twilight, can your mind so trouble?

Seest thou the spiral circles, narrowing faster, Which he, approaching, round us seems to wind?

A streaming trail of fire, if I see rightly, Follows his path of mystery. It may be that your eyes deceive you slightly; Naught but a plain black poodle do I see.

It seems to me that with enchanted cunning He snares our feet, some future chain to bind. I see him timidly, in doubt, around us running, Since, in his master's stead, two strangers doth he find.

A dog thou seest, and not a phantom, here! Behold him stop—upon his belly crawl—His tail set wagging: canine habits, all!

Stand still, and you will see him wait; Address him, and he gambols straight; If something's lost, he'll quickly bring it,— Your cane, if in the stream you fling it.

No doubt you're right: no trace of mind, I own, Is in the beast: I see but drill, alone. The dog, when he's well educated, Is by the wisest tolerated.

Yes, he deserves your favor thoroughly,— The clever scholar of the students, he! Behind me, field and meadow sleeping, I leave in deep, prophetic night, Within whose dread and holy keeping The better soul awakes to light.

The wild desires no longer win us, The deeds of passion cease to chain; The love of Man revives within us, The love of God revives again. Be still, thou poodle; make not such racket and riot!

Why at the threshold wilt snuffing be? Behind the stove repose thee in quiet! My softest cushion I give to thee.

As thou, up yonder, with running and leaping Amused us hast, on the mountain's crest,. Ah, when, within our narrow chamber The lamp with friendly lustre glows, Flames in the breast each faded ember, And in the heart, itself that knows.

Then Hope again lends sweet assistance, And Reason then resumes her speech: One yearns, the rivers of existence, The very founts of Life, to reach.

Snarl not, poodle! To the sound that rises, The sacred tones that my soul embrace, This bestial noise is out of place. We are used to see, that Man despises What he never comprehends, And the Good and the Beautiful vilipends, Finding them often hard to measure: Will the dog, like man, snarl his displeasure?

But ah! I feel, though will thereto be stronger, Contentment flows from out my breast no longer. Why must the stream so soon run dry and fail us, And burning thirst again assail us?

Therein I've borne so much probation! And yet, this want may be supplied us; We call the Supernatural to guide us; We pine and thirst for Revelation, Which nowhere worthier is, more nobly sent, Than here, in our New Testament.

I feel impelled, its meaning to determine,— With honest purpose, once for all, The hallowed Original To change to my beloved German.

He opens a volume, and commences. The Word? If by the Spirit I am truly taught. Then thus: "In the Beginning was the Thought " This first line let me weigh completely, Lest my impatient pen proceed too fleetly.

Is it the Thought which works, creates, indeed? Yet, as I write, a warning is suggested, That I the sense may not have fairly tested.

The Spirit aids me: now I see the light! If I must share my chamber with thee, Poodle, stop that howling, prithee! Cease to bark and bellow!

Such a noisy, disturbing fellow I'll no longer suffer near me. One of us, dost hear me! Must leave, I fear me. No longer guest-right I bestow; The door is open, art free to go.

But what do I see in the creature? Is that in the course of nature? Is't actual fact? How long and broad my poodle grows! He rises mightily: A canine form that cannot be!

What a spectre I've harbored thus! He resembles a hippopotamus, With fiery eyes, teeth terrible to see: O, now am I sure of thee! For all of thy half-hellish brood The Key of Solomon is good.

Some one, within, is caught! Stay without, follow him not! Like the fox in a snare, Quakes the old hell-lynx there. Take heed—look about!

Back and forth hover, Under and over, And he'll work himself out. If your aid avail him, Let it not fail him; For he, without measure, Has wrought for our pleasure.

First, to encounter the beast, The Words of the Four be addressed: Salamander, shine glorious! Wave, Undine, as bidden! Sylph, be thou hidden!

Gnome, be laborious! Who knows not their sense These elements ,— Their properties And power not sees,— No mastery he inherits Over the Spirits.

Vanish in flaming ether, Salamander! Flow foamingly together, Undine! Shine in meteor-sheen, Sylph! Bring help to hearth and shelf.

Step forward, and finish thus! Of the Four, no feature Lurks in the creature. Quiet he lies, and grins disdain: Not yet, it seems, have I given him pain.

Now, to undisguise thee, Hear me exorcise thee! Art thou, my gay one, Hell's fugitive stray-one? The sign witness now, Before which they bow, The cohorts of Hell!

Base Being, hearest thou? Knowest and fearest thou The One, unoriginate, Named inexpressibly, Through all Heaven impermeate, Pierced irredressibly!

Behind the stove still banned, See it, an elephant, expand! It fills the space entire, Mist-like melting, ever faster. Thou seest, not vain the threats I bring thee: With holy fire I'll scorch and sting thee!

Wait not to know The threefold dazzling glow! Wait not to know The strongest art within my hands! Why such a noise?

What are my lord's commands? This was the poodle's real core, A travelling scholar, then? The casus is diverting.

A question small, it seems, For one whose mind the Word so much despises; Who, scorning all external gleams, The depths of being only prizes.

