The Study

Behind me, field and meadow sleeping,I leave in deep, prophetic night,Within whose dread and holy keepingThe better soul awakes to light.The wild desires no longer win us,The deeds of passion cease to chain;The love of Man revives within us,The love of God revives again.

Be still, thou poodle; make not such racket and riot!Why at the threshold wilt snuffing be?Behind the stove repose thee in quiet!My softest cushion I give to thee.As thou, up yonder, with running and leapingAmused us hast, on the mountain’s crest,

So now I take thee into my keeping,A welcome, but also a silent, guest.

Ah, when, within our narrow chamberThe lamp with friendly lustre glows,Flames in the breast each faded ember,And in the heart, itself that knows.Then Hope again lends sweet assistance,And Reason then resumes her speech:One yearns, the rivers of existence,The very founts of Life, to reach.

Snarl not, poodle! To the sound that rises,The sacred tones that my soul embrace,This bestial noise is out of place.We are used to see, that Man despisesWhat he never comprehends,And the Good and the Beautiful vilipends,Finding them often hard to measure:Will the dog, like man, snarl his displeasure?

But ah! I feel, though will thereto be stronger,Contentment flows from out my breast no longer.Why must the stream so soon run dry and fail us,And burning thirst again assail us?Therein I’ve borne so much probation!And yet, this want may be supplied us;We call the Supernatural to guide us;We pine and thirst for Revelation,Which nowhere worthier is, more nobly sent,Than here, in our New Testament.I feel impelled, its meaning to determine,—With honest purpose, once for all,The hallowed OriginalTo change to my beloved German.

(He opens a volume, and commences.)’Tis written: “In the Beginning was the Word.”Here am I balked: who, now can help afford?The Word?—impossible so high to rate it;And otherwise must I translate it.If by the Spirit I am truly taught.Then thus: “In the Beginning was the Thought”This first line let me weigh completely,Lest my impatient pen proceed too fleetly.Is it the Thought which works, creates, indeed?“In the Beginning was the Power,” I read.Yet, as I write, a warning is suggested,That I the sense may not have fairly tested.The Spirit aids me: now I see the light!“In the Beginning was the Act,” I write.

If I must share my chamber with thee,Poodle, stop that howling, prithee!Cease to bark and bellow!Such a noisy, disturbing fellowI’ll no longer suffer near me.One of us, dost hear me!Must leave, I fear me.No longer guest-right I bestow;The door is open, art free to go.But what do I see in the creature?Is that in the course of nature?Is’t actual fact? or Fancy’s shows?How long and broad my poodle grows!He rises mightily:A canine form that cannot be!What a spectre I’ve harbored thus!He resembles a hippopotamus,With fiery eyes, teeth terrible to see:O, now am I sure of thee!For all of thy half-hellish broodThe Key of Solomon is good.

Some one, within, is caught!Stay without, follow him not!Like the fox in a snare,Quakes the old hell-lynx there.Take heed—look about!Back and forth hover,Under and over,And he’ll work himself out.If your aid avail him,Let it not fail him;For he, without measure,Has wrought for our pleasure.

First, to encounter the beast,The Words of the Four be addressed:Salamander, shine glorious!Wave, Undine, as bidden!Sylph, be thou hidden!Gnome, be laborious!

Who knows not their sense(These elements),—Their propertiesAnd power not sees,—No mastery he inheritsOver the Spirits.

Vanish in flaming ether,Salamander!Flow foamingly together,Undine!Shine in meteor-sheen,Sylph!Bring help to hearth and shelf.Incubus! Incubus!Step forward, and finish thus!

Of the Four, no featureLurks in the creature.Quiet he lies, and grins disdain:Not yet, it seems, have I given him pain.Now, to undisguise thee,Hear me exorcise thee!Art thou, my gay one,Hell’s fugitive stray-one?The sign witness now,Before which they bow,The cohorts of Hell!

Base Being, hearest thou?Knowest and fearest thouThe One, unoriginate,Named inexpressibly,Through all Heaven impermeate,Pierced irredressibly!

Behind the stove still banned,See it, an elephant, expand!It fills the space entire,Mist-like melting, ever faster.’Tis enough: ascend no higher,—Lay thyself at the feet of the Master!Thou seest, not vain the threats I bring thee:With holy fire I’ll scorch and sting thee!Wait not to knowThe threefold dazzling glow!Wait not to knowThe strongest art within my hands!

(while the vapor is dissipating, steps forth from behind thestove, in the costume of a Travelling Scholar.)Why such a noise? What are my lord’s commands?

This was the poodle’s real core,A travelling scholar, then? The casus is diverting.

