No More Learning

_Wagner_. Ah God! well, art is long!
And life is short and fleeting.
What headaches have I felt and what heart-beating,
When critical desire was strong.
How hard it is the ways and means to master
By which one gains each fountain-head!
And ere one yet has half the journey sped,
The poor fool dies--O sad disaster!

_Faust_. Is parchment, then, the holy well-spring, thinkest,
A draught from which thy thirst forever slakes?
No quickening element thou drinkest,
Till up from thine own soul the fountain breaks.

_Wagner_. Excuse me! in these olden pages
We catch the spirit of the by-gone ages,
We see what wisest men before our day have thought,
And to what glorious heights we their bequests have brought.

_Faust_. O yes, we've reached the stars at last!
My friend, it is to us,--the buried past,--
A book with seven seals protected;
Your spirit of the times is, then,
At bottom, your own spirit, gentlemen,
In which the times are seen reflected.
And often such a mess that none can bear it;
At the first sight of it they run away.
A dust-bin and a lumber-garret,
At most a mock-heroic play[8]
With fine, pragmatic maxims teeming,
The mouths of puppets well-beseeming!

_Wagner_. But then the world! the heart and mind of man!
To know of these who would not pay attention?

_Faust_. To know them, yes, as weaklings can!
Who dares the child's true name outright to mention?
The few who any thing thereof have learned,
Who out of their heart's fulness needs must gabble,
And show their thoughts and feelings to the rabble,
Have evermore been crucified and burned.
I pray you, friend, 'tis wearing into night,
Let us adjourn here, for the present.

_Wagner_. I had been glad to stay till morning light,
This learned talk with you has been so pleasant,
But the first day of Easter comes to-morrow.
And then an hour or two I'll borrow.
With zeal have I applied myself to learning,
True, I know much, yet to know all am burning.
[_Exit_. ]