With all you gentlemen, the name's a test, Whereby the nature usually is expressed. Who art thou, then?

Part of that Power, not understood, Which always wills the Bad, and always works the Good. I am the Spirit that Denies!

And justly so: for all things, from the Void Called forth, deserve to be destroyed: 'Twere better, then, were naught created.

Thus, all which you as Sin have rated,— Destruction,—aught with Evil blent,— That is my proper element. The modest truth I speak to thee.

And yet, the struggle fails; since Light, howe'er it weaves, Still, fettered, unto bodies cleaves: It flows from bodies, bodies beautifies; By bodies is its course impeded; And so, but little time is needed, I hope, ere, as the bodies die, it dies!

I see the plan thou art pursuing: Thou canst not compass general ruin, And hast on smaller scale begun. And truly 'tis not much, when all is done.

That which to Naught is in resistance set,— The Something of this clumsy world,—has yet, With all that I have undertaken, Not been by me disturbed or shaken: From earthquake, tempest, wave, volcano's brand, Back into quiet settle sea and land!

And that damned stuff, the bestial, human brood,— What use, in having that to play with? How many have I made away with! And ever circulates a newer, fresher blood.

It makes me furious, such things beholding: From Water, Earth, and Air unfolding, A thousand germs break forth and grow, In dry, and wet, and warm, and chilly; And had I not the Flame reserved, why, really, There's nothing special of my own to show!

So, to the actively eternal Creative force, in cold disdain You now oppose the fist infernal, Whose wicked clench is all in vain! Some other labor seek thou rather, Queer Son of Chaos, to begin!

Well, we'll consider: thou canst gather My views, when next I venture in. Might I, perhaps, depart at present? Why thou shouldst ask, I don't perceive.

Though our acquaintance is so recent, For further visits thou hast leave. The window's here, the door is yonder; A chimney, also, you behold.

I must confess that forth I may not wander, My steps by one slight obstacle controlled,— The wizard's-foot, that on your threshold made is.

The pentagram prohibits thee? Why, tell me now, thou Son of Hades, If that prevents, how cam'st thou in to me?

Could such a spirit be so cheated? Inspect the thing: the drawing's not completed. The outer angle, you may see, Is open left—the lines don't fit it.

Well,—Chance, this time, has fairly hit it! And thus, thou'rt prisoner to me? It seems the business has succeeded.

The poodle naught remarked, as after thee he speeded; But other aspects now obtain: The Devil can't get out again.

For Devils and for spectres this is law: Where they have entered in, there also they withdraw. The first is free to us; we're governed by the second.

In Hell itself, then, laws are reckoned? That's well! So might a compact be Made with you gentlemen—and binding,—surely? All that is promised shall delight thee purely; No skinflint bargain shalt thou see.

But this is not of swift conclusion; We'll talk about the matter soon. And now, I do entreat this boon— Leave to withdraw from my intrusion.

Release me, now! I soon shall come again; Then thou, at will, mayst question and compel me. I have not snares around thee cast; Thyself hast led thyself into the meshes.

Who traps the Devil, hold him fast! Not soon a second time he'll catch a prey so precious. An't please thee, also I'm content to stay, And serve thee in a social station; But stipulating, that I may With arts of mine afford thee recreation.

My friend, thou'lt win, past all pretences, More in this hour to soothe thy senses, Than in the year's monotony. That which the dainty spirits sing thee, The lovely pictures they shall bring thee, Are more than magic's empty show.

Thy scent will be to bliss invited; Thy palate then with taste delighted, Thy nerves of touch ecstatic glow! All unprepared, the charm I spin: We're here together, so begin!

Vanish, ye darking Arches above him! Loveliest weather, Born of blue ether, Break from the sky! O that the darkling Clouds had departed! Starlight is sparkling, Tranquiller-hearted Suns are on high.

Heaven's own children In beauty bewildering, Waveringly bending, Pass as they hover; Longing unending Follows them over. They, with their glowing Garments, out-flowing, Cover, in going, Landscape and bower, Where, in seclusion, Lovers are plighted, Lost in illusion.

Bower on bower! Tendrils unblighted! And the winged races Drink, and fly onward— Fly ever sunward To the enticing Islands, that flatter, Dipping and rising Light on the water!

Hark, the inspiring Sound of their quiring! See, the entrancing Whirl of their dancing! All in the air are Freer and fairer.

Some of them scaling Boldly the highlands, Others are sailing, Circling the islands; Others are flying; Life-ward all hieing,— All for the distant Star of existent Rapture and Love!

He sleeps! Enough, ye fays! Yet, for the threshold's magic which controlled him, The Devil needs a rat's quick tooth. I use no lengthened invocation: Here rustles one that soon will work my liberation.

The lord of rats and eke of mice, Of flies and bed-bugs, frogs and lice, Summons thee hither to the door-sill, To gnaw it where, with just a morsel Of oil, he paints the spot for thee:— There com'st thou, hopping on to me!

To work, at once! The point which made me craven Is forward, on the ledge, engraven. Another bite makes free the door: So, dream thy dreams, O Faust, until we meet once more!

