From bonds of toil, from care and annoy, From gable and roof's o'er -

hanging gloom, From crowded alley and narrow street, And from the
churches' awe - breathing night, All now have come forth into the light. Look,

only look, on nimble feet, Through garden and field how spread the throng,
How o'er the river's ample sheet,

Many a gay wherry glides along; And see, deep sinking in the tide, Pushes the
last boat now away. E'en from yon far hill's path - worn side, Flash the bright

hues of garments gay. Hark! Sounds of village mirth arise; This is the people's
paradise. Both great and small send up a cheer; Here am I man, I feel it here.

Wagner
Sir Doctor, in a walk with you There's honour and instruction too; Yet here

alone I care not to resort, Because I coarseness hate of every sort. This
fiddling, shouting, skittling, I detest; I hate the tumult of the vulgarthrong; They

roar as by the evil one possess'd, And call it pleasure, call it song.
Peasants (under the linden - tree)

Dance and song
The shepherd for the dance was dress'd, With ribbon, wreath, and coloured

vest, A gallant show displaying. And round about the linden - tree, They
footed it right merrily. Juchhe! Juchhe! Juchheisa! Heisa! He! So fiddle - bow

was braying
Our swain amidst the circle press'd, He push'd a maiden trimly dress'd, And

jogg'd her with his elbow; The buxom damsel turn'd her head, "Now that's a
stupid trick!" she said Juchhe! Juchhe! Juchheisa! Heisa! He! Don't be so

rude, good fellow!
Swift in the circle they advanced, They danced to right, to left they danced,

And all the skirts were swinging. And they grew red, and they grew warm,
Panting, they rested arm in arm, Juchhe! Juchhe! Juchheisa! Heisa! He! To

hip their elbow bringing.
Don't make so free! How many a maid Has been betroth'd and then betray'd;

And has repented after! Yet still he flatter'd her aside, And from the linden, far
and wide, Juchhe! Juchhe! Juchheisa! Heisa! He! Rang fiddle - bow and

laughter.
Old Peasant

Doctor, 'tis really kind of you, To condescend to come this way, A highly
learned man like you, To join our mirthful throng to - day. Our fairest cup I

offer you, which we with sparkling drink have crown'd, And pledging you, I
pray aloud, That every drop within its round, While it your present thirst

allays, May swell the number of your days.
Faust

I take the cup you kindly reach, Thanks and prosperity to each! (The crowd
gather round in a circle.)

Old Peasant
Ay, truly! 'tis well done, that you Our festive meeting thus attend; You, who in

evil days of yore, So often show'd yourself our friend! Full many a one stands
living here, Who from the fever's deadly blast, Your father rescu'd, when his

skill The fatal sickness stay'd at last. A young man then, each house you
sought, Where reign'd the mortalpestilence. Corpse after corpse was carried

forth, But still unscath'd you issued thence. Sore then your trials and severe;
The Helper yonder aids the helper here.

All
Heaven bless the trusty friend, and long To help the poor his life prolong!

Faust
To Him above in homage bend, Who prompts the helper and Who help doth

send. (He proceeds with Wagner.)
Wagner

What feelings, great man, must thy breast inspire, At homage paid thee by this
crowd! Thrice blest Who from the gifts by him possessed Such benefit can

draw! The sire Thee to his boy with reverence shows; They press around,
inquire, advance, Hush'd is the fiddle, check'd the dance. Where thou dost

pass they stand in rows, And each aloft his bonnet throws, But little fails and
they to thee, As though the Host came by, would bend the knee.

Faust
A few steps further, up to yonder stone! Here rest we from our walk. In times

long past, Absorb'd in thought, here oft I sat alone, And disciplin'd myself
with prayer and fast. Then rich in hope, with faith sincere, With sighs, and

hands in anguish press'd, The end of that sore plague, with many a tear, From
heaven's dread Lord, I sought to wrest. The crowd's applause assumes a

scornful tone. Oh, could'st thou in my inner being read, How little either sire
or son, Of such renown deserves the meed! My sire, of good repute, and

sombre mood, O'er nature's powers and every mystic zone, With honest zeal,
but methods of his own, With toil fantastic loved to brood; His time in dark

