If your permission will but let Me guide him gently as I choose. The Lord. While yet his days on earth may be, So long 'tis not forbidden thee ! For man, until his strife is done, To error link'd, must struggle on. Meph. My thanks for that! I never sped As with the cat and mouse we see ! The Lord. Cease. 'Tis permitted. Turn aside This spirit from its first pure source, And shouldst thou gain him-bear and guide Him onward with thee in thy course. But stand abash'd-a mark for scorn, When thou shalt be compell'd to say, A good man with dark strivings torn, Doth yet perceive the better way. Meph. True! but not long it lasteth-nor do I Feel for my wager much anxiety! And if I should attain my end-then you Permit my full-voiced triumph; I will make Him eat of dust-and with a relish too, As once my relative renown'd—the snake ! The Lord. Then even thou mayst freely here Before my presence reappear! Those who, in mind, are kindred unto thee Have never yet a hatred moved in me ; To unconditional repose soon bending; I like to give him then, a mate Who ever action is pursuing, Who stirs and works, and, all elate, Must, though as devil, still be doing. The soul that works and lives throughout all time Do you fix firm with everlasting thought! [Heaven closes; the Archangels disperse. Meph. [solus.] I like, at times, the Ancient One to see, And guard 'gainst breaking with him-'tis so civil In one so mighty so polite to be, So kindly speaking with the very devil! с FAUST. A Tragedy. NIGHT.-A NARROW HIGH-VAULTED GOTHIC CHAMBER. Faust. АH! yes, now by the ardent toil of years, I know whatever Law or Med'cine bears, And also-to my grief-Theology; Yet here I stand, poor fool, with nothing more I'm Master styled, and Doctor too, And here ten years their course have sped, Since up and down, and to and fro, And seeing all too clearly now, For all our toil, our broken rest, That we can nothing, nothing know, Burns up the heart within my breast. True! I am wiser far than all the tribes Of solemn triflers, doctors, priests, and scribes! Before no fear of hell or devil I quail; But for that reason, I with sorrow see All joy for ever torn away from me! All mysteries may not be known; Of things of which I nothing know, That I may know what holds the earth Oh! radiant moonlight! would thy beam Oh! thou, for whose soft, gentle light |