_Faust_. [_Alone_. ] See how in _his_ head only, hope still lingers,
Who evermore to empty rubbish clings,
With greedy hand grubs after precious things,
And leaps for joy when some poor worm he fingers!
That such a human voice should dare intrude,
Where all was full of ghostly tones and features!
Yet ah! this once, my gratitude
Is due to thee, most wretched of earth's creatures.
Thou snatchedst me from the despairing state
In which my senses, well nigh crazed, were sunken.
The apparition was so giant-great,
That to a very dwarf my soul had shrunken.
I, godlike, who in fancy saw but now
Eternal truth's fair glass in wondrous nearness,
Rejoiced in heavenly radiance and clearness,
Leaving the earthly man below;
I, more than cherub, whose free force
Dreamed, through the veins of nature penetrating,
To taste the life of Gods, like them creating,
Behold me this presumption expiating!
A word of thunder sweeps me from my course.
Myself with thee no longer dare I measure;
Had I the power to draw thee down at pleasure;
To hold thee here I still had not the force.
Oh, in that blest, ecstatic hour,
I felt myself so small, so great;
Thou drovest me with cruel power
Back upon man's uncertain fate
What shall I do? what slum, thus lonely?
That impulse must I, then, obey?
Alas! our very deeds, and not our sufferings only,
How do they hem and choke life's way!
To all the mind conceives of great and glorious
A strange and baser mixture still adheres;
Striving for earthly good are we victorious?
A dream and cheat the better part appears.
The feelings that could once such noble life inspire
Are quenched and trampled out in passion's mire.
Where Fantasy, erewhile, with daring flight
Out to the infinite her wings expanded,
A little space can now suffice her quite,
When hope on hope time's gulf has wrecked and stranded.
Care builds her nest far down the heart's recesses,
There broods o'er dark, untold distresses,
Restless she sits, and scares thy joy and peace away;
She puts on some new mask with each new day,
Herself as house and home, as wife and child presenting,
As fire and water, bane and blade;
What never hits makes thee afraid,
And what is never lost she keeps thee still lamenting.
Not like the Gods am I! Too deep that truth is thrust!
But like the worm, that wriggles through the dust;
Who, as along the dust for food he feels,
Is crushed and buried by the traveller's heels.
Is it not dust that makes this lofty wall
Groan with its hundred shelves and cases;
The rubbish and the thousand trifles all
That crowd these dark, moth-peopled places?
Here shall my craving heart find rest?
Must I perchance a thousand books turn over,
To find that men are everywhere distrest,
And here and there one happy one discover?
Why grin'st thou down upon me, hollow skull?
But that thy brain, like mine, once trembling, hoping,
Sought the light day, yet ever sorrowful,
Burned for the truth in vain, in twilight groping?
Ye, instruments, of course, are mocking me;
Its wheels, cogs, bands, and barrels each one praises.
I waited at the door; you were the key;
Your ward is nicely turned, and yet no bolt it raises.
Unlifted in the broadest day,
Doth Nature's veil from prying eyes defend her,
And what (he chooses not before thee to display,
Not all thy screws and levers can force her to surrender.
Old trumpery! not that I e'er used thee, but
Because my father used thee, hang'st thou o'er me,
Old scroll! thou hast been stained with smoke and smut
Since, on this desk, the lamp first dimly gleamed before me.
Better have squandered, far, I now can clearly see,
My little all, than melt beneath it, in this Tophet!
That which thy fathers have bequeathed to thee,
Earn and become possessor of it!
What profits not a weary load will be;
What it brings forth alone can yield the moment profit.
Why do I gaze as if a spell had bound me
Up yonder? Is that flask a magnet to the eyes?
What lovely light, so sudden, blooms around me?
As when in nightly woods we hail the full-moon-rise.
I greet thee, rarest phial, precious potion!
As now I take thee down with deep devotion,
In thee I venerate man's wit and art.
Quintessence of all soporific flowers,
Extract of all the finest deadly powers,
Thy favor to thy master now impart!
I look on thee, the sight my pain appeases,
I handle thee, the strife of longing ceases,
The flood-tide of the spirit ebbs away.
Far out to sea I'm drawn, sweet voices listening,
The glassy waters at my feet are glistening,
To new shores beckons me a new-born day.
A fiery chariot floats, on airy pinions,
To where I sit! Willing, it beareth me,
On a new path, through ether's blue dominions,
To untried spheres of pure activity.
This lofty life, this bliss elysian,
Worm that thou waft erewhile, deservest thou?
Ay, on this earthly sun, this charming vision,
Turn thy back resolutely now!
Boldly draw near and rend the gates asunder,
By which each cowering mortal gladly steals.
Now is the time to show by deeds of wonder
That manly greatness not to godlike glory yields;
Before that gloomy pit to stand, unfearing,
Where Fantasy self-damned in its own torment lies,
Still onward to that pass-way steering,
Around whose narrow mouth hell-flames forever rise;
Calmly to dare the step, serene, unshrinking,
Though into nothingness the hour should see thee sinking.
Now, then, come down from thy old case, I bid thee,
Where thou, forgotten, many a year hast hid thee,
Into thy master's hand, pure, crystal glass!
The joy-feasts of the fathers thou hast brightened,
The hearts of gravest guests were lightened,
When, pledged, from hand to hand they saw thee pass.
Thy sides, with many a curious type bedight,
Which each, as with one draught he quaffed the liquor
Must read in rhyme from off the wondrous beaker,
Remind me, ah! of many a youthful night.
I shall not hand thee now to any neighbor,
Not now to show my wit upon thy carvings labor;
Here is a juice of quick-intoxicating might.
The rich brown flood adown thy sides is streaming,
With my own choice ingredients teeming;
Be this last draught, as morning now is gleaming,
Drained as a lofty pledge to greet the festal light!
[_He puts the goblet to his lips_.

_Ringing of bells and choral song_.

