Eaves-dropping seems a
favorite
game with thee.
Faust, a Tragedy by Goethe
Renounce! renounce! Renunciation--
Such is the everlasting song
That in the ears of all men rings,
Which every hour, our whole life long,
With brazen accents hoarsely sings.
With terror I behold each morning's light,
With bitter tears my eyes are filling,
To see the day that shall not in its flight
Fulfil for me one wish, not one, but killing
Every presentiment of zest
With wayward skepticism, chases
The fair creations from my breast
With all life's thousand cold grimaces.
And when at night I stretch me on my bed
And darkness spreads its shadow o'er me;
No rest comes then anigh my weary head,
Wild dreams and spectres dance before me.
The God who dwells within my soul
Can heave its depths at any hour;
Who holds o'er all my faculties control
Has o'er the outer world no power;
Existence lies a load upon my breast,
Life is a curse and death a long'd-for rest.
_Mephistopheles_. And yet death never proves a wholly welcome guest.
_Faust_. O blest! for whom, when victory's joy fire blazes,
Death round his brow the bloody laurel windeth,
Whom, weary with the dance's mazes,
He on a maiden's bosom findeth.
O that, beneath the exalted spirit's power,
I had expired, in rapture sinking!
_Mephistopheles_. And yet I knew one, in a midnight hour,
Who a brown liquid shrank from drinking.
_Faust_.
Eaves-dropping seems a favorite game with thee.
_Mephistopheles_. Omniscient am I not; yet much is known to me.
_Faust_. Since that sweet tone, with fond appealing,
Drew me from witchcraft's horrid maze,
And woke the lingering childlike feeling
With harmonies of happier days;
My curse on all the mock-creations
That weave their spell around the soul,
And bind it with their incantations
And orgies to this wretched hole!
Accursed be the high opinion
Hugged by the self-exalting mind!
Accursed all the dream-dominion
That makes the dazzled senses blind!
Curs'd be each vision that befools us,
Of fame, outlasting earthly life!
Curs'd all that, as possession, rules us,
As house and barn, as child and wife!
Accurs'd be mammon, when with treasure
He fires our hearts for deeds of might,
When, for a dream of idle pleasure,
He makes our pillow smooth and light!
Curs'd be the grape-vine's balsam-juices!
On love's high grace my curses fall!
On faith! On hope that man seduces,
On patience last, not least, of all!
_Choir of spirits_. [_Invisible_.