The learned gentleman I bow before:You’ve made me roundly sweat, that’s certain!

A question small, it seems,For one whose mind the Word so much despises;Who, scorning all external gleams,The depths of being only prizes.

With all you gentlemen, the name’s a test,Whereby the nature usually is expressed.Clearly the latter it impliesIn names like Beelzebub, Destroyer, Father of Lies.Who art thou, then?

Part of that Power, not understood,Which always wills the Bad, and always works the Good.

I am the Spirit that Denies!And justly so: for all things, from the VoidCalled forth, deserve to be destroyed:’Twere better, then, were naught created.Thus, all which you as Sin have rated,—Destruction,—aught with Evil blent,—That is my proper element.

The modest truth I speak to thee.If Man, that microcosmic fool, can seeHimself a whole so frequently,Part of the Part am I, once All, in primal Night,—Part of the Darkness which brought forth the Light,The haughty Light, which now disputes the space,And claims of Mother Night her ancient place.And yet, the struggle fails; since Light, howe’er it weaves,Still, fettered, unto bodies cleaves:It flows from bodies, bodies beautifies;By bodies is its course impeded;And so, but little time is needed,I hope, ere, as the bodies die, it dies!

I see the plan thou art pursuing:Thou canst not compass general ruin,And hast on smaller scale begun.

And truly ’tis not much, when all is done.That which to Naught is in resistance set,—The Something of this clumsy world,—has yet,With all that I have undertaken,Not been by me disturbed or shaken:From earthquake, tempest, wave, volcano’s brand,Back into quiet settle sea and land!And that damned stuff, the bestial, human brood,—What use, in having that to play with?How many have I made away with!And ever circulates a newer, fresher blood.It makes me furious, such things beholding:From Water, Earth, and Air unfolding,A thousand germs break forth and grow,In dry, and wet, and warm, and chilly;And had I not the Flame reserved, why, really,There’s nothing special of my own to show!

So, to the actively eternalCreative force, in cold disdainYou now oppose the fist infernal,Whose wicked clench is all in vain!Some other labor seek thou rather,Queer Son of Chaos, to begin!

Well, we’ll consider: thou canst gatherMy views, when next I venture in.Might I, perhaps, depart at present?

Why thou shouldst ask, I don’t perceive.Though our acquaintance is so recent,For further visits thou hast leave.The window’s here, the door is yonder;A chimney, also, you behold.

I must confess that forth I may not wander,My steps by one slight obstacle controlled,—The wizard’s-foot, that on your threshold made is.

The pentagram prohibits thee?Why, tell me now, thou Son of Hades,If that prevents, how cam’st thou in to me?Could such a spirit be so cheated?

Inspect the thing: the drawing’s not completed.The outer angle, you may see,Is open left—the lines don’t fit it.

Well,—Chance, this time, has fairly hit it!And thus, thou’rt prisoner to me?It seems the business has succeeded.

The poodle naught remarked, as after thee he speeded;But other aspects now obtain:The Devil can’t get out again.

For Devils and for spectres this is law:Where they have entered in, there also they withdraw.The first is free to us; we’re governed by the second.

In Hell itself, then, laws are reckoned?That’s well! So might a compact beMade with you gentlemen—and binding,—surely?

All that is promised shall delight thee purely;No skinflint bargain shalt thou see.But this is not of swift conclusion;We’ll talk about the matter soon.And now, I do entreat this boon—Leave to withdraw from my intrusion.

One moment more I ask thee to remain,Some pleasant news, at least, to tell me.

Release me, now! I soon shall come again;Then thou, at will, mayst question and compel me.

I have not snares around thee cast;Thyself hast led thyself into the meshes.Who traps the Devil, hold him fast!Not soon a second time he’ll catch a prey so precious.

An’t please thee, also I’m content to stay,And serve thee in a social station;But stipulating, that I mayWith arts of mine afford thee recreation.

Thereto I willingly agree,If the diversion pleasant be.

My friend, thou’lt win, past all pretences,More in this hour to soothe thy senses,Than in the year’s monotony.That which the dainty spirits sing thee,The lovely pictures they shall bring thee,Are more than magic’s empty show.Thy scent will be to bliss invited;Thy palate then with taste delighted,Thy nerves of touch ecstatic glow!All unprepared, the charm I spin:We’re here together, so begin!