_Chorus of Angels_. Christ hath arisen!
Joy to humanity!
No more shall vanity,
Death and inanity
Hold thee in prison!

_Faust_. What hum of music, what a radiant tone,
Thrills through me, from my lips the goblet stealing!
Ye murmuring bells, already make ye known
The Easter morn's first hour, with solemn pealing?
Sing you, ye choirs, e'en now, the glad, consoling song,
That once, from angel-lips, through gloom sepulchral rung,
A new immortal covenant sealing?

_Chorus of Women_. Spices we carried,
Laid them upon his breast;
Tenderly buried
Him whom we loved the best;

Cleanly to bind him
Took we the fondest care,
Ah! and we find him
Now no more there.

_Chorus of Angels_. Christ hath ascended!
Reign in benignity!
Pain and indignity,
Scorn and malignity,
_Their_ work have ended.

_Faust_. Why seek ye me in dust, forlorn,
Ye heavenly tones, with soft enchanting?
Go, greet pure-hearted men this holy morn!
Your message well I hear, but faith to me is wanting;
Wonder, its dearest child, of Faith is born.
To yonder spheres I dare no more aspire,
Whence the sweet tidings downward float;
And yet, from childhood heard, the old, familiar note
Calls back e'en now to life my warm desire.
Ah! once how sweetly fell on me the kiss
Of heavenly love in the still Sabbath stealing!
Prophetically rang the bells with solemn pealing;
A prayer was then the ecstasy of bliss;
A blessed and mysterious yearning
Drew me to roam through meadows, woods, and skies;
And, midst a thousand tear-drops burning,
I felt a world within me rise
That strain, oh, how it speaks youth's gleesome plays and feelings,
Joys of spring-festivals long past;
Remembrance holds me now, with childhood's fond appealings,
Back from the fatal step, the last.
Sound on, ye heavenly strains, that bliss restore me!
Tears gush, once more the spell of earth is o'er me

_Chorus of Disciples_. Has the grave's lowly one
Risen victorious?
Sits he, God's Holy One,
High-throned and glorious?
He, in this blest new birth,
Rapture creative knows;[9]
Ah! on the breast of earth
Taste we still nature's woes.
Left here to languish
Lone in a world like this,
Fills us with anguish
Master, thy bliss!

_Chorus of Angels_. Christ has arisen
Out of corruption's gloom.
Break from your prison,
Burst every tomb!
Livingly owning him,
Lovingly throning him,
Feasting fraternally,
Praying diurnally,
Bearing his messages,
Sharing his promises,
Find ye your master near,
Find ye him here! [10]




BEFORE THE GATE.

_Pedestrians of all descriptions stroll forth_.

_Mechanics' Apprentices_. Where are you going to carouse?

_Others_. We're all going out to the Hunter's House.

_The First_. We're going, ourselves, out to the Mill-House, brothers.

_An Apprentice_. The Fountain-House I rather recommend.

_Second_. 'Tis not a pleasant road, my friend.

_The second group_. What will you do, then?

_A Third_. I go with the others.

_Fourth_. Come up to Burgdorf, there you're sure to find good cheer,
The handsomest of girls and best of beer,
And rows, too, of the very first water.

_Fifth_. You monstrous madcap, does your skin
Itch for the third time to try that inn?
I've had enough for _my_ taste in that quarter.

_Servant-girl_. No! I'm going back again to town for one.

_Others_. Under those poplars we are sure to meet him.

_First Girl_. But that for me is no great fun;
For you are always sure to get him,
He never dances with any but you.
Great good to me your luck will do!

_Others_. He's not alone, I heard him say,
The curly-head would be with him to-day.

_Scholar_. Stars! how the buxom wenches stride there!
Quick, brother! we must fasten alongside there.
Strong beer, good smart tobacco, and the waist
Of a right handsome gall, well rigg'd, now that's my taste.

_Citizen's Daughter_. Do see those fine, young fellows yonder!
'Tis, I declare, a great disgrace;
When they might have the very best, I wonder,
After these galls they needs must race!

