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Faust; a Tragedy, Translated from the German of Goethe



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FAUST.

    Night. In a narrow high-arched Gothic room,    FAUST sitting uneasy at his desk.

Faust. Have now, alas! quite studied throughPhilosophy and Medicine,And Law, and ah! Theology, too,With hot desire the truth to win!And here, at last, I stand, poor fool!As wise as when I entered school;Am called Magister, Doctor, indeed,—Ten livelong years cease not to leadBackward and forward, to and fro,My scholars by the nose—and lo!Just nothing, I see, is the sum of our learning,To the very core of my heart 'tis burning.'Tis true I'm more clever than all the foplings,Doctors, Magisters, Authors, and Popelings;Am plagued by no scruple, nor doubt, nor cavil,Nor lingering fear of hell or devil—What then? all pleasure is fled forever;To know one thing I vainly endeavor,There's nothing wherein one fellow-creatureCould be mended or bettered with me for a teacher.And then, too, nor goods nor gold have I,Nor fame nor worldly dignity,—A condition no dog could longer live in!And so to magic my soul I've given,If, haply, by spirits' mouth and might,Some mysteries may not be brought to light;That to teach, no longer may be my lot,With bitter sweat, what I need to be taught;That I may know what the world containsIn its innermost heart and finer veins,See all its energies and seedsAnd deal no more in words but in deeds.  O full, round Moon, didst thou but thineFor the last time on this woe of mine!Thou whom so many a midnight IHave watched, at this desk, come up the sky:O'er books and papers, a dreary pile,Then, mournful friend! uprose thy smile!Oh that I might on the mountain-height,Walk in the noon of thy blessed light,Round mountain-caverns with spirits hover,Float in thy gleamings the meadows over,And freed from the fumes of a lore-crammed brain,Bathe in thy dew and be well again!  Woe! and these walls still prison me?Dull, dismal hole! my curse on thee!Where heaven's own light, with its blessed beams,Through painted panes all sickly gleams!Hemmed in by these old book-piles tall,Which, gnawed by worms and deep in must,Rise to the roof against a wallOf smoke-stained paper, thick with dust;'Mid glasses, boxes, where eye can see,Filled with old, obsolete instruments,Stuffed with old heirlooms of implements—That is thy world! There's a world for thee!  And still dost ask what stifles soThe fluttering heart within thy breast?By what inexplicable woeThe springs of life are all oppressed?Instead of living nature, whereGod made and planted men, his sons,Through smoke and mould, around thee stareGrim skeletons and dead men's bones.  Up! Fly! Far out into the land!And this mysterious volume, see!By Nostradamus's[5] own hand,Is it not guide enough for thee?Then shalt thou thread the starry skies,And, taught by nature in her walks,The spirit's might shall o'er thee rise,As ghost to ghost familiar talks.Vain hope that mere dry sense should hereExplain the holy signs to thee.I feel you, spirits, hovering near;Oh, if you hear me, answer me...!