Vanish, ye darkingArches above him!Loveliest weather,Born of blue ether,Break from the sky!O that the darklingClouds had departed!Starlight is sparkling,Tranquiller-heartedSuns are on high.Heaven’s own childrenIn beauty bewildering,Waveringly bending,Pass as they hover;Longing unendingFollows them over.They, with their glowingGarments, out-flowing,Cover, in going,Landscape and bower,Where, in seclusion,Lovers are plighted,Lost in illusion.Bower on bower!Tendrils unblighted!Lo! in a showerGrapes that o’erclusterGush into must, orFlow into riversOf foaming and flashingWine, that is dashingGems, as it boundethDown the high places,And spreading, surroundethWith crystalline spaces,In happy embraces,Blossoming forelands,Emerald shore-lands!And the winged racesDrink, and fly onward—Fly ever sunwardTo the enticingIslands, that flatter,Dipping and risingLight on the water!Hark, the inspiringSound of their quiring!See, the entrancingWhirl of their dancing!All in the air areFreer and fairer.Some of them scalingBoldly the highlands,Others are sailing,Circling the islands;Others are flying;Life-ward all hieing,—All for the distantStar of existentRapture and Love!

He sleeps! Enough, ye fays! your airy numberHave sung him truly into slumber:For this performance I your debtor prove.—Not yet art thou the man, to catch the Fiend and hold him!—With fairest images of dreams infold him,Plunge him in seas of sweet untruth!Yet, for the threshold’s magic which controlled him,The Devil needs a rat’s quick tooth.I use no lengthened invocation:Here rustles one that soon will work my liberation.

The lord of rats and eke of mice,Of flies and bed-bugs, frogs and lice,Summons thee hither to the door-sill,To gnaw it where, with just a morselOf oil, he paints the spot for thee:—There com’st thou, hopping on to me!To work, at once! The point which made me cravenIs forward, on the ledge, engraven.Another bite makes free the door:So, dream thy dreams, O Faust, until we meet once more!

Am I again so foully cheated?Remains there naught of lofty spirit-sway,But that a dream the Devil counterfeited,And that a poodle ran away?

Thus thou pleasest me.I hope we’ll suit each other well;For now, thy vapors to dispel,I come, a squire of high degree,In scarlet coat, with golden trimming,A cloak in silken lustre swimming,A tall cock’s-feather in my hat,A long, sharp sword for show or quarrel,—And I advise thee, brief and flat,To don the self-same gay apparel,That, from this den released, and free,Life be at last revealed to thee!

This life of earth, whatever my attire,Would pain me in its wonted fashion.Too old am I to play with passion;Too young, to be without desire.What from the world have I to gain?Thou shalt abstain—renounce—refrain!Such is the everlasting songThat in the ears of all men rings,—That unrelieved, our whole life long,Each hour, in passing, hoarsely sings.In very terror I at morn awake,Upon the verge of bitter weeping,To see the day of disappointment break,To no one hope of mine—not one—its promise keeping:—That even each joy’s presentimentWith wilful cavil would diminish,With grinning masks of life preventMy mind its fairest work to finish!Then, too, when night descends, how anxiouslyUpon my couch of sleep I lay me:There, also, comes no rest to me,But some wild dream is sent to fray me.The God that in my breast is ownedCan deeply stir the inner sources;The God, above my powers enthroned,He cannot change external forces.So, by the burden of my days oppressed,Death is desired, and Life a thing unblest!

O fortunate, for whom, when victory glances,The bloody laurels on the brow he bindeth!Whom, after rapid, maddening dances,In clasping maiden-arms he findeth!O would that I, before that spirit-power,Ravished and rapt from life, had sunken!

And yet, by some one, in that nightly hour,A certain liquid was not drunken.

Though some familiar tone, retrievingMy thoughts from torment, led me on,And sweet, clear echoes came, deceivingA faith bequeathed from Childhood’s dawn,Yet now I curse whate’er enticesAnd snares the soul with visions vain;With dazzling cheats and dear devicesConfines it in this cave of pain!Cursed be, at once, the high ambitionWherewith the mind itself deludes!Cursed be the glare of apparitionThat on the finer sense intrudes!Cursed be the lying dream’s impressionOf name, and fame, and laurelled brow!Cursed, all that flatters as possession,As wife and child, as knave and plow!Cursed Mammon be, when he with treasuresTo restless action spurs our fate!Cursed when, for soft, indulgent leisures,He lays for us the pillows straight!Cursed be the vine’s transcendent nectar,—The highest favor Love lets fall!Cursed, also, Hope!—cursed Faith, the spectre!And cursed be Patience most of all!

Woe! woe!Thou hast it destroyed,The beautiful world,With powerful fist:In ruin ’tis hurled,By the blow of a demigod shattered!The scatteredFragments into the Void we carry,DeploringThe beauty perished beyond restoring.MightierFor the children of men,BrightlierBuild it again,In thine own bosom build it anew!Bid the new careerCommence,With clearer sense,And the new songs of cheerBe sung thereto!

