LITMIR.BIZ

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the venture,

      Splendid the pay!

      And the soldiers go marching,

      Marching away!

      Faust and Wagner

      FAUST

      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      Withdrawn to the mountains, a crownless king: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! the multitude sallies,

      Scattering through gardens and fields remote,

      While over the river, that broadly dallies,

      Dances so many a festive boat;

      And overladen, nigh to sinking,

      The last full wherry takes the stream.

      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!

      WAGNER

      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!

      PEASANTS, UNDER THE LINDEN-TREE

      (Dance and 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! hurrah!

      Hurrah–tarara-la!

      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!”

      Hurrah! hurrah!

      Hurrah–tarara-la!

      “Be decent while you’re staying!”

      Then round the circle went their flight,

      They danced to left, they danced to right:

      Their kirtles all were playing.

      They first grew red, and then grew warm,

      And rested, panting, arm in arm,–

      Hurrah! hurrah!

      Hurrah–tarara-la!

      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.

      Hurrah! hurrah!

      Hurrah–tarara-la!

      And the fiddle-bow was playing.

      OLD PEASANT

      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!

      FAUST

      I take the cup you kindly reach,

      With thanks and health to all and each.

      (The People gather in a circle about him.)

      OLD PEASANT

      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.

      FAUST

      No test or trial you evaded:

      A Helping God the helper aided.

      ALL

      Health to the man, so skilled and tried.

      That for our help he long may abide!

      FAUST

      To

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