Faust

LIZZY.

He! he'll be no such fool the de'il may carry

her,

We will so plague her if she get the lad;
The wedding garland, should she think to wear it,
From the mock virgin shall the children tear it;
And, at her door, what fun we shall have, spreading
Chopped straw, to greet the promise of their wedding.
[Exit.

MARGARET (returning home).

How I would rail when some poor girl went wrong! How, when it was another's sin and shame,

Words of reproach would rise up to my tongue!

it was black

It was,
Blackened it more and more

This virtuous scorn of mine could satisfy
Others might fall, but I more proud became
I blessed myself, and held myself so high,
And I who thus could feel
But could I who could
All was so good! all was so

Faust.

am I the same?

- have resisted here?
very dear!

ZWINGER.

- A LITTLE SHRINE.

In a niche of the wall an image of the MATER Dolorosa, with flowers before it. MARGARET places fresh flowers in the bowls.

MARGARET.

Mother benign,

Look down on me!

No grief like thine;

Thou who dost see
In his death-agony
Thy Son divine.

In faith unto the Father dost thou lift up thine eyes; In faith unto the Father dost pray with many sighs. The sword is piercing thine own soul, and thou in pain dost pray,

That the pangs which torture him, and are thy pangs,

may pass away.

And who my wound can heal,
And who the pain can feel,

That rends asunder brain and bone?

How my poor heart, within me aching,
Trembles and yearns, and is forsaken

Thou knowest it

thou alone!

Where can I go? Where can I go? Every where woe! woe! woe!

Nothing that does not my own grief betoken;

And when I am alone,

I moan, and moan, and moan,

And am heart-broken.

The flowers upon my window sill,
Wet with my tears since dawn they be;
All else were sleeping, while I was weeping,
Praying and choosing flowers for thee.

Into my chamber brightly
Came the early sun's good morrow;
On my restless bed, unsightly,

I sate up in my sorrow.

Oh, in this hour of death, and the near grave,
Succour me, thou, and save!

Look on me with that countenance benign.

Never was grief like thine,

Look down, look down on mine!

NIGHT.

STREET BEFORE MARGARET'S DOOR.

VALENTINE (a soldier MADGE's brother).
Till now,
as round the canteen hearth,
My comrades, in their drunken mirth,
Would of their favourites gaily boast,
And pledge with soldier's glee the toast;
How on my elbow I would rest,

Smile as each swore his own the best,
And stroke my beard, and raise my glass,
And when my turn to name the lass
Came round, would say, "Each to his taste;
In my own home my heart is placed.
Where is the maiden, any where,
That with my Margaret can compare?
Is there than Madge's in the land
A truer heart or fairer hand?"

Oh, then, how cups and goblets rang,
While voices rose with joyous clang:
"Right, right," in chorus, hundreds cried,
"First of them all the country's pride
His sister is" and dumb and tame

The boasters suddenly became.

And now

oh, I could rend my hair, Could dash my brains out in despair;

Now must I feel my bosom gored
By daggers in each casual word,
And every ruffian's sneering eye
And scornful taunt my patience try;
Gnawing my wrath must I remain,
And suffer and suppress my pain,
Nor dare say any word again;
As hears the debtor gibe and curse,

Who meets a claim with empty purse.
Avenge it what can vengeance do?