_Second scholar_ [_to the first_].
Stop! not so fast! there come two more behind,
My eyes! but ain't they dressed up neatly?
One is my neighbor, or I'm blind;
I love the girl, she looks so sweetly.
Alone all quietly they go,
You'll find they'll take us, by and bye, in tow.

_First_. No, brother! I don't like these starched up ways.
Make haste! before the game slips through our fingers.
The hand that swings the broom o' Saturdays
On Sundays round thy neck most sweetly lingers.

_Citizen_. No, I don't like at all this new-made burgomaster!
His insolence grows daily ever faster.
No good from him the town will get!
Will things grow better with him? Never!
We're under more constraint than ever,
And pay more tax than ever yet.

_Beggar_. [_Sings_. ] Good gentlemen, and you, fair ladies,
With such red cheeks and handsome dress,
Think what my melancholy trade is,
And see and pity my distress!
Help the poor harper, sisters, brothers!
Who loves to give, alone is gay.
This day, a holiday to others,
Make it for me a harvest day.

_Another citizen_.
Sundays and holidays, I like, of all things, a good prattle
Of war and fighting, and the whole array,
When back in Turkey, far away,
The peoples give each other battle.
One stands before the window, drinks his glass,
And sees the ships with flags glide slowly down the river;
Comes home at night, when out of sight they pass,
And sings with joy, "Oh, peace forever! "

_Third citizen_. So I say, neighbor! let them have their way,
Crack skulls and in their crazy riot
Turn all things upside down they may,
But leave us here in peace and quiet.

_Old Woman_ [_to the citizen's daughter_].
Heyday, brave prinking this! the fine young blood!
Who is not smitten that has met you? --
But not so proud! All very good!
And what you want I'll promise soon to get you.

_Citizen's Daughter_. Come, Agatha! I dread in public sight
To prattle with such hags; don't stay, O, Luddy!
'Tis true she showed me, on St. Andrew's night,
My future sweetheart in the body.

_The other_. She showed me mine, too, in a glass,
Right soldierlike, with daring comrades round him.
I look all round, I study all that pass,
But to this hour I have not found him.

_Soldiers_. Castles with lowering
Bulwarks and towers,
Maidens with towering
Passions and powers,
Both shall be ours!
Daring the venture,
Glorious the pay!

When the brass trumpet
Summons us loudly,
Joy-ward or death-ward,
On we march proudly.
That is a storming!

Life in its splendor!
Castles and maidens
Both must surrender.
Daring the venture,
Glorious the pay.
There go the soldiers
Marching away!


FAUST _and_ WAGNER.

_Faust_. Spring's warm look has unfettered the fountains,
Brooks go tinkling with silvery feet;
Hope's bright blossoms the valley greet;
Weakly and sickly up the rough mountains
Pale old Winter has made his retreat.
Thence he launches, in sheer despite,
Sleet and hail in impotent showers,
O'er the green lawn as he takes his flight;
But the sun will suffer no white,
Everywhere waking the formative powers,
Living colors he yearns to spread;
Yet, as he finds it too early for flowers,
Gayly dressed people he takes instead.
Look from this height whereon we find us
Back to the town we have left behind us,
Where from the dark and narrow door
Forth a motley multitude pour.
They sun themselves gladly and all are gay,
They celebrate Christ's resurrection to-day.
For have not they themselves arisen?
From smoky huts and hovels and stables,
From labor's bonds and traffic's prison,
From the confinement of roofs and gables,
From many a cramping street and alley,
From churches full of the old world's night,
All have come out to the day's broad light.
See, only see! how the masses sally
Streaming and swarming through gardens and fields
How the broad stream that bathes the valley
Is everywhere cut with pleasure boats' keels,
And that last skiff, so heavily laden,
Almost to sinking, puts off in the stream;
Ribbons and jewels of youngster and maiden
From the far paths of the mountain gleam.
How it hums o'er the fields and clangs from the steeple!
This is the real heaven of the people,
Both great and little are merry and gay,
I am a man, too, I can be, to-day.