Am I again so foully cheated? Remains there naught of lofty spirit-sway, But that a dream the Devil counterfeited, And that a poodle ran away?

This life of earth, whatever my attire, Would pain me in its wonted fashion. Too old am I to play with passion; Too young, to be without desire.

What from the world have I to gain? Thou shalt abstain—renounce—refrain! Such is the everlasting song That in the ears of all men rings,— That unrelieved, our whole life long, Each hour, in passing, hoarsely sings.

In very terror I at morn awake, Upon the verge of bitter weeping, To see the day of disappointment break, To no one hope of mine—not one—its promise keeping:— That even each joy's presentiment With wilful cavil would diminish, With grinning masks of life prevent My mind its fairest work to finish!

Then, too, when night descends, how anxiously Upon my couch of sleep I lay me: There, also, comes no rest to me, But some wild dream is sent to fray me.

The God that in my breast is owned Can deeply stir the inner sources; The God, above my powers enthroned, He cannot change external forces.

So, by the burden of my days oppressed, Death is desired, and Life a thing unblest! O fortunate, for whom, when victory glances, The bloody laurels on the brow he bindeth!

Whom, after rapid, maddening dances, In clasping maiden-arms he findeth! O would that I, before that spirit-power, Ravished and rapt from life, had sunken!

Though some familiar tone, retrieving My thoughts from torment, led me on, And sweet, clear echoes came, deceiving A faith bequeathed from Childhood's dawn, Yet now I curse whate'er entices And snares the soul with visions vain; With dazzling cheats and dear devices Confines it in this cave of pain!

Cursed be, at once, the high ambition Wherewith the mind itself deludes! Cursed be the glare of apparition That on the finer sense intrudes! Cursed be the lying dream's impression Of name, and fame, and laurelled brow!

Cursed, all that flatters as possession, As wife and child, as knave and plow! Cursed Mammon be, when he with treasures To restless action spurs our fate!

Cursed when, for soft, indulgent leisures, He lays for us the pillows straight! Cursed be the vine's transcendent nectar,— The highest favor Love lets fall!

Cursed, also, Hope! And cursed be Patience most of all! Thou hast it destroyed, The beautiful world, With powerful fist: In ruin 'tis hurled, By the blow of a demigod shattered!

The scattered Fragments into the Void we carry, Deploring The beauty perished beyond restoring. Mightier For the children of men, Brightlier Build it again, In thine own bosom build it anew!

Bid the new career Commence, With clearer sense, And the new songs of cheer Be sung thereto! Hear them, to deeds and passion Counsel in shrewd old-fashion!

Into the world of strife, Out of this lonely life That of senses and sap has betrayed thee, They would persuade thee.

This nursing of the pain forego thee, That, like a vulture, feeds upon thy breast! The worst society thou find'st will show thee Thou art a man among the rest.

But 'tis not meant to thrust Thee into the mob thou hatest! I am not one of the greatest, Yet, wilt thou to me entrust Thy steps through life, I'll guide thee,— Will willingly walk beside thee,— Will serve thee at once and forever With best endeavor, And, if thou art satisfied, Will as servant, slave, with thee abide.

The Devil is an egotist, And is not apt, without a why or wherefore, "For God's sake," others to assist. Speak thy conditions plain and clear!

With such a servant danger comes, I fear. When thou hast dashed this world to pieces, The other, then, its place may fill.

Here, on this earth, my pleasures have their sources; Yon sun beholds my sorrows in his courses; And when from these my life itself divorces, Let happen all that can or will!

I'll hear no more: 'tis vain to ponder If there we cherish love or hate, Or, in the spheres we dream of yonder, A High and Low our souls await.

Come, bind thyself by prompt indenture, And thou mine arts with joy shalt see: What no man ever saw, I'll give to thee.

When was a human soul, in its supreme endeavor, E'er understood by such as thou? Yet, hast thou food which never satiates, now,— The restless, ruddy gold hast thou, That runs, quicksilver-like, one's fingers through,— A game whose winnings no man ever knew,— A maid that, even from my breast, Beckons my neighbor with her wanton glances, And Honor's godlike zest, The meteor that a moment dances,— Show me the fruits that, ere they're gathered, rot, And trees that daily with new leafage clothe them!

But still the time may reach us, good my friend. When peace we crave and more luxurious diet. There let, at once, my record end! Canst thou with lying flattery rule me, Until, self-pleased, myself I see,— Canst thou with rich enjoyment fool me, Let that day be the last for me!

The bet I offer. When thus I hail the Moment flying: "Ah, still delay—thou art so fair! Then let the death-bell chime the token. Then art thou from thy service free!

The clock may stop, the hand be broken, Then Time be finished unto me! But one thing more! Beyond all risk to bind thee, Give me a line or two, I pray.

Hast never known a man, nor proved his word's intent? Is't not enough, that what I speak to-day Shall stand, with all my future days agreeing?

In all its tides sweeps not the world away, And shall a promise bind my being? Yet this delusion in our hearts we bear: Who would himself therefrom deliver?

Blest he, whose bosom Truth makes pure and fair! No sacrifice shall he repent of ever. Nathless a parchment, writ and stamped with care, A spectre is, which all to shun endeavor.