These are the small dependantsWho give me attendance.Hear them, to deeds and passionCounsel in shrewd old-fashion!Into the world of strife,Out of this lonely lifeThat of senses and sap has betrayed thee,They would persuade thee.This nursing of the pain forego thee,That, like a vulture, feeds upon thy breast!The worst society thou find’st will show theeThou art a man among the rest.But ’tis not meant to thrustThee into the mob thou hatest!I am not one of the greatest,Yet, wilt thou to me entrustThy steps through life, I’ll guide thee,—Will willingly walk beside thee,—Will serve thee at once and foreverWith best endeavor,And, if thou art satisfied,Will as servant, slave, with thee abide.

No—no! The Devil is an egotist,And is not apt, without a why or wherefore,“For God’s sake,” others to assist.Speak thy conditions plain and clear!With such a servant danger comes, I fear.

Here, an unwearied slave, I’ll wear thy tether,And to thine every nod obedient be:When There again we come together,Then shalt thou do the same for me.

The There my scruples naught increases.When thou hast dashed this world to pieces,The other, then, its place may fill.Here, on this earth, my pleasures have their sources;Yon sun beholds my sorrows in his courses;And when from these my life itself divorces,Let happen all that can or will!I’ll hear no more: ’tis vain to ponderIf there we cherish love or hate,Or, in the spheres we dream of yonder,A High and Low our souls await.

In this sense, even, canst thou venture.Come, bind thyself by prompt indenture,And thou mine arts with joy shalt see:What no man ever saw, I’ll give to thee.

Canst thou, poor Devil, give me whatsoever?When was a human soul, in its supreme endeavor,E’er understood by such as thou?Yet, hast thou food which never satiates, now,—The restless, ruddy gold hast thou,That runs, quicksilver-like, one’s fingers through,—A game whose winnings no man ever knew,—A maid that, even from my breast,Beckons my neighbor with her wanton glances,And Honor’s godlike zest,The meteor that a moment dances,—Show me the fruits that, ere they’re gathered, rot,And trees that daily with new leafage clothe them!

Such a demand alarms me not:Such treasures have I, and can show them.But still the time may reach us, good my friend.When peace we crave and more luxurious diet.

When on an idler’s bed I stretch myself in quiet.There let, at once, my record end!Canst thou with lying flattery rule me,Until, self-pleased, myself I see,—Canst thou with rich enjoyment fool me,Let that day be the last for me!The bet I offer.

Done!

And heartily!When thus I hail the Moment flying:“Ah, still delay—thou art so fair!”Then bind me in thy bonds undying,My final ruin then declare!Then let the death-bell chime the token.Then art thou from thy service free!The clock may stop, the hand be broken,Then Time be finished unto me!

Thou hast a perfect right thereto.My powers I have not rashly estimated:A slave am I, whate’er I do—If thine, or whose? ’tis needless to debate it.

Then at the Doctors’-banquet I, to-day,Will as a servant wait behind thee.But one thing more! Beyond all risk to bind thee,Give me a line or two, I pray.

Demand’st thou, Pedant, too, a document?Hast never known a man, nor proved his word’s intent?Is’t not enough, that what I speak to-dayShall stand, with all my future days agreeing?In all its tides sweeps not the world away,And shall a promise bind my being?Yet this delusion in our hearts we bear:Who would himself therefrom deliver?Blest he, whose bosom Truth makes pure and fair!No sacrifice shall he repent of ever.Nathless a parchment, writ and stamped with care,A spectre is, which all to shun endeavor.The word, alas! dies even in the pen,And wax and leather keep the lordship then.What wilt from me, Base Spirit, say?—Brass, marble, parchment, paper, clay?The terms with graver, quill, or chisel, stated?I freely leave the choice to thee.

Why heat thyself, thus instantly,With eloquence exaggerated?Each leaf for such a pact is good;And to subscribe thy name thou’lt take a drop of blood.

If thou therewith art fully satisfied,So let us by the farce abide.

Fear not that I this pact shall seek to sever?The promise that I make to theeIs just the sum of my endeavor.I have myself inflated all too high;My proper place is thy estate:The Mighty Spirit deigns me no reply,And Nature shuts on me her gate.The thread of Thought at last is broken,And knowledge brings disgust unspoken.Let us the sensual deeps explore,To quench the fervors of glowing passion!Let every marvel take form and fashionThrough the impervious veil it wore!Plunge we in Time’s tumultuous dance,In the rush and roll of Circumstance!Then may delight and distress,And worry and success,Alternately follow, as best they can:Restless activity proves the man!