_Wagner_. With you, Sir Doctor, to go out walking
Is at all times honor and gain enough;
But to trust myself here alone would be shocking,
For I am a foe to all that is rough.
Fiddling and bowling and screams and laughter
To me are the hatefullest noises on earth;
They yell as if Satan himself were after,
And call it music and call it mirth.

[_Peasants (under the linden). Dance and song. _]

The shepherd prinked him for the dance,
With jacket gay and spangle's glance,
And all his finest quiddle.
And round the linden lass and lad
They wheeled and whirled and danced like mad.
Huzza! huzza!
Huzza! Ha, ha, ha!
And tweedle-dee went the fiddle.

And in he bounded through the whirl,
And with his elbow punched a girl,
Heigh diddle, diddle!
The buxom wench she turned round quick,
"Now that I call a scurvy trick! "
Huzza! huzza!
Huzza! ha, ha, ha!
Tweedle-dee, tweedle-dee went the fiddle.

And petticoats and coat-tails flew
As up and down they went, and through,
Across and down the middle.
They all grew red, they all grew warm,
And rested, panting, arm in arm,
Huzza! huzza!
Ta-ra-la!
Tweedle-dee went the fiddle!

"And don't be so familiar there!
How many a one, with speeches fair,
His trusting maid will diddle! "
But still he flattered her aside--
And from the linden sounded wide:
Huzza! huzza!
Huzza! huzza! ha! ha! ha!
And tweedle-dee the fiddle.

_Old Peasant. _ Sir Doctor, this is kind of you,
That with us here you deign to talk,
And through the crowd of folk to-day
A man so highly larned, walk.
So take the fairest pitcher here,
Which we with freshest drink have filled,
I pledge it to you, praying aloud
That, while your thirst thereby is stilled,
So many days as the drops it contains
May fill out the life that to you remains.

_Faust. _ I take the quickening draught and call
For heaven's best blessing on one and all.

[_The people form a circle round him. _]

_Old Peasant. _ Your presence with us, this glad day,
We take it very kind, indeed!
In truth we've found you long ere this
In evil days a friend in need!
Full many a one stands living here,
Whom, at death's door already laid,
Your father snatched from fever's rage,
When, by his skill, the plague he stayed.
You, a young man, we daily saw
Go with him to the pest-house then,
And many a corpse was carried forth,
But you came out alive again.
With a charmed life you passed before us,
Helped by the Helper watching o'er us.

_All. _ The well-tried man, and may he live,
Long years a helping hand to give!

_Faust. _ Bow down to Him on high who sends
His heavenly help and helping friends!
[_He goes on with_ WAGNER. ]

_Wagner. _ What feelings, O great man, thy heart must swell
Thus to receive a people's veneration!
O worthy all congratulation,
Whose gifts to such advantage tell.
The father to his son shows thee with exultation,
All run and crowd and ask, the circle closer draws,
The fiddle stops, the dancers pause,
Thou goest--the lines fall back for thee.
They fling their gay-decked caps on high;
A little more and they would bow the knee
As if the blessed Host came by.