alchemic cell, With brother adepts he would spend, And there antagonists
compel, Through numberless receipts to blend. A ruddy lion there, a suitor

bold, In tepid bath was with the lily wed. Thence both, while open flames
around them roll'd, Were tortur'd to another bridal bed. Was then the youthful

queen descried With varied colours in the flask; This was our medicine; the
patients died, "Who were restored?" none cared to ask. With our infernal

mixture thus, ere long, These hills and peaceful vales among, We rag'd more
fiercely than the pest; Myself the deadlypoison did to thousands give; They

pined away, I yet must live, To hear the reckless murderers blest.
Wagner

Why let this thought your soul o'ercast? Can man do more than with nice skill,
With firm and conscientious will, Practise the art transmitted from the past? If

thou thy sire dost honour in thy youth, His lore thou gladly wilt receive; In
manhood, dost thou spread the bounds of truth, Then may thy son a higher

goal achieve.
Faust

How blest, in whom the fond desire From error's sea to rise, hope still
renews! What a man knows not, that he doth require, And what he knoweth,

that he cannot use. But let not moody thoughts their shadow throw O'er the
calm beauty of this hour serene! In the rich sunset see how brightly glow Yon

cottage homes, girt round with verdant green! Slow sinks the orb, the day in
now no more; Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life. Oh for a pinion from the

earth to soar, And after, ever after him to strive! Then should I see the world
below, Bathed in the deathless evening - beams, The vales reposing, every

height a - glow, The silver brooklets meeting golden streams. The savage
mountain, with its cavern'd side, Bars not my godlike progress. Lo, the ocean,

Its warm bays heaving with a tranquilmotion, To my rapt vision opes its
ample tide! But now at length the god appears to sink; A new - born impulse

wings my flight, Onward I press, his quenchless light to drink, The day before
me, and behind the night, The pathless waves beneath, and over me the skies.

Fair dream, it vanish'd with the parting day! Alas! that when on spirit - wing
we rise, No wing material lifts our mortal clay. But 'tis our inborn impulse,

deep and strong, Upwards and onwards still to urge our flight, When far
above us pours its thrilling song The sky - lark, lost in azure light, When on

extended wing amain O'er pine - crown'd height the eagle soars, And over
moor and lake, the crane Still striveth towards its native shores.

Wagner
To strange conceits oft I myself must own, But impulse such as this I ne'er

have known: Nor woods, nor fields, can long our thoughts engage, Their
wings I envy not the feather'd kind; Far otherwise the pleasures of the mind,

Bear us from book to book, from page to page! Then winter nights grow
cheerful; keen delight Warms every limb; and ah! when we unroll Some old

and precious parchment, at the sight All heaven itself descends upon the soul.
Faust

Thy heart by one sole impulse is possess'd; Unconscious of the other still
remain! Two souls, alas! are lodg'd within my breast, Which struggle there for

undivided reign: One to the world, with obstinate desire, And closely -
cleaving organs, still adheres; Above the mist, the other doth aspire, With

sacred vehemence, to purer spheres. Oh, are there spirits in the air, Who float
'twixt heaven and earth dominion wielding, Stoop hither from your golden

atmosphere, Lead me to scenes, new life and fuller yielding! A magic mantle
did I but possess, Abroad to waft me as on viewless wings, I'd prize it far

beyond the costliest dress, Nor would I change it for the robe of kings.
Alas, two souls are living in my breast, And one wants to separate itself from

the other. One holds fast to the world with earthy passion And clings with
twining tendrils: The other lifts itself with forceful craving To the very roof of

heaven.
Wagner

Call not the spirits who on mischief wait! Their troop familiar, streaming
through the air, From every quarter threaten man's estate, And danger in a

thousand forms prepare! They drive impetuous from the frozen north, With
fangs sharp - piercing, and keen arrowy tongues; From the ungenial east they

issue forth, And prey, with parching breath, upon thy lungs; If, waft'd on the
desert's flaming wing, They from the south heap fire upon the brain,

Refreshment from the west at first they bring, Anon to drown thyself and field
and plain. In wait for mischief, they are prompt to hear; With guileful purpose