The word, alas! What wilt from me, Base Spirit, say? The terms with graver, quill, or chisel, stated? I freely leave the choice to thee. Each leaf for such a pact is good; And to subscribe thy name thou'lt take a drop of blood.

The promise that I make to thee Is just the sum of my endeavor. I have myself inflated all too high; My proper place is thy estate: The Mighty Spirit deigns me no reply, And Nature shuts on me her gate.

The thread of Thought at last is broken, And knowledge brings disgust unspoken. Let us the sensual deeps explore, To quench the fervors of glowing passion!

Let every marvel take form and fashion Through the impervious veil it wore! Plunge we in Time's tumultuous dance, In the rush and roll of Circumstance!

Then may delight and distress, And worry and success, Alternately follow, as best they can: Restless activity proves the man!

Whether you everywhere be trying, Or snatch a rapid bliss in flying, May it agree with you, what you get! Only fall to, and show no timid balking.

I take the wildering whirl, enjoyment's keenest pain, Enamored hate, exhilarant disdain. My bosom, of its thirst for knowledge sated, Shall not, henceforth, from any pang be wrested, And all of life for all mankind created Shall be within mine inmost being tested: The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow, Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow, And thus, my own sole self to all their selves expanded, I too, at last, shall with them all be stranded!

Trust one of us, this Whole supernal Is made but for a God's delight! He dwells in splendor single and eternal, But us he thrusts in darkness, out of sight, And you he dowers with Day and Night.

One only fear still needs repeating: The art is long, the time is fleeting. Then let thyself be taught, say I!

Go, league thyself with a poet, Give the rein to his imagination, Then wear the crown, and show it, Of the qualities of his creation,— The courage of the lion's breed, The wild stag's speed, The Italian's fiery blood, The North's firm fortitude!

Let him find for thee the secret tether That binds the Noble and Mean together. And teach thy pulses of youth and pleasure To love by rule, and hate by measure!

I'd like, myself, such a one to see: Sir Microcosm his name should be. Set wigs of million curls upon thy head, to raise thee, Wear shoes an ell in height,—the truth betrays thee, And thou remainest—what thou art.

We must arrange them now, more wisely, Before the joys of life shall pall. Why, Zounds! Both hands and feet are, truly— And head and virile forces—thine: Yet all that I indulge in newly, Is't thence less wholly mine?

If I've six stallions in my stall, Are not their forces also lent me? I speed along, completest man of all, As though my legs were four-and-twenty.

Take hold, then! I say to thee, a speculative wight Is like a beast on moorlands lean, That round and round some fiend misleads to evil plight, While all about lie pastures fresh and green.

Draw the latch! Shut the latch! Yes, sing away, sing on, and praise, and brag of her! I'll wait my proper time for laughter: Me by the nose she led, and now she'll lead you after.

Her paramour should be an ugly gnome, Where four roads cross, in wanton play to meet her: An old he-goat, from Blocksberg coming home, Should his good-night in lustful gallop bleat her!

A fellow made of genuine flesh and blood Is for the wench a deal too good. Greet her? Not I: unless, when meeting, To smash her windows be a greeting!

Hearken now to me! Confess, Sirs, I know how to live. Enamored persons here have we, And I, as suits their quality, Must something fresh for their advantage give.

Take heed! He sings. There was a rat in the cellar-nest, Whom fat and butter made smoother: He had a paunch beneath his vest Like that of Doctor Luther.

The cook laid poison cunningly, And then as sore oppressed was he As if he had love in his bosom. But nothing cured his raving. He whirled and jumped, with torment mad, And soon enough the poor beast had, As if he had love in his bosom.

Then laughed the murderess in her glee: "Ha! How the dull fools enjoy the matter! To me it is a proper art Poison for such poor rats to scatter.

The bald-pate pot-belly I have noted: Misfortune tames him by degrees; For in the rat by poison bloated His own most natural form he sees. Before all else, I bring thee hither Where boon companions meet together, To let thee see how smooth life runs away.

Here, for the folk, each day's a holiday: With little wit, and ease to suit them, They whirl in narrow, circling trails, Like kittens playing with their tails?

And if no headache persecute them, So long the host may credit give, They merrily and careless live. The fact is easy to unravel, Their air's so odd, they've just returned from travel: A single hour they've not been here.

You've verily hit the truth! Leipzig to me is dear: Paris in miniature, how it refines its people!

Let me alone! I'll set them first to drinking, And then, as one a child's tooth draws, with cleverness, I'll worm their secret out, I'm thinking.

They're of a noble house, that's very clear: Haughty and discontented they appear. Is it permitted that we share your leisure?

In place of cheering drink, which one seeks vainly here, Your company shall give us pleasure.

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Both hands and feet are, truly— And head and virile forces—thine: Yet all that I indulge in newly, Is't thence less wholly mine? If I've six stallions in my stall, Are not their forces also lent me?

I speed along, completest man of all, As though my legs were four-and-twenty. Take hold, then! I say to thee, a speculative wight Is like a beast on moorlands lean, That round and round some fiend misleads to evil plight, While all about lie pastures fresh and green.

