Weave my being in thy beams,
Which, with dark and lustrous gleams,
Kiss the placid meadow-streams,
And, bathing in thy dewy springs,
Wash out the curse which knowledge brings.
I had forgotten where I stood,
But thy walls, thou dungeon-hole,
Awake me to a sob'rer mood,
And I curse thee from my soul!
Here, day and night, I sit begirt
By heaps of literary dirt
Which worms begnaw and smoke bestains,
And waste away my baffled brains—
Here where God's very light comes hurt
And sadden'd through the painted panes—
Boxes stuff'd with stones and grasses,
Bottles fill'd with chemic juices.
Foul abortions cramm'd in glasses,
Instruments for which no use is,
Ancestral lumber rare and fine,
Litter'd round in brave neglect—
These form the world which I call "mine,"
And does it not command respect!
But does my serious heart confess
The sense that something is amiss,
The weight of an obscure distress
That checks her health :—my answer's this,
That man by God is ever told
To lead the life that nature owns;
But here art thou 'mid smoke and mould,
Beasts' skeletons, and dead men's bones.
Up into wider spheres, my soul,
And cast these dismal wrecks aside,
And there unrol this mystic scroll
of Nostradamus for a guide:
It shall spread out thine eyes afar
Through all the boundlessness of space
And make thee see how star on star
In millions weave their order'd race.
And when thou once hast got the sign
Which only nature's lips can teach,
Which barren sense in vain would reach,
The spirit-power shall then be thine,
And thine shall be the spirit-speech.
Ye guardians of the mystic token,
Make answer when the spell is spoken.
[He throws the book open, and gazes
on the sign of the Macrocosm.
Ha! how my bosom drinks the flood
or rapture circling there,
My blood grows calm as infant's blood,
My breath as infant's prayer,
I feel such promises as bud
When spring is in the air.
Was it a god who framed the spell
That bids my troubles cease,
And turns my heart into a well
Of happiness and peace?
Am I a god? I'm fill'd with grace,
I've got within the inner shrine,
The veil is up from nature's face,
And all her mysteries are mine.
I fathom now, and read aright
The necromancer's words of might :—
"A spirit-world encircles thee,
The Genii have not fled,
Thine is the eye that will not see,
And thine the heart that's dead.
Would'st thou be taught to disabuse
The heart that's dead, the eye that's dim,
Then rise when first the sun renews
His course above the ocean's brim,
And bathe thy breast in ruddy dews
That drip from off his mighty rim."
[He continues gazing intently on the sign
In continuation of Faust's soliloquy, we here draw upon Dr Anster for a passage, which, we rejoice to say, commands our most unqualified praise and admiration. O, si sic omnia! We candidly confess it is far beyond any thing to which our powers are competent in dealing with the same passage. Faust resumes:—
Oh! how the spell before my sight
Brings nature's hidden ways to light:
See all things with each other blending
Each to all its being lending,
All on each in turn depending—
Heavenly ministers descending,
And again to heaven up-tending—
Floating, mingling, interweaving,
Rising, sinking, and receiving
Each from each, while each is giving
On to each, and each relieving
Each, the pails of gold, the living
Current through the air is heaving
Breathing blessings see them bending
Balanced worlds from change defending,
While every where diffused is harmony unending.
With this harmonious close we stop for the present, without going into any further details respecting either the original "Faust" or these translations. But it is possible that we may return ere long to the subject, for we know that there are other versions in the wind, and "where the bungler is, there will the critics be gathered together;" so let future translators look to their tackle.
