Part 4 (1/2)

(Heaven closes: the ARCHANGELS separate.)

MEPHISTOPHELES (solus)

I like, at times, to hear The Ancient's word, And have a care to be most civil: It's really kind of such a n.o.ble Lord So humanly to gossip with the Devil!

FIRST PART OF THE TRAGEDY

I

NIGHT

(A lofty-arched, narrow, Gothic chamber. FAUST, in a chair at his desk, restless.)

FAUST

I've studied now Philosophy And Jurisprudence, Medicine,- And even, alas! Theology,- From end to end, with labor keen; And here, poor fool! with all my lore I stand, no wiser than before: I'm Magister-yea, Doctor-hight, And straight or cross-wise, wrong or right, These ten years long, with many woes, I've led my scholars by the nose,- And see, that nothing can be known!

That knowledge cuts me to the bone.

I'm cleverer, true, than those fops of teachers, Doctors and Magisters, Scribes and Preachers; Neither scruples nor doubts come now to smite me, Nor h.e.l.l nor Devil can longer affright me.

For this, all pleasure am I foregoing; I do not pretend to aught worth knowing, I do not pretend I could be a teacher To help or convert a fellow-creature.

Then, too, I've neither lands nor gold, Nor the world's least pomp or honor hold- No dog would endure such a curst existence!

Wherefore, from Magic I seek a.s.sistance, That many a secret perchance I reach Through spirit-power and spirit-speech, And thus the bitter task forego Of saying the things I do not know,- That I may detect the inmost force Which binds the world, and guides its course; Its germs, productive powers explore, And rummage in empty words no more!

O full and splendid Moon, whom I Have, from this desk, seen climb the sky So many a midnight,-would thy glow For the last time beheld my woe!

Ever thine eye, most mournful friend, O'er books and papers saw me bend; But would that I, on mountains grand, Amid thy blessed light could stand, With spirits through mountain-caverns hover, Float in thy twilight the meadows over, And, freed from the fumes of lore that swathe me, To health in thy dewy fountains bathe me!

Ah, me! this dungeon still I see.

This drear, accursed masonry, Where even the welcome daylight strains But duskly through the painted panes.

Hemmed in by many a toppling heap Of books worm-eaten, gray with dust, Which to the vaulted ceiling creep, Against the smoky paper thrust,- With gla.s.ses, boxes, round me stacked, And instruments together hurled, Ancestral lumber, stuffed and packed- Such is my world: and what a world!

And do I ask, wherefore my heart Falters, oppressed with unknown needs?

Why some inexplicable smart All movement of my life impedes?

Alas! in living Nature's stead, Where G.o.d His human creature set, In smoke and mould the fleshless dead And bones of beasts surround me yet!

Fly! Up, and seek the broad, free land!

And this one Book of Mystery From Nostradamus' very hand, Is't not sufficient company?

When I the starry courses know, And Nature's wise instruction seek, With light of power my soul shall glow, As when to spirits spirits speak.

Tis vain, this empty brooding here, Though guessed the holy symbols be: Ye, Spirits, come-ye hover near- Oh, if you hear me, answer me!