Draw the latch! Shut the latch! Yes, sing away, sing on, and praise, and brag of her! I'll wait my proper time for laughter: Me by the nose she led, and now she'll lead you after.

Her paramour should be an ugly gnome, Where four roads cross, in wanton play to meet her: An old he-goat, from Blocksberg coming home, Should his good-night in lustful gallop bleat her!

A fellow made of genuine flesh and blood Is for the wench a deal too good. Greet her? Not I: unless, when meeting, To smash her windows be a greeting!

Hearken now to me! Confess, Sirs, I know how to live. Enamored persons here have we, And I, as suits their quality, Must something fresh for their advantage give.

Take heed! He sings. There was a rat in the cellar-nest, Whom fat and butter made smoother: He had a paunch beneath his vest Like that of Doctor Luther.

The cook laid poison cunningly, And then as sore oppressed was he As if he had love in his bosom. But nothing cured his raving. He whirled and jumped, with torment mad, And soon enough the poor beast had, As if he had love in his bosom.

Then laughed the murderess in her glee: "Ha! How the dull fools enjoy the matter! To me it is a proper art Poison for such poor rats to scatter. The bald-pate pot-belly I have noted: Misfortune tames him by degrees; For in the rat by poison bloated His own most natural form he sees.

Before all else, I bring thee hither Where boon companions meet together, To let thee see how smooth life runs away.

Here, for the folk, each day's a holiday: With little wit, and ease to suit them, They whirl in narrow, circling trails, Like kittens playing with their tails?

And if no headache persecute them, So long the host may credit give, They merrily and careless live. The fact is easy to unravel, Their air's so odd, they've just returned from travel: A single hour they've not been here.

You've verily hit the truth! Leipzig to me is dear: Paris in miniature, how it refines its people! Let me alone! I'll set them first to drinking, And then, as one a child's tooth draws, with cleverness, I'll worm their secret out, I'm thinking.

They're of a noble house, that's very clear: Haughty and discontented they appear. Is it permitted that we share your leisure?

In place of cheering drink, which one seeks vainly here, Your company shall give us pleasure. No doubt 'twas late when you from Rippach started?

And supping there with Hans occasioned your delay? We passed, without a call, to-day. At our last interview, before we parted Much of his cousins did he speak, entreating That we should give to each his kindly greeting.

If I am right, we heard the sound Of well-trained voices, singing chorus; And truly, song must here rebound Superbly from the arches o'er us.

We've just retraced our way from. Spain, The lovely land of wine, and song, and slumber. There was a king once reigning, Who had a big black flea, And loved him past explaining, As his own son were he.

He called his man of stitches; The tailor came straightway: Here, measure the lad for breeches.

And measure his coat, I say! But mind, allow the tailor no caprices: Enjoin upon him, as his head is dear, To most exactly measure, sew and shear, So that the breeches have no creases!

In silk and velvet gleaming He now was wholly drest— Had a coat with ribbons streaming, A cross upon his breast. He had the first of stations, A minister's star and name; And also all his relations Great lords at court became.

And the lords and ladies of honor Were plagued, awake and in bed; The queen she got them upon her, The maids were bitten and bled. And they did not dare to brush them, Or scratch them, day or night: We crack them and we crush them, At once, whene'er they bite.

I fain would drink with you, my glass to Freedom clinking, If 'twere a better wine that here I see you drinking. Did I not fear the landlord might complain, I'd treat these worthy guests, with pleasure, To some from out our cellar's treasure.

And if the wine be good, our praises shall be ample. But do not give too very small a sample; For, if its quality I decide, With a good mouthful I must be supplied.

Our Fatherland can best the sparkling cup replenish. What's foreign one can't always keep quite clear of, For good things, oft, are not so near; A German can't endure the French to see or hear of, Yet drinks their wines with hearty cheer.

No—look me, Sirs, straight in the face! I see you have your fun at our expense. Speak out, and make your choice with speed! With what a vintage can I serve you?

Grapes the vine-stem bears, Horns the he-goat wears! The grapes are juicy, the vines are wood, The wooden table gives wine as good! Into the depths of Nature peer,— Only believe there's a miracle here!

As 'twere five hundred hogs, we feel So cannibalic jolly! What mean you? You'll know us, to your detriment. Strike— The knave is outlawed! Cut him as you like!

False word and form of air, Change place, and sense ensnare! Be here—and there! I saw him with these eyes upon a wine-cask riding Out of the cellar-door, just now.

Still in my feet the fright like lead is weighing. Upon a low hearth stands a great caldron, under which a fire is burning.

Various figures appear in the vapors which rise from the caldron. An ape sits beside it, skims it, and watches lest it boil over.

The he-ape, with the young ones, sits near and warms himself. Ceiling and walls are covered with the most fantastic witch-implements. These crazy signs of witches' craft repel me!

I shall recover, dost thou tell me, Through this insane, chaotic play? From an old hag shall I demand assistance? And will her foul mess take away Full thirty years from my existence?

Woe's me, canst thou naught better find! Another baffled hope must be lamented: Has Nature, then, and has a noble mind Not any potent balsam yet invented?

