Faust

Excerpt from 'Faust'

I have, alas! Philosophy, 
Medicine, Jurisprudence too, 
And to my cost Theology, 
With ardent labour, studied through. 
And here I stand, with all my lore, 
Poor fool, no wiser than before. 
Magister, doctor styled, indeed, 
Already these ten years I lead, 
Up, down, across, and to and fro, 
My pupils by the nose,--and learn, 
That we in truth can nothing know! 
That in my heart like fire doth burn. 
'Tis true I've more cunning than all your dull tribe, 
Magister and doctor, priest, parson, and scribe; 
Scruple or doubt comes not to enthrall me, 
Neither can devil nor hell now appal me-- 
Hence also my heart must all pleasure forego! 
I may not pretend, aught rightly to know, 
I may not pretend, through teaching, to find 
A means to improve or convert mankind. 
Then I have neither goods nor treasure, 
No worldly honour, rank, or pleasure; 
No dog in such fashion would longer live! 
Therefore myself to magic I give, 
In hope, through spirit-voice and might, 
Secrets now veiled to bring to light, 
That I no more, with aching brow, 
Need speak of what I nothing know; 
That I the force may recognise 
That binds creation's inmost energies; 
Her vital powers, her embryo seeds survey, 
And fling the trade in empty words away. 
O full-orb'd moon, did but thy rays 
Their last upon mine anguish gaze! 
Beside this desk, at dead of night, 
Oft have I watched to hail thy light: 
Then, pensive friend! o'er book and scroll, 
With soothing power, thy radiance stole! 
In thy dear light, ah, might I climb, 
Freely, some mountain height sublime, 
Round mountain caves with spirits ride, 
In thy mild haze o'er meadows glide, 
And, purged from knowledge-fumes, renew 
My spirit, in thy healing dew! 
Woe's me! still prison'd in the gloom 
Of this abhorr'd and musty room! 
Where heaven's dear light itself doth pass, 
But dimly through the painted glass! 
Hemmed in by book-heaps, piled around, 
Worm-eaten, hid 'neath dust and mould, 
Which to the high vault's topmost bound, 
A smoke-stained paper doth enfold; 
With boxes round thee piled, and glass, 
And many a useless instrument, 
With old ancestral lumber blent-- 
This is thy world! a world! alas! 
And dost thou ask why heaves thy heart, 
With tighten'd pressure in thy breast? 
Why the dull ache will not depart, 
By which thy life-pulse is oppress'd? 
Instead of nature's living sphere, 
Created for mankind of old, 
Brute skeletons surround thee here, 
And dead men's bones in smoke and mould.

Up! Forth into the distant land! 
Is not this book of mystery 
By Nostradamus' proper hand, 
An all-sufficient guide? Thou'lt see 
The courses of the stars unroll'd; 
When nature doth her thoughts unfold 
To thee, thy soul shall rise, and seek 
Communion high with her to hold, 
As spirit doth with spirit speak! 
Vain by dull poring to divine 
The meaning of each hallow'd sign. 
Spirits! I feel you hov'ring near; 
Make answer, if my voice ye hear!

He opens the book and perceives the sign of the Macrocosmos.

Ah! at this spectacle through every sense, 
What sudden ecstasy of joy is flowing! 
I feel new rapture, hallow'd and intense, 
Through every nerve and vein with ardour glowing. 
Was it a god who character'd this scroll, 
The tumult in my spirit healing, 
O'er my sad heart with rapture stealing, 
And by a mystic impulse, to my soul, 
The powers of nature all around revealing. 
Am I a God? What light intense! 
In these pure symbols do I see, 
Nature exert her vital energy. 
Now of the wise man's words I learn the sense;

"Unlock'd the spirit-world is lying, 
Thy sense is shut, thy heart is dead! 
Up scholar, lave, with zeal undying, 
Thine earthly breast in the morning-red!" 
He contemplates the sign.

How all things live and work, and ever blending, 
Weave one vast whole from Being's ample range! 
How powers celestial, rising and descending, 
Their golden buckets ceaseless interchange! 
Their flight on rapture-breathing pinions winging, 
From heaven to earth their genial influence bringing, 
Through the wild sphere their chimes melodious ringing!

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