For you no bound, no term is set.Whether you everywhere be trying,Or snatch a rapid bliss in flying,May it agree with you, what you get!Only fall to, and show no timid balking.

But thou hast heard, ’tis not of joy we’re talking.I take the wildering whirl, enjoyment’s keenest pain,Enamored hate, exhilarant disdain.My bosom, of its thirst for knowledge sated,Shall not, henceforth, from any pang be wrested,And all of life for all mankind createdShall be within mine inmost being tested:The highest, lowest forms my soul shall borrow,Shall heap upon itself their bliss and sorrow,And thus, my own sole self to all their selves expanded,I too, at last, shall with them all be stranded!

Believe me, who for many a thousand yearThe same tough meat have chewed and tested,That from the cradle to the bierNo man the ancient leaven has digested!Trust one of us, this Whole supernalIs made but for a God’s delight!He dwells in splendor single and eternal,But us he thrusts in darkness, out of sight,And you he dowers with Day and Night.

A good reply!One only fear still needs repeating:The art is long, the time is fleeting.Then let thyself be taught, say I!Go, league thyself with a poet,Give the rein to his imagination,Then wear the crown, and show it,Of the qualities of his creation,—The courage of the lion’s breed,The wild stag’s speed,The Italian’s fiery blood,The North’s firm fortitude!Let him find for thee the secret tetherThat binds the Noble and Mean together.And teach thy pulses of youth and pleasureTo love by rule, and hate by measure!I’d like, myself, such a one to see:Sir Microcosm his name should be.

What am I, then, if ’tis denied my partThe crown of all humanity to win me,Whereto yearns every sense within me?

Why, on the whole, thou’rt—what thou art.Set wigs of million curls upon thy head, to raise thee,Wear shoes an ell in height,—the truth betrays thee,And thou remainest—what thou art.

I feel, indeed, that I have made the treasureOf human thought and knowledge mine, in vain;And if I now sit down in restful leisure,No fount of newer strength is in my brain:I am no hair’s-breadth more in height,Nor nearer, to the Infinite,

Good Sir, you see the facts preciselyAs they are seen by each and all.We must arrange them now, more wisely,Before the joys of life shall pall.Why, Zounds! Both hands and feet are, truly—And head and virile forces—thine:Yet all that I indulge in newly,Is’t thence less wholly mine?If I’ve six stallions in my stall,Are not their forces also lent me?I speed along, completest man of all,As though my legs were four-and-twenty.Take hold, then! let reflection rest,And plunge into the world with zest!I say to thee, a speculative wightIs like a beast on moorlands lean,That round and round some fiend misleads to evil plight,While all about lie pastures fresh and green.

We’ll try a wider sphere.What place of martyrdom is here!Is’t life, I ask, is’t even prudence,To bore thyself and bore the students?Let Neighbor Paunch to that attend!Why plague thyself with threshing straw forever?The best thou learnest, in the endThou dar’st not tell the youngsters—never!I hear one’s footsteps, hither steering.

To see him now I have no heart.

So long the poor boy waits a hearing,He must not unconsoled depart.Thy cap and mantle straightway lend me!I’ll play the comedy with art.

My wits, be certain, will befriend me.But fifteen minutes’ time is all I need;For our fine trip, meanwhile, prepare thyself with speed!

Reason and Knowledge only thou despise,The highest strength in man that lies!Let but the Lying Spirit bind theeWith magic works and shows that blind thee,And I shall have thee fast and sure!—Fate such a bold, untrammelled spirit gave him,As forwards, onwards, ever must endure;Whose over-hasty impulse drave himPast earthly joys he might secure.Dragged through the wildest life, will I enslave him,Through flat and stale indifference;With struggling, chilling, checking, so deprave himThat, to his hot, insatiate sense,The dream of drink shall mock, but never lave him:Refreshment shall his lips in vain implore—Had he not made himself the Devil’s, naught could savehim,Still were he lost forevermore!

A short time, only, am I here,And come, devoted and sincere,To greet and know the man of fame,Whom men to me with reverence name.

Your courtesy doth flatter me:You see a man, as others be.Have you, perchance, elsewhere begun?

Receive me now, I pray, as oneWho comes to you with courage good,Somewhat of cash, and healthy blood:My mother was hardly willing to let me;But knowledge worth having I fain would get me.

I’d like to leave it, I must avow;I find these walls, these vaulted spacesAre anything but pleasant places.Tis all so cramped and close and mean;One sees no tree, no glimpse of green,And when the lecture-halls receive me,Seeing, hearing, and thinking leave me.