Once more, my friend, thou talkest sensibly. There is, to make thee young, a simpler mode and apter; But in another book 'tis writ for thee, And is a most eccentric chapter.

Betake thyself to yonder field, There hoe and dig, as thy condition; Restrain thyself, thy sense and will Within a narrow sphere to flourish; With unmixed food thy body nourish; Live with the ox as ox, and think it not a theft That thou manur'st the acre which thou reapest;— That, trust me, is the best mode left, Whereby for eighty years thy youth thou keepest!

I am not used to that; I cannot stoop to try it— To take the spade in hand, and ply it. The narrow being suits me not at all. That were a charming sport, I own: I'd build a thousand bridges meanwhile, I've a notion.

Not Art and Science serve, alone; Patience must in the work be shown. Long is the calm brain active in creation; Time, only, strengthens the fine fermentation.

And all, belonging thereunto, Is rare and strange, howe'er you take it: The Devil taught the thing, 'tis true, And yet the Devil cannot make it.

Perceiving the Animals See, what a delicate race they be! That is the maid! To the Animals It seems the mistress has gone away?

O cast thou the dice! Make me rich in a trice, Let me win in good season! Things are badly controlled, And had I but gold, So had I my reason. In the meantime the young apes have been playing with a large ball, which they now roll forward.

The world's the ball: Doth rise and fall, And roll incessant: Like glass doth ring, A hollow thing,— How soon will't spring, And drop, quiescent?

Here bright it gleams, Here brighter seems: I live at present! Dear son, I say, Keep thou away! Thy doom is spoken! Wert thou the thief, I'd know him and shame him.

Look through the sieve! Know'st thou the thief, And darest not name him? The fool knows it not! He knows not the pot, He knows not the kettle!

What do I see? What heavenly form revealed Shows through the glass from Magic's fair dominions! O lend me, Love, the swiftest of thy pinions, And bear me to her beauteous field!

Ah, if I leave this spot with fond designing, If I attempt to venture near, Dim, as through gathering mist, her charms appear!

Can woman, then, so lovely be? And must I find her body, there reclining, Of all the heavens the bright epitome? Can Earth with such a thing be mated?

Why, surely, if a God first plagues Himself six days, Then, self-contented, Bravo! This time, thine eyes be satiate! I'll yet detect thy sweetheart and ensnare her, And blest is he, who has the lucky fate, Some day, as bridegroom, home to bear her.

FAUST gazes continually in the mirror. So sit I, like the King upon his throne: I hold the sceptre, here,—and lack the crown alone.

O be thou so good With sweat and with blood The crown to belime! They handle the crown awkwardly and break it into two pieces, with which they spring around.

We speak and we see, We hear and we rhyme! If lucky our hits, And everything fits, 'Tis thoughts, and we're thinking!

The caldron, which the SHE-APE has up to this time neglected to watch, begins to boil over: there ensues a great flame , which blazes out the chimney.

To leave the kettle, and singe the Frau! What is that here? Who are you here? What want you thus? Who sneaks to us? The fire-pain Burn bone and brain!

The Animals whimper. In two! There lies the brew! There lies the glass! The joke will pass, As time, foul ass! To the singing of thy crew.

Abomination, thou! Know'st thou, at last, thy Lord and Master? What hinders me from smiting now Thee and thy monkey-sprites with fell disaster?

Hast for the scarlet coat no reverence? Dost recognize no more the tall cock's-feather? Have I concealed this countenance? O pardon, Sir, the rough salute!

Yet I perceive no cloven foot; And both your ravens, where are they now? This time, I'll let thee 'scape the debt; For since we two together met, 'Tis verily full many a day now.

Culture, which smooth the whole world licks, Also unto the Devil sticks. The days of that old Northern phantom now are over: Where canst thou horns and tail and claws discover?

And, as regards the foot, which I can't spare, in truth, 'Twould only make the people shun me; Therefore I've worn, like many a spindly youth, False calves these many years upon me.

It's long been written in the Book of Fable; Yet, therefore, no whit better men we see: The Evil One has left, the evil ones are stable.

Sir Baron call me thou, then is the matter good; A cavalier am I, like others in my bearing. Thou hast no doubt about my noble blood: See, here's the coat-of-arms that I am wearing!

Give us a goblet of the well-known juice! But, I must beg you, of the oldest brewage; The years a double strength produce. With all my heart!

Now, here's a bottle, Wherefrom, sometimes, I wet my throttle, Which, also, not the slightest, stinks; And willingly a glass I'll fill him.

Yet, if this man without due preparation drinks, As well thou know'st, within an hour 'twill kill him. He is a friend of mine, with whom it will agree, And he deserves thy kitchen's best potation: Come, draw thy circle, speak thine adjuration, And fill thy goblet full and free!

Finally she brings a great book, and stations in the circle the Apes, who are obliged to serve as reading-desk, and to hold the torches.

Now, what shall come of this? O, nonsense! That's a thing for laughter; Don't be so terribly severe! She juggles you as doctor now, that, after, The beverage may work the proper cheer.

