Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 417

Still to watch on I had been well content,

Thus to converse so learnedly with you.

But as tomorrow will be Easter-day,

Some further questions grant, I pray;

With diligence to study still I fondly cling;

Already I know much, but would know everything. [Exit.]

FAUST (alone)

How him alone all hope abandons never,

To empty trash who clings, with zeal untired,

With greed for treasure gropes, and, joy-inspir'd,

Exults if earth-worms second his endeavor.

And dare a voice of merely human birth,

E'en here, where shapes immortal throng'd, intrude?

Yet ah! thou poorest of the sons of earth,

For once, I e'en to thee feel gratitude.

Despair the power of sense did well-nigh blast,

And thou didst save me ere I sank dismay'd;

So giant-like the vision seem'd, so vast,

I felt myself shrink dwarf'd as I survey'd!

I, God's own image, from this toil of clay

Already freed, with eager joy who hail'd

The mirror of eternal truth unveil'd,

Mid light effulgent and celestial day

I, more than cherub, whose unfetter'd soul

With penetrative glance aspir'd to flow

Through nature's veins, and, still creating, know

The life of gods—how am I punish'd now!

One thunder-word hath hurl'd me from the goal!

Spirit! I dare not lift me to thy sphere.

What though my power compell'd thee to appear,

My art was powerless to detain thee here.

In that great moment, rapture-fraught,

I felt myself so small, so great;

Fiercely didst thrust me from the realm of thought

Back on humanity's uncertain fate!

Who'll teach me now? What ought I to forego?

Ought I that impulse to obey?

Alas! our every deed, as well as every woe,

Impedes the tenor of life's onward way!

E'en to the noblest by the soul conceiv'd,

Some feelings cling of baser quality;

And when the goods of this world are achiev'd,

Each nobler aim is term'd a cheat, a lie.

Our aspirations, our soul's genuine life,

Grow torpid in the din of earthly strife.

Though youthful phantasy, while hope inspires,

Stretch o'er the infinite her wing sublime,

A narrow compass limits her desires,

When wreck'd our fortunes in the gulf of time.

In the deep heart of man care builds her nest,

O'er secret woes she broodeth there,

Sleepless she rocks herself and scareth joy and rest;

Still is she wont some new disguise to wear—

She may as house and court, as wife and child appear,

As dagger, poison, fire and flood;

Imagined evils chill thy blood,

And what thou ne'er shalt lose, o'er that dost shed the tear.

I am not like the gods! Feel it I must;

I'm like the earth-worm, writhing in the dust,

Which, as on dust it feeds, its native fare,

Crushed 'neath the passer's tread, lies buried there.

Is it not dust, wherewith this lofty wall,

With hundred shelves, confines me round;

Rubbish, in thousand shapes, may I not call

What in this moth-world doth my being bound?

Here, what doth fail me, shall I find?

Read in a thousand tomes that, everywhere,

Self-torture is the lot of human-kind,

With but one mortal happy, here and there

Thou hollow skull, that grin, what should it say,

But that thy brain, like mine, of old perplexed,

Still yearning for the truth, hath sought the light of day,

And in the twilight wandered, sorely vexed?

Ye instruments, forsooth, ye mock at me—

With wheel, and cog, and ring, and cylinder;

To nature's portals ye should be the key;

Cunning your wards, and yet the bolts ye fail to stir.

Inscrutable in broadest light,

To be unveil'd by force she doth refuse,

What she reveals not to thy mental sight

Thou wilt not wrest from her with levers and with screws.

Old useless furnitures, yet stand ye here,

Because my sire ye served, now dead and gone.

Old scroll, the smoke of years dost wear,

So long as o'er this desk the sorry lamp hath shone.

Better my little means hath squandered quite away

Than burden'd by that little here to sweat and groan!

Wouldst thou possess thy heritage, essay

By use to render it thine own!

What we employ not but impedes our way;

That which the hour creates, that can it use alone!

But wherefore to yon spot is riveted my gaze?

Is yonder flasket there a magnet to my sight?

Whence this mild radiance that around me plays,

As when, 'mid forest gloom, reigneth the moon's soft light?

Hail, precious phial! Thee, with reverent awe,

Down from thine old receptacle I draw!

Science in thee I hail and human art.

Essence of deadliest powers, refin'd and sure,

Of soothing anodynes abstraction pure,

Now in thy master's need thy grace impart!

I gaze on thee, my pain is lull'd to rest;

I grasp thee, calm'd the tumult in my breast;

The flood-tide of my spirit ebbs away;

Onward I'm summon'd o'er a boundless main,

Calm at my feet expands the glassy plain,

To shores unknown allures a brighter day.

Lo, where a car of fire, on airy pinion,

Comes floating towards me! I'm prepar'd to fly

By a new track through ether's wide dominion,

To distant spheres of pure activity.

This life intense, this godlike ecstasy—

Worm that thou art such rapture canst thou earn!

Only resolve, with courage stern and high,

Thy visage from the radiant sun to turn!

Dare with determin'd will to burst the portals

Past which in terror others fain would steal!

Now is the time, through deeds, to show that mortals

The calm sublimity of gods can feel;

To shudder not at yonder dark abyss

Where phantasy creates her own self-torturing brood;

Right onward to the yawning gulf to press,

Around whose narrow jaws rolleth hell's fiery flood;

With glad resolve to take the fatal leap,

Though danger threaten thee, to sink in endless sleep!

Pure crystal goblet! forth I draw thee now

From out thine antiquated case, where thou

Forgotten hast reposed for many a year!

Oft at my father's revels thou didst shine;

To glad the earnest guests was thine,

As each to other passed the generous cheer.

The gorgeous brede of figures, quaintly wrought,

Which he who quaff'd must first in rhyme expound,

Then drain the goblet at one draught profound,

Hath nights of boyhood to fond memory brought.

I to my neighbor shall not reach thee now,

Nor on thy rich device shall I my cunning show.

Here is a juice, makes drunk without delay;

Its dark brown flood thy crystal round doth fill;

Let this last draught, the product of my skill,

My own free choice, be quaff'd with resolute will,

A solemn festive greeting, to the coming day!

[He places the goblet to his mouth.]

[The ringing of bells, and choral voices.]