scared?" It simply means "indefatigably" or "assiduously;" but neither of these words could be made to rhyme to "locked" or to "barred." Similar monstrosities are to be met with in almost every page of most of these translations. Here is one. Faust—gazing upon certain visions, is made to exclaim—
Oh, what a sight! yet 'tis but the eyeball's lure,
Where shall I clutch thee—illimitable nature?
Birch, p. 28.
Here is a still better one. When Wagner knocks at the door. Faust exclaims—
Alas! that the fullness of the flame-clad vision,
Should thwarted be by the sapless sneaker's intercision.
Birch, p. 31.
If Paul Pry, instead of saying, "I hope I don't intrude," had come forward, saying, "I hope I don't intercide," we wonder what his success would have been before a London audience. What could have tempted Mr Blackie on one occasion to put these words into Faust's mouth addressing Mephistopheles:—
There is the window—'twere no mighty matter,
For one like you adown the wall to clatter.
But there would be no end to it if we were to on extracting (tender dentist) such carious specimens as these. Verily, much requires to be done before the English public can know any thing at all about the veritable Faust. We do not pretend to be able to "imitate Goethe closely;" but, in our humble opinion, the following version of the opening soliloquy is more like the original than some of the samples we have given.
Faust.
All that philosophy can teach,
All that that theology can preach.
The lore of lawyer and of leech,
Is mine—and now my curse on each!
For here I stand, when all is o'er,
No whit wiser than before,
A fool whose life has flow'd amiss;
Though one thing, to be sure, my lore
Has done for me, and it is this,
I'm class'd with 'masters' and such scum,
And yea, with 'doctors,' by my soul!
And like them I have become
A plodding pedant of the schools,
Into every musty hole,
And up and down through mazes vile,
Leading flocks of docile fools,
And seeing plainly, all the while.
That wisdom will not thus be caught,
That, in his present plight, a man
May strive, but as for knowing aught,
That he neither does nor can.
'Tis true I'm of another stamp
Than those who make the schools their camp,
Doubts and scruples never cramp
My soul that soars from weakness free,
And hell is terrorless to me,
But, for this very cause, my lamp
Of joy is sunk as in the sea.
I feel the simplest matter lies
Beyond my understanding's reach;
I have no hope that man will rise
To virtue, or become more wise
By any lesson I can teach.
Then I have neither pelf nor place.
Nor station's claims, nor glory's race,
What dog, with any spark of grace,
Would deign to live in such a case?
Therefore to magic I have flung
My being in despairing hours,
To try if truth may not be wrung
From the lips of spirit-powers,
And myself spared the labour vain,
The forehead wet
With bitter sweat,
When teaching what I can't explain;
That I may view the secret rings
Whose grasp the universe engirds,
May know the force that works in things,
Not the mere sound that breathes in words.
Oh! Would, fair moon! that thou wert shining—
The last time shining on my woes.
How oft I've waited here, repining
Till thy face of beauty rose:
And when my papers and my books
From thoughts of thee perchance had won me,
Then would thy pure and peaceful looks
Be lifted[1] suddenly upon me.
While sorrow seem'd to thee to lend
The expression of a tender friend,
Whose aspect doubts if all be right.
Oh! would that I, o'er mountain height.
Might wander in thy blessed light,
Float across, on spirit-sails,
The luminous and gulfy vales,
- ↑ "Expect her rising (the moon's) as you will, the suddenness always adds a slight surprise to your delight,"— Blackwood's Magazine, xxxi, 880.