_Faust. _ A few steps further on, until we reach that stone;
There will we rest us from our wandering.
How oft in prayer and penance there alone,
Fasting, I sate, on holy mysteries pondering.
There, rich in hope, in faith still firm,
I've wept, sighed, wrung my hands and striven
This plague's removal to extort (poor worm! )
From the almighty Lord of Heaven.
The crowd's applause has now a scornful tone;
O couldst thou hear my conscience tell its story,
How little either sire or son
Has done to merit such a glory!
My father was a worthy man, confused
And darkened with his narrow lucubrations,
Who with a whimsical, though well-meant patience,
On Nature's holy circles mused.
Shut up in his black laboratory,
Experimenting without end,
'Midst his adepts, till he grew hoary,
He sought the opposing powers to blend.
Thus, a red lion,[11] a bold suitor, married
The silver lily, in the lukewarm bath,
And, from one bride-bed to another harried,
The two were seen to fly before the flaming wrath.
If then, with colors gay and splendid,
The glass the youthful queen revealed,
Here was the physic, death the patients' sufferings ended,
And no one asked, who then was healed?
Thus, with electuaries so satanic,
Worse than the plague with all its panic,
We rioted through hill and vale;
Myself, with my own hands, the drug to thousands giving,
They passed away, and I am living
To hear men's thanks the murderers hail!

_Wagner. _ Forbear! far other name that service merits!
Can a brave man do more or less
Than with nice conscientiousness
To exercise the calling he inherits?
If thou, as youth, thy father honorest,
To learn from him thou wilt desire;
If thou, as man, men with new light hast blest,
Then may thy son to loftier heights aspire.

_Faust. _ O blest! who hopes to find repose,
Up from this mighty sea of error diving!
Man cannot use what he already knows,
To use the unknown ever striving.
But let not such dark thoughts a shadow throw
O'er the bright joy this hour inspires!
See how the setting sun, with ruddy glow,
The green-embosomed hamlet fires!
He sinks and fades, the day is lived and gone,
He hastens forth new scenes of life to waken.
O for a wing to lift and bear me on,
And on, to where his last rays beckon!
Then should I see the world's calm breast
In everlasting sunset glowing,
The summits all on fire, each valley steeped in rest,
The silver brook to golden rivers flowing.
No savage mountain climbing to the skies
Should stay the godlike course with wild abysses;
And now the sea, with sheltering, warm recesses
Spreads out before the astonished eyes.
At last it seems as if the God were sinking;
But a new impulse fires the mind,
Onward I speed, his endless glory drinking,
The day before me and the night behind,
The heavens above my head and under me the ocean.
A lovely dream,--meanwhile he's gone from sight.
Ah! sure, no earthly wing, in swiftest flight,
May with the spirit's wings hold equal motion.
Yet has each soul an inborn feeling
Impelling it to mount and soar away,
When, lost in heaven's blue depths, the lark is pealing
High overhead her airy lay;
When o'er the mountain pine's black shadow,
With outspread wing the eagle sweeps,
And, steering on o'er lake and meadow,
The crane his homeward journey keeps.

_Wagner. _ I've had myself full many a wayward hour,
But never yet felt such a passion's power.
One soon grows tired of field and wood and brook,
I envy not the fowl of heaven his pinions.
Far nobler joy to soar through thought's dominions
From page to page, from book to book!
Ah! winter nights, so dear to mind and soul!
Warm, blissful life through all the limbs is thrilling,
And when thy hands unfold a genuine ancient scroll,
It seems as if all heaven the room were filling.

_Faust_. One passion only has thy heart possessed;
The other, friend, O, learn it never!
Two souls, alas! are lodged in my wild breast,
Which evermore opposing ways endeavor,
The one lives only on the joys of time,
Still to the world with clamp-like organs clinging;
The other leaves this earthly dust and slime,
To fields of sainted sires up-springing.
O, are there spirits in the air,
That empire hold 'twixt earth's and heaven's dominions,
Down from your realm of golden haze repair,
Waft me to new, rich life, upon your rosy pinions!
Ay! were a magic mantle only mine,
To soar o'er earth's wide wildernesses,
I would not sell it for the costliest dresses,
Not for a royal robe the gift resign.