All that depends on habitude.So from its mother’s breasts a childAt first, reluctant, takes its food,But soon to seek them is beguiled.Thus, at the breasts of Wisdom clinging,Thou’lt find each day a greater rapture bringing.

I’ll hang thereon with joy, and freely drain them;But tell me, pray, the proper means to gain them.

Explain, before you further speak,The special faculty you seek.

I crave the highest erudition;And fain would make my acquisitionAll that there is in Earth and Heaven,In Nature and in Science too.

Here is the genuine path for you;Yet strict attention must be given.

Body and soul thereon I’ll wreak;Yet, truly, I’ve some inclinationOn summer holidays to seekA little freedom and recreation.

Use well your time! It flies so swiftly from us;But time through order may be won, I promise.So, Friend (my views to briefly sum),First, the collegium logicum.There will your mind be drilled and braced,As if in Spanish boots ’twere laced,And thus, to graver paces brought,’Twill plod along the path of thought,Instead of shooting here and there,A will-o’-the-wisp in murky air.Days will be spent to bid you know,What once you did at a single blow,Like eating and drinking, free and strong,—That one, two, three! thereto belong.Truly the fabric of mental fleeceResembles a weaver’s masterpiece,Where a thousand threads one treadle throws,Where fly the shuttles hither and thither.Unseen the threads are knit together.And an infinite combination grows.Then, the philosopher steps inAnd shows, no otherwise it could have been:The first was so, the second so,Therefore the third and fourth are so;Were not the first and second, thenThe third and fourth had never been.The scholars are everywhere believers,But never succeed in being weavers.He who would study organic existence,First drives out the soul with rigid persistence;Then the parts in his hand he may hold and class,But the spiritual link is lost, alas!Encheiresin natures, this Chemistry names,Nor knows how herself she banters and blames!

Your mind will shortly be set aright,When you have learned, all things reducing,To classify them for your using.

I feel as stupid, from all you’ve said,As if a mill-wheel whirled in my head!

And after—first and foremost duty—OfMetaphysics learn the use and beauty!See that you most profoundly gainWhat does not suit the human brain!A splendid word to serve, you’ll findFor what goes in—or won’t go in—your mind.But first, at least this half a year,To order rigidly adhere;Five hours a day, you understand,And when the clock strikes, be on hand!Prepare beforehand for your partWith paragraphs all got by heart,So you can better watch, and lookThat naught is said but what is in the book:Yet in thy writing as unwearied be,As did the Holy Ghost dictate to thee!

No need to tell me twice to do it!I think, how useful ’tis to write;For what one has, in black and white,One carries home and then goes through it.

Nor can I therefore greatly blame you students:I know what science this has come to be.All rights and laws are still transmittedLike an eternal sickness of the race,—From generation unto generation fitted,And shifted round from place to place.Reason becomes a sham, Beneficence a worry:Thou art a grandchild, therefore woe to thee!The right born with us, ours in verity,This to consider, there’s, alas! no hurry.

My own disgust is strengthened by your speech:O lucky he, whom you shall teach!I’ve almost for Theology decided.

I should not wish to see you here misguided:For, as regards this science, let me hint’Tis very hard to shun the false direction;There’s so much secret poison lurking in ’t,So like the medicine, it baffles your detection.Hear, therefore, one alone, for that is best, in sooth,And simply take your master’s words for truth.On words let your attention centre!Then through the safest gate you’ll enterThe temple-halls of Certainty.

Of course! But only shun too over-sharp a tension,For just where fails the comprehension,A word steps promptly in as deputy.With words ’tis excellent disputing;Systems to words ’tis easy suiting;On words ’tis excellent believing;No word can ever lose a jot from thieving.

Pardon! With many questions I detain you.Yet must I trouble you again.Of Medicine I still would fainHear one strong word that might explain you.Three years is but a little space.And, God! who can the field embrace?If one some index could be shown,’Twere easier groping forward, truly.

I’m tired enough of this dry tone,—Must play the Devil again, and fully.

To grasp the spirit of Medicine is easy:Learn of the great and little world your fill,To let it go at last, so please ye,Just as God will!In vain that through the realms of science you may drift;Each one learns only—just what learn he can:Yet he who grasps the Moment’s gift,He is the proper man.Well-made you are, ’tis not to be denied,The rest a bold address will win you;If you but in yourself confide,At once confide all others in you.To lead the women, learn the special feeling!Their everlasting aches and groans,In thousand tones,Have all one source, one mode of healing;And if your acts are half discreet,You’ll always have them at your feet.A title first must draw and interest them,And show that yours all other arts exceeds;Then, as a greeting, you are free to touch and test them,While, thus to do, for years another pleads.You press and count the pulse’s dances,And then, with burning sidelong glances,You clasp the swelling hips, to seeIf tightly laced her corsets be.

