Whom man's destroying foot, if there it strays, "Are they not dust, the cases there? The shelves, and all the volumed pile they bear? There I may read, in many a page, That man, in every clime and age, Has rack'd his heart and brain : That here and there a luckier wight was seen, Seldom or never to be seen again. Skull of the nameless dead, why grinn'st thou, say? Except to tell me that the brain within Was mad, like mine, for what it fail'd to win, Truths never-dawning, still-expected day. Ye, too, have mocked me, instruments of art, Pulleys and rules, and wheels of toothed brass : At learning's door ye play the porter's part, But would not lift the latch to let me pass. For Nature yields not to corporeal force, Nor suffers man by aid like yours to find What she refuses to the powers of mind, And deep reflection's flow, and study's tranquil course I have no portion in thee, useless heap Of lumber, aiding once my father's toil: Parchments and rolls continue still your sleep, Grimed by yon cresset's ever-fuming oil. Better to waste the substance of my Than thus encircled by it to expire. All we possess, and use not on the road, Adds to the burden we must bear, Enjoyment alleviates our share, sire, And, by consuming, lightens still the load." "He then intends to poison himself, and is arrested, in the act of setting the cup to his lips, by the sound of the church-bells and the Easter Hymn. The sentiments which this incident recalls are tenderly expressed, but not in that impassioned and pathetic strain which the occasion might have been expected to inspire." FAUST. "Why seek ye here, ye tones of Heaven, On softer hearts your soothing influence try; I could be happy, though deceived. I dare not lift my thoughts towards the spheres, When, on the stillness of the sabbath-day, While saints might wish with joy like mine to pray. Impell'd me from the haunts of man; I form'd myself a new creation, While tears of Christian fervour ran. This very song proclaim'd to childhood's ear The solemn tide for joys for ever past, And memory, waking while the song I hear, Arrests my strides, and checks me at the last. Sound on, blest strain, your task almost is done ; Tears force their way, and earth regains her son.” "A very silly namby-pamby scene succeeds between worthy artizans and others of their class,going, as the Cockneys call it, a holiday-making. Faust and Wagner, and then an old peasant, are introduced. The dialogue between them hath oc casional touches of poetry and of natural feeling, but still it is not of a very high order. The description of the season is not better than the spring has been described a thousand times; but the kindly gratitude of the peasant, for the assistance which Faust and his father had given to the people by their skill during a pestilence, is pleasing and natural; and there is prodigious effect in Faust's account of the result of his father's alchemy. I suspect Lord Francis did not clearly understand the passage in the original; for he has so translated it as to make it almost seem as if Faust and his father exasperated the plague by their medicines,-whereas Faust is alluding to the deleterious effects of the gold which his father had alchemically made." FAUST. "A little onward-far as yonder stone- And mortified myself with fast and prayer. With tears, and sighs, and prayers as vague, And stay the ravage of the plague. And, after many a crabb'd receipt, And mingled contraries in one. There was a lion red, a friar bold, Who married lilies in their bath of gold, With fire then vex'd them from one bridal bed Into another, thus he made them wed. Upon her throne of glass was seen, Our mixtures did their work more sure "An account of the feeling of his insatiable curiosity, which soon follows, is full of beautiful and lofty poetry. It is one of the gems of the boo'." FAUST. "Happy in error's sea who finds the land, Or o'er delusion's waves his limbs can buoy ; And what we know, we know not to employ. And yields to death but to recruit his fires; I watch'd him, as he sought the west; Beneath his feet creation slept, Each summit blood-red bright, each vale at rest, The waveless streams like golden serpents crept. In vain yon mountain's arrowy pinnacle To the mind's flight opposed its precipice. Ocean himself retired, his billows fell, And for my path disclosed his huge abyss. On rush'd my soul to drink the eternal light. Seas roll'd beneath, and skies above me rose. Blest dream! It vanish'd in its loveliest prime. Alas! no mortal wings may succour those Which lift the mind upon its flight sublime. Yet nourish'd in the bosom's core The impulse dwells which bids us onward press. When the lark mounts till it can mount no more, To wake its thrilling song of happiness, Whe' o'er the pines the eagle soaring A poising wing appears to rest, When marshy wastes and seas exploring, The crane speeds to his native nest. WAGNER. "I have had fancies, but for such as these They never troubled me, as I remember; I soon have gazed my fill at fields and trees, Envying no bird his wings, or any member. A different joy the learned finds at home, From page to page, from book to book to roam. Life from such task runs warm through every limb, And winter's blasts are gales of spring to him. And when some parchment is unroll'd by you, Heaven, like the prophet's scroll, seems open'd too. |