LITMIR.BIZ

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rise,–red, angry rays are darting

      Around my head!–There falls

      A horror from the vaulted roof,

      And seizes me!

      I feel thy presence, Spirit I invoke!

      Reveal thyself!

      Ha! in my heart what rending stroke!

      With new impulsion

      My senses heave in this convulsion!

      I feel thee draw my heart, absorb, exhaust me:

      Thou must! thou must! and though my life it cost me!

      (He seizes the book, and mysteriously pronounces the sign of

       the Spirit. A ruddy flame flashes: the Spirit appears in

      the flame.)

      SPIRIT

      Who calls me?

      FAUST (with averted head)

      Terrible to see!

      SPIRIT

      Me hast thou long with might attracted,

      Long from my sphere thy food exacted,

      And now–

      FAUST

      Woe! I endure not thee!

      SPIRIT

      To view me is thine aspiration,

      My voice to hear, my countenance to see;

      Thy powerful yearning moveth me,

      Here am I!–what mean perturbation

      Thee, superhuman, shakes? Thy soul’s high calling, where?

      Where is the breast, which from itself a world did bear,

      And shaped and cherished–which with joy expanded,

      To be our peer, with us, the Spirits, banded?

      Where art thou, Faust, whose voice has pierced to me,

      Who towards me pressed with all thine energy?

      He art thou, who, my presence breathing, seeing,

      Trembles through all the depths of being,

      A writhing worm, a terror-stricken form?

      FAUST

      Thee, form of flame, shall I then fear?

      Yes, I am Faust: I am thy peer!

      SPIRIT

      In the tides of Life, in Action’s storm,

      A fluctuant wave,

      A shuttle free,

      Birth and the Grave,

      An eternal sea,

      A weaving, flowing

      Life, all-glowing,

      Thus at Time’s humming loom ‘tis my hand prepares

      The garment of Life which the Deity wears!

      FAUST

      Thou, who around the wide world wendest,

      Thou busy Spirit, how near I feel to thee!

      SPIRIT

      Thou’rt like the Spirit which thou comprehendest,

      Not me!

      (Disappears.)

      FAUST (overwhelmed)

      Not thee!

      Whom then?

      I, image of the Godhead!

      Not even like thee!

      (A knock).

      O Death!–I know it–‘tis my Famulus!

      My fairest luck finds no fruition:

      In all the fullness of my vision

      The soulless sneak disturbs me thus!

      (Enter WAGNER,in dressing-gown and night-cap, a lamp in

      his hand. FAUST turns impatiently.)

      WAGNER

      Pardon, I heard your declamation;

      ‘Twas sure an old Greek tragedy you read?

      In such an art I crave some preparation,

      Since now it stands one in good stead.

      I’ve often heard it said, a preacher

      Might learn, with a comedian for a teacher.

      FAUST

      Yes, when the priest comedian is by nature,

      As haply now and then the case may be.

      WAGNER

      Ah, when one studies thus, a prisoned creature,

      That scarce the world on holidays can see,–

      Scarce through a glass, by rare occasion,

      How shall one lead it by persuasion?

      FAUST

      You’ll ne’er attain it, save you know the feeling,

      Save from the soul it rises clear,

      Serene in primal strength, compelling

      The hearts and minds of all who hear.

      You sit forever gluing, patching;

      You cook the scraps from others’ fare;

      And from your heap of ashes hatching

      A starveling flame, ye blow it bare!

      Take children’s, monkeys’ gaze admiring,

      If such your taste, and be content;

      But ne’er from heart to heart you’ll speak inspiring,

      Save your own heart is eloquent!

      WAGNER

      Yet through delivery orators succeed;

      I feel that I am far behind, indeed.

      FAUST

      Seek thou the honest recompense!

      Beware, a tinkling fool to be!

      With little art, clear wit and sense

      Suggest their own delivery;

      And if thou’rt moved to speak in earnest,

      What need, that after words thou yearnest?

      Yes, your discourses, with their glittering show,

      Where ye for men twist shredded thought like paper,

      Are unrefreshing as the winds that blow

      The rustling leaves through chill autumnal vapor!

      WAGNER

      Ah, God! but Art is long,

      And Life, alas! is fleeting.

      And oft, with zeal my critic-duties meeting,

      In head and breast there’s something wrong.

      How hard it is to compass the assistance

      Whereby one rises to the source!

      And, haply, ere one travels half the course

      Must the poor devil quit existence.

      FAUST

      Is

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