My worthy friend, gray are all theories,And green alone Life’s golden tree.

I swear to you, ’tis like a dream to me.Might I again presume, with trust unbounded,To hear your wisdom thoroughly expounded?

I cannot really go away:Allow me that my album first I reach you,—Grant me this favor, I beseech you!

Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et malum.(Closes the book with reverence, and withdraws)

Follow the ancient text, and the snake thou wast ordered to trample!With all thy likeness to God, thou’lt yet be a sorry example!

As best it pleases thee.The little world, and then the great, we’ll see.With what delight, what profit winning,Shalt thou sponge through the term beginning!

Yet with the flowing beard I wear,Both ease and grace will fail me there.The attempt, indeed, were a futile strife;I never could learn the ways of life.I feel so small before others, and thenceShould always find embarrassments.

My friend, thou soon shalt lose all such misgiving:Be thou but self-possessed, thou hast the art of living!

How shall we leave the house, and start?Where hast thou servant, coach and horses?

We’ll spread this cloak with proper art,Then through the air direct our courses.But only, on so bold a flight,Be sure to have thy luggage light.A little burning air, which I shall soon prepare us,Above the earth will nimbly bear us,And, if we’re light, we’ll travel swift and clear:I gratulate thee on thy new career!

Is no one laughing? no one drinking?I’ll teach you how to grin, I’m thinking.To-day you’re like wet straw, so tame;And usually you’re all aflame.

Now that’s your fault; from you we nothing see,No beastliness and no stupidity.

(Pours a glass of wine over BRANDER’S head.)There’s both together!

Turn out who quarrels—out the door!With open throat sing chorus, drink and roar!Up! holla! ho!

Woe’s me, the fearful bellow!Bring cotton, quick! He’s split my ears, that fellow.

When the vault echoes to the song,One first perceives the bass is deep and strong.

Well said! and out with him that takes the least offence!Ah, tara, lara da!

The throats are tuned, commence!(Sings.)The dear old holy Roman realm,How does it hold together?

A nasty song! Fie! a political song—A most offensive song! Thank God, each morning, therefore,That you have not the Roman realm to care for!At least, I hold it so much gain for me,That I nor Chancellor nor Kaiser be.Yet also we must have a ruling head, I hope,And so we’ll choose ourselves a Pope.You know the quality that canDecide the choice, and elevate the man.

Soar up, soar up, Dame Nightingale!Ten thousand times my sweetheart hail!

Draw the latch! the darkness makes:Draw the latch! the lover wakes.Shut the latch! the morning breaks.

Yes, sing away, sing on, and praise, and brag of her!I’ll wait my proper time for laughter:Me by the nose she led, and now she’ll lead you after.Her paramour should be an ugly gnome,Where four roads cross, in wanton play to meet her:An old he-goat, from Blocksberg coming home,Should his good-night in lustful gallop bleat her!A fellow made of genuine flesh and bloodIs for the wench a deal too good.Greet her? Not I: unless, when meeting,To smash her windows be a greeting!

Attention! Hearken now to me!Confess, Sirs, I know how to live.Enamored persons here have we,And I, as suits their quality,Must something fresh for their advantage give.Take heed! ’Tis of the latest cut, my strain,And all strike in at each refrain!

There was a rat in the cellar-nest,Whom fat and butter made smoother:He had a paunch beneath his vestLike that of Doctor Luther.The cook laid poison cunningly,And then as sore oppressed was heAs if he had love in his bosom.

He ran around, he ran about,His thirst in puddles laving;He gnawed and scratched the house throughout.But nothing cured his raving.He whirled and jumped, with torment mad,And soon enough the poor beast had,As if he had love in his bosom.

And driven at last, in open day,He ran into the kitchen,Fell on the hearth, and squirming lay,In the last convulsion twitching.Then laughed the murderess in her glee:“Ha! ha! he’s at his last gasp,” said she,“As if he had love in his bosom!”

How the dull fools enjoy the matter!To me it is a proper artPoison for such poor rats to scatter.

The bald-pate pot-belly I have noted:Misfortune tames him by degrees;For in the rat by poison bloatedHis own most natural form he sees.

Before all else, I bring thee hitherWhere boon companions meet together,To let thee see how smooth life runs away.Here, for the folk, each day’s a holiday:With little wit, and ease to suit them,They whirl in narrow, circling trails,Like kittens playing with their tails?And if no headache persecute them,So long the host may credit give,They merrily and careless live.

The fact is easy to unravel,Their air’s so odd, they’ve just returned from travel:A single hour they’ve not been here.