See, thus it's done! Make ten of one, And two let be, Make even three, And rich thou 'It be. Cast o'er the four! From five and six The witch's tricks Make seven and eight, 'Tis finished straight!

And nine is one, And ten is none. This is the witch's once-one's-one! Thou'lt hear much more before we leave her.

They prate and teach, and no one interferes; All from the fellowship of fools are shrinking. Man usually believes, if only words he hears, That also with them goes material for thinking!

The lofty skill Of Science, still From all men deeply hidden! Who takes no thought, To him 'tis brought, 'Tis given unsought, unbidden!

What nonsense she declaims before us! My head is nigh to split, I fear: It seems to me as if I hear A hundred thousand fools in chorus.

O Sibyl excellent, enough of adjuration! But hither bring us thy potation, And quickly fill the beaker to the brim! This drink will bring my friend no injuries: He is a man of manifold degrees, And many draughts are known to him.

Down with it quickly! Drain it off! Thy wish be on Walpurgis Night expressed; What boon I have, shall then be given unto thee.

Come, walk at once! A rapid occupation Must start the needful perspiration, And through thy frame the liquor's potence fling. The noble indolence I'll teach thee then to treasure, And soon thou'lt be aware, with keenest thrills of pleasure, How Cupid stirs and leaps, on light and restless wing.

By Heaven, the girl is wondrous fair! Of all I've seen, beyond compare; So sweetly virtuous and pure, And yet a little pert, be sure!

The lip so red, the cheek's clear dawn,. I'll not forget while the world rolls on! How she cast down her timid eyes, Deep in my heart imprinted lies: How short and sharp of speech was she, Why, 'twas a real ecstasy!

She, there? She's coming from confession, Of every sin absolved; for I, Behind her chair, was listening nigh.

So innocent is she, indeed, That to confess she had no need. I have no power o'er souls so green. How now! You're talking like Jack Rake, Who every flower for himself would take, And fancies there are no favors more, Nor honors, save for him in store; Yet always doesn't the thing succeed.

Most Worthy Pedagogue, take heed! Let not a word of moral law be spoken! I claim, I tell thee, all my right; And if that image of delight Rest not within mine arms to-night, At midnight is our compact broken.

But think, the chances of the case! I need, at least, a fortnight's space, To find an opportune occasion. Had I but seven hours for all, I should not on the Devil call, But win her by my own persuasion.

You almost like a Frenchman prate; Yet, pray, don't take it as annoyance! Why, all at once, exhaust the joyance?

Your bliss is by no means so great As if you'd use, to get control, All sorts of tender rigmarole, And knead and shape her to your thought, As in Italian tales 'tis taught.

But now, leave jesting out of sight! I tell you, once for all, that speed With this fair girl will not succeed; By storm she cannot captured be; We must make use of strategy.

Get me something the angel keeps! Lead me thither where she sleeps! Get me a kerchief from her breast,— A garter that her knee has pressed!

That you may see how much I'd fain Further and satisfy your pain, We will no longer lose a minute; I'll find her room to-day, and take you in it. Presents at once?

That's good: he's certain to get at her! Full many a pleasant place I know, And treasures, buried long ago: I must, perforce, look up the matter.

I'd something give, could I but say Who was that gentleman, to-day. Surely a gallant man was he, And of a noble family; And much could I in his face behold,— And he wouldn't, else, have been so bold!

O welcome, twilight soft and sweet, That breathes throughout this hallowed shrine! Sweet pain of love, bind thou with fetters fleet The heart that on the dew of hope must pine!

How all around a sense impresses Of quiet, order, and content! This poverty what bounty blesses! What bliss within this narrow den is pent! Receive me, thou, that in thine open arms Departed joy and pain wert wont to gather!

How oft the children, with their ruddy charms, Hung here, around this throne, where sat the father! Perchance my love, amid the childish band, Grateful for gifts the Holy Christmas gave her, Here meekly kissed the grandsire's withered hand.

I feel, O maid! O dearest hand, to thee 'tis given To change this hut into a lower heaven! And here! What sweetest thrill is in my blood!

Here could I spend whole hours, delaying: Here Nature shaped, as if in sportive playing, The angel blossom from the bud.

Here lay the child, with Life's warm essence The tender bosom filled and fair, And here was wrought, through holier, purer presence, The form diviner beings wear!

And I? What drew me here with power? How deeply am I moved, this hour! What seek I? Why so full my heart, and sore? Miserable Faust! I know thee now no more.

Is there a magic vapor here? I came, with lust of instant pleasure, And lie dissolved in dreams of love's sweet leisure!

Are we the sport of every changeful atmosphere? And if, this moment, came she in to me, How would I for the fault atonement render!

How small the giant lout would be, Prone at her feet, relaxed and tender! Here is a casket, not unmeet, Which elsewhere I have just been earning.

Here, set it in the press, with haste! I swear, 'twill turn her head, to spy it: Some baubles I therein had placed, That you might win another by it.

True, child is child, and play is play. Now quick, away! The sweet young maiden to betray, So that by wish and will you bend her; And you look as though To the lecture-hall you were forced to go,— As if stood before you, gray and loath, Physics and Metaphysics both!

