To fool a child like this with ease,
And make her any thing I please.

MEPHISTOPHEles.

How like a Frenchman! I regret

To see you

discontented yet:

Why thus impatient? the delight
Is, after all, less exquisite,

Than when with some delay and doubt,

And difficulty fenced about,

You win the treasure guarded long ;

Play with the pretty thing awhile,
And toy and trifle and beguile,
And to your will the soft wax mould,
As witness many a story told,

Of true love in Italian song.

The damsel may be won by guile;

A stratagem, perhaps, may gain

The fortress storming it were vain!

FAUSTUS.

Give me, meanwhile, some little thing

Of hers a garter or a ring

To prove how sensibly I feel

Your pangs, and, if I could, to heal;

I gratify, without delay,

Your wish, and take you there to-day.

FAUSTUS.

And shall I see her? have her?

MEPHISTOPHeles.

No!

She to a neighbour's has to go,
And when I find that she is gone,
You may indulge yourself alone;
Breathe in the very room where she
Hath slept, and dream of joys to be.

May we go now?

FAUSTUS.

Oh, I know many a place of pleasure,

Where such things are, and many a treasure

Buried of old, and soon will find

Some lure to win the young thing's mind.

FAUSTUS (looking round).

How calm! how happy dwells the tender light
In this still sanctuary reposing here,

And the sweet spirit of peace pervading all,
And blessing all. Spirit of peace and love,
I give myself to thee! Oh, love, whose breath
Is fed on the delicious dew of hope,

Be thou henceforth my life!

How round us breathe

In every thing the same prevailing quiet
And neatness, and the feeling of contentment!

In low estate what more than riches are,

And this poor cell how very, very happy!

[He throws himself on the leathern arm-chair
beside the bed.

Receive me, thou who hast with open arm,
Year after year, the generations gone
Welcomed in joy and grief: how many a swarm
Of children round this patriarchal throne
Have gathered here! perhaps beside this seat
I well can fancy it a happy child

- Even now she scarce is more

at Christmas eve,

My love has knelt down at her grandsire's feet,
Among the children grouping to receive
The Christmas gifts, with pleasure undefiled,
Kissing the good old man I see her stand,

Her young round cheeks prest on his withered

hand.