You’ve verily hit the truth! Leipzig to me is dear:Paris in miniature, how it refines its people!

Let me alone! I’ll set them first to drinking,And then, as one a child’s tooth draws, with cleverness,I’ll worm their secret out, I’m thinking.They’re of a noble house, that’s very clear:Haughty and discontented they appear.

Not if he had them by the neck, I vow,Would e’er these people scent the Devil!

Fair greeting, gentlemen!

Our thanks: we give the same.(Murmurs, inspecting MEPHISTOPHELES from the side.)In one foot is the fellow lame?

Is it permitted that we share your leisure?In place of cheering drink, which one seeks vainly here,Your company shall give us pleasure.

No doubt ’twas late when you from Rippach started?And supping there with Hans occasioned your delay?

We passed, without a call, to-day.At our last interview, before we partedMuch of his cousins did he speak, entreatingThat we should give to each his kindly greeting.

If I am right, we heard the soundOf well-trained voices, singing chorus;And truly, song must here reboundSuperbly from the arches o’er us.

We’ve just retraced our way from. Spain,The lovely land of wine, and song, and slumber.

There was a king once reigning,Who had a big black flea—

Hear, hear! A flea! D’ye rightly take the jest?I call a flea a tidy guest.

There was a king once reigning,Who had a big black flea,And loved him past explaining,As his own son were he.He called his man of stitches;The tailor came straightway:Here, measure the lad for breeches.And measure his coat, I say!

But mind, allow the tailor no caprices:Enjoin upon him, as his head is dear,To most exactly measure, sew and shear,So that the breeches have no creases!

In silk and velvet gleamingHe now was wholly drest—Had a coat with ribbons streaming,A cross upon his breast.He had the first of stations,A minister’s star and name;And also all his relationsGreat lords at court became.

And the lords and ladies of honorWere plagued, awake and in bed;The queen she got them upon her,The maids were bitten and bled.And they did not dare to brush them,Or scratch them, day or night:We crack them and we crush them,At once, whene’er they bite.

We crack them and we crush them,At once, whene’er they bite!

Bravo! bravo! that was fine.

I fain would drink with you, my glass to Freedom clinking,If ’twere a better wine that here I see you drinking.

Did I not fear the landlord might complain,I’d treat these worthy guests, with pleasure,To some from out our cellar’s treasure.

And if the wine be good, our praises shall be ample.But do not give too very small a sample;For, if its quality I decide,With a good mouthful I must be supplied.

What shall therewith be done?You’ve not the casks already at the door?

Good! if I have the choice, so let the wine be Rhenish!Our Fatherland can best the sparkling cup replenish.

(boring a hole in the edge of the table, at the place whereFROSCH sits)

Champagne shall be my wine,And let it sparkle fresh and fine!

What’s foreign one can’t always keep quite clear of,For good things, oft, are not so near;A German can’t endure the French to see or hear of,Yet drinks their wines with hearty cheer.

(as MEPHISTOPHELES approaches his seat)For me, I grant, sour wine is out of place;Fill up my glass with sweetest, will you?

No—look me, Sirs, straight in the face!I see you have your fun at our expense.

O no! with gentlemen of such pretence,That were to venture far, indeed.Speak out, and make your choice with speed!With what a vintage can I serve you?

Grapes the vine-stem bears,Horns the he-goat wears!The grapes are juicy, the vines are wood,The wooden table gives wine as good!Into the depths of Nature peer,—Only believe there’s a miracle here!

As ’twere five hundred hogs, we feelSo cannibalic jolly!

Take notice, first! their bestialityWill make a brilliant demonstration.

What mean you? Wait!—you’ll pay for’t dearly!You’ll know us, to your detriment.

What, Sir! you dare to make so free,And play your hocus-pocus on us!

Broomstick, you!You face it out, impertinent and heady?

(draws a stopper out of the table: fire flies in his face.)I burn! I burn!

’Tis magic! Strike—The knave is outlawed! Cut him as you like!(They draw their knives, and rush upon MEPHISTOPHELES.)

False word and form of air,Change place, and sense ensnare!Be here—and there!

Here, over this green arbor bending,See what a vine! what grapes depending!

Loose, Error, from their eyes the band,And how the Devil jests, be now enlightened!

It was a blow that went through every limb!Give me a chair! I sink! my senses swim.

Where is he? If I catch the scoundrel hiding,He shall not leave alive, I vow.

I saw him with these eyes upon a wine-cask ridingOut of the cellar-door, just now.Still in my feet the fright like lead is weighing.(He turns towards the table.)Why! If the fount of wine should still be playing?