No More Learning

In a narrow high-arched Gothic room_,
FAUST _sitting uneasy at his desk_.

_Faust_. Have now, alas! quite studied through
Philosophy and Medicine,
And Law, and ah! Theology, too,
With hot desire the truth to win!
And here, at last, I stand, poor fool!
As wise as when I entered school;
Am called Magister, Doctor, indeed,--
Ten livelong years cease not to lead
Backward and forward, to and fro,
My scholars by the nose--and lo!
Just nothing, I see, is the sum of our learning,
To the very core of my heart 'tis burning.
'Tis true I'm more clever than all the foplings,
Doctors, Magisters, Authors, and Popelings;
Am plagued by no scruple, nor doubt, nor cavil,
Nor lingering fear of hell or devil--
What then? all pleasure is fled forever;
To know one thing I vainly endeavor,
There's nothing wherein one fellow-creature
Could be mended or bettered with me for a teacher.
And then, too, nor goods nor gold have I,
Nor fame nor worldly dignity,--
A condition no dog could longer live in!
And so to magic my soul I've given,
If, haply, by spirits' mouth and might,
Some mysteries may not be brought to light;
That to teach, no longer may be my lot,
With bitter sweat, what I need to be taught;
That I may know what the world contains
In its innermost heart and finer veins,
See all its energies and seeds
And deal no more in words but in deeds.
O full, round Moon, didst thou but thine
For the last time on this woe of mine!
Thou whom so many a midnight I
Have watched, at this desk, come up the sky:
O'er books and papers, a dreary pile,
Then, mournful friend! uprose thy smile!
Oh that I might on the mountain-height,
Walk in the noon of thy blessed light,
Round mountain-caverns with spirits hover,
Float in thy gleamings the meadows over,
And freed from the fumes of a lore-crammed brain,
Bathe in thy dew and be well again!
Woe! and these walls still prison me?
Dull, dismal hole! my curse on thee!
Where heaven's own light, with its blessed beams,
Through painted panes all sickly gleams!
Hemmed in by these old book-piles tall,
Which, gnawed by worms and deep in must,
Rise to the roof against a wall
Of smoke-stained paper, thick with dust;
'Mid glasses, boxes, where eye can see,
Filled with old, obsolete instruments,
Stuffed with old heirlooms of implements--
That is thy world! There's a world for thee!
And still dost ask what stifles so
The fluttering heart within thy breast?
By what inexplicable woe
The springs of life are all oppressed?
Instead of living nature, where
God made and planted men, his sons,
Through smoke and mould, around thee stare
Grim skeletons and dead men's bones.
Up! Fly! Far out into the land!
And this mysterious volume, see!
By Nostradamus's[5] own hand,
Is it not guide enough for thee?