_
_District of Schirke and Elend.
_District of Schirke and Elend.
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus?
Cum vix justus sit securus.
_Evil Spirit_. They turn their faces,
The glorified, from thee.
To take thy hand, the pure ones
Shudder with horror.
Woe!
_Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
_Margery_. Neighbor! your phial! --
[_She swoons. _]
WALPURGIS NIGHT. [32]
_Harz Mountains.
_
_District of Schirke and Elend. _
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES.
_Mephistopheles_. Wouldst thou not like a broomstick, now, to ride on?
At this rate we are, still, a long way off;
I'd rather have a good tough goat, by half,
Than the best legs a man e'er set his pride on.
_Faust_. So long as I've a pair of good fresh legs to stride on,
Enough for me this knotty staff.
What use of shortening the way!
Following the valley's labyrinthine winding,
Then up this rock a pathway finding,
From which the spring leaps down in bubbling play,
That is what spices such a walk, I say!
Spring through the birch-tree's veins is flowing,
The very pine is feeling it;
Should not its influence set our limbs a-glowing?
_Mephistopheles_. I do not feel it, not a bit!
My wintry blood runs very slowly;
I wish my path were filled with frost and snow.
The moon's imperfect disk, how melancholy
It rises there with red, belated glow,
And shines so badly, turn where'er one can turn,
At every step he hits a rock or tree!
With leave I'll beg a Jack-o'lantern!
Quem patronum rogaturus?
Cum vix justus sit securus.
_Evil Spirit_. They turn their faces,
The glorified, from thee.
To take thy hand, the pure ones
Shudder with horror.
Woe!
_Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
_Margery_. Neighbor! your phial! --
[_She swoons. _]
WALPURGIS NIGHT. [32]
_Harz Mountains.
_
_District of Schirke and Elend. _
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES.
_Mephistopheles_. Wouldst thou not like a broomstick, now, to ride on?
At this rate we are, still, a long way off;
I'd rather have a good tough goat, by half,
Than the best legs a man e'er set his pride on.
_Faust_. So long as I've a pair of good fresh legs to stride on,
Enough for me this knotty staff.
What use of shortening the way!
Following the valley's labyrinthine winding,
Then up this rock a pathway finding,
From which the spring leaps down in bubbling play,
That is what spices such a walk, I say!
Spring through the birch-tree's veins is flowing,
The very pine is feeling it;
Should not its influence set our limbs a-glowing?
_Mephistopheles_. I do not feel it, not a bit!
My wintry blood runs very slowly;
I wish my path were filled with frost and snow.
The moon's imperfect disk, how melancholy
It rises there with red, belated glow,
And shines so badly, turn where'er one can turn,
At every step he hits a rock or tree!
With leave I'll beg a Jack-o'lantern!
