Faust [part 1]. Translated Into English in the Original Metres · Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
FAUST
Why, here in dust, entice me with your spell, Ye gentle, powerful sounds of Heaven? Peal rather there, where tender natures dwell. Your messages I hear, but faith has not been given; The dearest child of Faith is Miracle. I venture not to soar to yonder regions Whence the glad tidings hither float; And yet, from childhood up familiar with the note, To Life it now renews the old allegiance. Once Heavenly Love sent down a burning kiss Upon my brow, in Sabbath silence holy; And, filled with mystic presage, chimed the church-bell slowly, And prayer dissolved me in a fervent bliss. A sweet, uncomprehended yearning Drove forth my feet through woods and meadows free, And while a thousand tears were burning, I felt a world arise for me. These chants, to youth and all its sports appealing, Proclaimed the Spring’s rejoicing holiday; And Memory holds me now, with childish feeling, Back from the last, the solemn way. Sound on, ye hymns of Heaven, so sweet and mild! My tears gush forth: the Earth takes back her child! Has He, victoriously, Burst from the vaulted Grave, and all-gloriously Now sits exalted? Is He, in glow of birth, Rapture creative near? Ah! to the woe of earth Still are we native here. We, his aspiring Followers, Him we miss; Weeping, desiring, Master, Thy bliss!
Christ is arisen, Out of Corruption’s womb: Burst ye the prison, Break from your gloom! Praising and pleading him, Lovingly needing him, Brotherly feeding him, Preaching and speeding him, Blessing, succeeding Him, Thus is the Master near,— Thus is He here! [Illustration] (_Pedestrians of all kinds come forth_.) Why do you go that way? We’re for the Hunters’ lodge, to-day. We’ll saunter to the Mill, in yonder hollow. Go to the River Tavern, I should say. But then, it’s not a pleasant way. And what will _you_? As goes the crowd, I follow. Come up to Burgdorf? There you’ll find good cheer, The finest lasses and the best of beer, And jolly rows and squabbles, trust me! You swaggering fellow, is your hide A third time itching to be tried? I won’t go there, your jolly rows disgust me! No,—no! I’ll turn and go to town again. We’ll surely find him by those poplars yonder. That’s no great luck for me, ’tis plain. You’ll have him, when and where you wander: His partner in the dance you’ll be,— But what is all your fun to me? He’s surely not alone to-day: He’ll be with Curly-head, I heard him say. Deuce! how they step, the buxom wenches! Come, Brother! we must see them to the benches. A strong, old beer, a pipe that stings and bites, A girl in Sunday clothes,—these three are my delights.
Just see those handsome fellows, there! It’s really shameful, I declare;— To follow servant-girls, when they Might have the most genteel society to-day! SECOND STUDENT (_to the First_) Not quite so fast! Two others come behind,— Those, dressed so prettily and neatly. My neighbor’s one of them, I find, A girl that takes my heart, completely. They go their way with looks demure, But they’ll accept us, after all, I’m sure. No, Brother! not for me their formal ways. Quick! lest our game escape us in the press: The hand that wields the broom on Saturdays Will best, on Sundays, fondle and caress. He suits me not at all, our new-made Burgomaster! Since he’s installed, his arrogance grows faster. How has he helped the town, I say? Things worsen,—what improvement names he? Obedience, more than ever, claims he, And more than ever we must pay! BEGGAR (_sings_) Good gentlemen and lovely ladies, So red of cheek and fine of dress, Behold, how needful here your aid is, And see and lighten my distress! Let me not vainly sing my ditty; He’s only glad who gives away: A holiday, that shows your pity, Shall be for me a harvest-day! On Sundays, holidays, there’s naught I take delight in, Like gossiping of war, and war’s array, When down in Turkey, far away, The foreign people are a-fighting. One at the window sits, with glass and friends, And sees all sorts of ships go down the river gliding: And blesses then, as home he wends At night, our times of peace abiding.
Yes, Neighbor! that’s my notion, too: Why, let them break their heads, let loose their passions, And mix things madly through and through, So, here, we keep our good old fashions! OLD WOMAN (_to the Citizen’s Daughter_) Dear me, how fine! So handsome, and so young! Who wouldn’t lose his heart, that met you? Don’t be so proud! I’ll hold my tongue, And what you’d like I’ll undertake to get you. Come, Agatha! I shun the witch’s sight Before folks, lest there be misgiving: ’Tis true, she showed me, on Saint Andrew’s Night, My future sweetheart, just as he were living. She showed me mine, in crystal clear, With several wild young blades, a soldier-lover: I seek him everywhere, I pry and peer, And yet, somehow, his face I can’t discover. Castles, with lofty Ramparts and towers, Maidens disdainful In Beauty’s array, Both shall be ours! Bold is the venture, Splendid the pay! Lads, let the trumpets For us be suing,— Calling to pleasure, Calling to ruin. Stormy our life is; Such is its boon! Maidens and castles Capitulate soon. Bold is the venture, Splendid the pay! And the soldiers go marching, Marching away!
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.