_Wagner_. O, call them not, the well known powers of air,
That swarm through all the middle kingdom, weaving
Their fairy webs, with many a fatal snare
The feeble race of men deceiving.
First, the sharp spirit-tooth, from out the North,
And arrowy tongues and fangs come thickly flying;
Then from the East they greedily dart forth,
Sucking thy lungs, thy life-juice drying;
If from the South they come with fever thirst,
Upon thy head noon's fiery splendors heaping;
The Westwind brings a swarm, refreshing first,
Then all thy world with thee in stupor steeping.
They listen gladly, aye on mischief bent,
Gladly draw near, each weak point to espy,
They make believe that they from heaven are sent,
Whispering like angels, while they lie.
But let us go! The earth looks gray, my friend,
The air grows cool, the mists ascend!
At night we learn our homes to prize. --
Why dost thou stop and stare with all thy eyes?
What can so chain thy sight there, in the gloaming?

_Faust_. Seest thou that black dog through stalks and stubble roaming?

_Wagner_. I saw him some time since, he seemed not strange to me.

_Faust_. Look sharply! What dost take the beast to be?

_Wagner_. For some poor poodle who has lost his master,
And, dog-like, scents him o'er the ground.

_Faust_. Markst thou how, ever nearer, ever faster,
Towards us his spiral track wheels round and round?
And if my senses suffer no confusion,
Behind him trails a fiery glare.

_Wagner_. 'Tis probably an optical illusion;
I still see only a black poodle there.

_Faust_. He seems to me as he were tracing slyly
His magic rings our feet at last to snare.

_Wagner_. To me he seems to dart around our steps so shyly,
As if he said: is one of them my master there?

_Faust_. The circle narrows, he is near!

_Wagner_. Thou seest! a dog we have, no spectre, here!
He growls and stops, crawls on his belly, too,
And wags his tail,--as all dogs do.

_Faust_. Come here, sir! come, our comrade be!

_Wagner_. He has a poodle's drollery.
Stand still, and he, too, waits to see;
Speak to him, and he jumps on thee;
Lose something, drop thy cane or sling it
Into the stream, he'll run and bring it.

_Faust_. I think you're right; I trace no spirit here,
'Tis all the fruit of training, that is clear.

_Wagner_. A well-trained dog is a great treasure,
Wise men in such will oft take pleasure.
And he deserves your favor and a collar,
He, of the students the accomplished scholar.

[_They go in through the town gate. _]




STUDY-CHAMBER.

_Enter_ FAUST _with the_ POODLE.


I leave behind me field and meadow
Veiled in the dusk of holy night,
Whose ominous and awful shadow
Awakes the better soul to light.
To sleep are lulled the wild desires,
The hand of passion lies at rest;
The love of man the bosom fires,
The love of God stirs up the breast.

Be quiet, poodle! what worrisome fiend hath possest thee,
Nosing and snuffling so round the door?
Go behind the stove there and rest thee,
There's my best pillow--what wouldst thou more?
As, out on the mountain-paths, frisking and leaping,
Thou, to amuse us, hast done thy best,
So now in return lie still in my keeping,
A quiet, contented, and welcome guest.

When, in our narrow chamber, nightly,
The friendly lamp begins to burn,
Then in the bosom thought beams brightly,
Homeward the heart will then return.
Reason once more bids passion ponder,
Hope blooms again and smiles on man;
Back to life's rills he yearns to wander,
Ah! to the source where life began.

Stop growling, poodle! In the music Elysian
That laps my soul at this holy hour,
These bestial noises have jarring power.
We know that men will treat with derision
Whatever they cannot understand,
At goodness and truth and beauty's vision
Will shut their eyes and murmur and howl at it;
And must the dog, too, snarl and growl at it?

But ah, with the best will, I feel already,
No peace will well up in me, clear and steady.
But why must hope so soon deceive us,
And the dried-up stream in fever leave us?
For in this I have had a full probation.
And yet for this want a supply is provided,
To a higher than earth the soul is guided,
We are ready and yearn for revelation:
And where are its light and warmth so blent
As here in the New Testament?
I feel, this moment, a mighty yearning
To expound for once the ground text of all,
The venerable original
Into my own loved German honestly turning.
[_He opens the volume, and applies himself to the task_.