Faust

As to the original creation, which he has attempted here to reproduce, the translator might say something, but prefers leaving his readers to the poet himself, as revealed in the poem, and to the various commentaries of which we have some accounts, at least, in English. A French translator of the poem speaks in his introduction as follows: "This Faust, conceived by him in his youth, completed in ripe age, the idea of which he carried with him through all the commotions of his life, as Camoens bore his poem with him through the waves, this Faust contains him entire. The thirst for knowledge and the martyrdom of doubt, had they not tormented his early years? Whence came to him the thought of taking refuge in a supernatural realm, of appealing to invisible powers, which plunged him, for a considerable time, into the dreams of Illuminati and made him even invent a religion? This irony of Mephistopheles, who carries on so audacious a game with the weakness and the desires of man, is it not the mocking, scornful side of the poet's spirit, a leaning to sullenness, which can be traced even into the earliest years of his life, a bitter leaven thrown into a strong soul forever by early satiety? The character of Faust especially, the man whose burning, untiring heart can neither enjoy fortune nor do without it, who gives himself unconditionally and watches himself with mistrust, who unites the enthusiasm of passion and the dejectedness of despair, is not this an eloquent opening up of the most secret and tumultuous part of the poet's soul? And now, to complete the image of his inner life, he has added the transcendingly sweet person of Margaret, an exalted reminiscence of a young girl, by whom, at the age of fourteen, he thought himself beloved, whose image ever floated round him, and has contributed some traits to each of his heroines. This heavenly surrender of a simple, good, and tender heart contrasts wonderfully with the sensual and gloomy passion of the lover, who, in the midst of his love-dreams, is persecuted by the phantoms of his imagination and by the nightmares of thought, with those sorrows of a soul, which is crushed, but not extinguished, which is tormented by the invincible want of happiness and the bitter feeling, how hard a thing it is to receive or to bestow."

DEDICATION.[1]

Once more ye waver dreamily before me, Forms that so early cheered my troubled eyes! To hold you fast doth still my heart implore me? Still bid me clutch the charm that lures and flies? Ye crowd around! come, then, hold empire o'er me, As from the mist and haze of thought ye rise; The magic atmosphere, your train enwreathing, Through my thrilled bosom youthful bliss is breathing.

Ye bring with you the forms of hours Elysian, And shades of dear ones rise to meet my gaze; First Love and Friendship steal upon my vision Like an old tale of legendary days; Sorrow renewed, in mournful repetition, Runs through life's devious, labyrinthine ways; And, sighing, names the good (by Fortune cheated Of blissful hours!) who have before me fleeted.

These later songs of mine, alas! will never Sound in their ears to whom the first were sung! Scattered like dust, the friendly throng forever! Mute the first echo that so grateful rung! To the strange crowd I sing, whose very favor Like chilling sadness on my heart is flung; And all that kindled at those earlier numbers Roams the wide earth or in its bosom slumbers.

And now I feel a long-unwonted yearning For that calm, pensive spirit-realm, to-day; Like an Aeolian lyre, (the breeze returning,) Floats in uncertain tones my lisping lay; Strange awe comes o'er me, tear on tear falls burning, The rigid heart to milder mood gives way! What I possess I see afar off lying, And what I lost is real and undying.

PRELUDE

IN THE THEATRE.

_Manager. Dramatic Poet. Merry Person._

_Manager_. You who in trouble and distress Have both held fast your old allegiance, What think ye? here in German regions Our enterprise may hope success? To please the crowd my purpose has been steady, Because they live and let one live at least. The posts are set, the boards are laid already, And every one is looking for a feast. They sit, with lifted brows, composed looks wearing, Expecting something that shall set them staring. I know the public palate, that's confest; Yet never pined so for a sound suggestion; True, they are not accustomed to the best, But they have read a dreadful deal, past question. How shall we work to make all fresh and new, Acceptable and profitable, too? For sure I love to see the torrent boiling, When towards our booth they crowd to find a place, Now rolling on a space and then recoiling, Then squeezing through the narrow door of grace: Long before dark each one his hard-fought station In sight of the box-office window takes, And as, round bakers' doors men crowd to escape starvation, For tickets here they almost break their necks. This wonder, on so mixed a mass, the Poet Alone can work; to-day, my friend, O, show it!