And let it cure your spirits,

Not

you are going

-

as to look at you one might believe Not to the gibbet but to a fond mistress!

FAUST.

What were the joys of Heaven, though with them blest

In her embrace? - could my disquiet be
Stilled on her bosom? could it hush to rest
This drear presentiment of her undoing?
And am I not the outcast

-

the accurst

The homeless one, whose wanderings never cease
The monster of his kind? No rest for me
No aim

no object; like the stream, that, nurst With swelling rains, foaming from rock to rock, Along its course of ruin,

On to the inevitable precipice

Plunges impatient down the blind abyss,
And violently seeks the desperate shock.

And

by the side of such mad stream

was she,

A child with a child's feelings; her low cot
In the green field upon the mountain-slope,
And all that she could wish, or love, or hope,
Her little world, all

all in that poor spot;

Enough, that the mad torrent grasped and tore
The rocks, and shivered them to dust, and bore
All, that opposed me, in my downward course
Her, too, her her peace

These must I undermine? these too destroy?

Hell! Hell!

this victim also!

-

Thy support, Devil! and the dreadful interval make short!

What must be, be it soon! Let the crush fall
Down on me of her ruin

perish all

SheI and these wild thoughts together!

-

MEPHISTOPHELES.

What! in the fever-fit again?

How seethes and burns the muddy brain!

Idiot, go in, and comfort her.

Thus is it ever with the crazy pate, When difficulties thwart,

Or unforeseen calamities occur:

Fools, when they cannot see their way,

At once grow desperate,

Have no resource have nothing to propose

But fix a dull eye of dismay

Upon the final close.

Success to the stout heart, say I,

That sees its fate, and can defy!

-Yet art thou, though of such soft stuff,
In most things pretty devil enough;

Of all insipid things, I least can bear

That sickening dose a devil in despair!

-

MARGARET'S OWN ROOM.

MARGARET (alone at the spinning-wheel).

(Sings.)

My peace is gone,

And my heart is sore:

I have lost him, and lost him, For evermore!

The place, where he is not,

To me is the tomb, The world is sadness,

And sorrow and gloom!

My poor sick brain

Is crazed with pain,

And my poor sick heart

Is torn in twain!

My peace is gone,

And my heart is sore, For lost is my love

For evermore!

From the window for him
My heavy eyes roam;
To seek him, all lonely

I wander from home.

His noble form,

His bearing high, The smiles of his lip,

And the power of his eye;

And the magic tone

Of that voice of his, His hands' soft pressure, And oh! his kiss!

My peace is gone,

And my heart is sore;

I have lost him, and lost him,

For evermore!

Far wanders my heart

To feel him near,

Oh! could I clasp him,
And hold him here!

Hold him and kiss him,

Oh! I could die!

To feed on his kisses,

How willingly!

Now tell me how you are as to religion?

You are a dear good man
You have not much of it.

but, I rather fear

FAUST.

Forbear, my child,

You feel I love you, and for those I love
I would lay down my life. I would not rob
Any one of his feeling, or his church