But away! And yet 'tis not so warm outside. I feel, I know not why, such fear! My body's chill and shuddering,— I'm but a silly, fearsome thing!

There was a King in Thule, Was faithful till the grave,— To whom his mistress, dying, A golden goblet gave. Naught was to him more precious; He drained it at every bout: His eyes with tears ran over, As oft as he drank thereout.

When came his time of dying, The towns in his land he told, Naught else to his heir denying Except the goblet of gold.

He sat at the royal banquet With his knights of high degree, In the lofty hall of his fathers In the Castle by the Sea. There stood the old carouser, And drank the last life-glow; And hurled the hallowed goblet Into the tide below.

He saw it plunging and filling, And sinking deep in the sea: Then fell his eyelids forever, And never more drank he!

She opens the press in order to arrange her clothes, and perceives the casket of jewels. How comes that lovely casket here to me?

I locked the press, most certainly. What can within it be? Perhaps 'twas brought by some one as a pawn, And mother gave a loan thereon?

And here there hangs a key to fit: I have a mind to open it. What is that? God in Heaven! Whence came Such things? Never beheld I aught so fair!

Rich ornaments, such as a noble dame On highest holidays might wear! How would the pearl-chain suit my hair? Ah, who may all this splendor own? Were but the ear-rings mine, alone!

One has at once another air. What helps one's beauty, youthful blood? One may possess them, well and good; But none the more do others care.

They praise us half in pity, sure: To gold still tends, On gold depends All, all! Alas, we poor! By all love ever rejected!

By hell-fire hot and unsparing! I wish I knew something worse, that I might use it for swearing! Just think, the pocket of a priest should get The trinkets left for Margaret!

The mother saw them, and, instanter, A secret dread began to haunt her. Keen scent has she for tainted air; She snuffs within her book of prayer, And smells each article, to see If sacred or profane it be; So here she guessed, from every gem, That not much blessing came with them.

Before the Mother of God we'll lay it; With heavenly manna she'll repay it! He spake: "That is the proper view,— Who overcometh, winneth too. The Holy Church has a stomach healthy: Hath eaten many a land as forfeit, And never yet complained of surfeit: The Church alone, beyond all question, Has for ill-gotten goods the right digestion.

Then bagged the spangles, chains, and rings, As if but toadstools were the things, And thanked no less, and thanked no more Than if a sack of nuts he bore,— Promised them fullest heavenly pay, And deeply edified were they.

Sits unrestful still, And knows not what she should, or will; Thinks on the jewels, day and night, But more on him who gave her such delight. The darling's sorrow gives me pain.

Get thou a set for her again! The first was not a great display. Fix and arrange it to my will; And on her neighbor try thy skill! Don't be a Devil stiff as paste, But get fresh jewels to her taste!

Such an enamored fool in air would blow Sun, moon, and all the starry legions, To give his sweetheart a diverting show. God forgive my husband, yet he Hasn't done his duty by me!

Off in the world he went straightway,— Left me lie in the straw where I lay. And, truly, I did naught to fret him: God knows I loved, and can't forget him!

I scarce can stand, my knees are trembling! I find a box, the first resembling, Within my press! Of ebony,— And things, all splendid to behold, And richer far than were the old.

But, ah! Yet thou canst often this way wander, And secretly the jewels don, Walk up and down an hour, before the mirror yonder,— We'll have our private joy thereon.

And then a chance will come, a holiday, When, piece by piece, can one the things abroad display, A chain at first, then other ornament: Thy mother will not see, and stories we'll invent.

Whoever could have brought me things so precious? That something's wrong, I feel suspicious. It is enough that you are she: You've a visitor of high degree.

Pardon the freedom I have ta'en,— Will after noon return again. I am a creature young and poor: The gentleman's too kind, I'm sure.

The jewels don't belong to me. Ah, not alone the jewelry! The look, the manner, both betray— Rejoiced am I that I may stay! I would I had a more cheerful strain!

Take not unkindly its repeating: Your husband's dead, and sends a greeting. In Padua buried, he is lying Beside the good Saint Antony, Within a grave well consecrated, For cool, eternal rest created.

Yes, one of weight, with many sighs: Three hundred masses buy, to save him from perdition! My hands are empty, otherwise.

Not a pocket-piece? What every journeyman within his wallet spares, And as a token with him bears, And rather starves or begs, than loses?

Madam, it is a grief to me; Yet, on my word, his cash was put to proper uses. Besides, his penitence was very sore, And he lamented his ill fortune all the more.

Alack, that men are so unfortunate! Surely for his soul's sake full many a prayer I'll proffer. If not a husband, then a beau for you!

It is the greatest heavenly blessing, To have a dear thing for one's caressing. I stood beside his bed of dying. He cried: "I find my conduct wholly hateful!

To leave my wife, my trade, in manner so ungrateful! Ah, the remembrance makes me die! Would of my wrong to her I might be shriven! In the last throes his senses wandered, If I such things but half can judge.

He said: "I had no time for play, for gaping freedom: First children, and then work for bread to feed 'em,— For bread, in the widest sense, to drudge, And could not even eat my share in peace and quiet!

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