Faust [part 1]. Translated Into English in the Original...

On Sundays, holidays, there’s naught I take delight in, Like gossiping of war, and war’s array, When down in Turkey, far away, The foreign people are a-fighting. One at the window sits, with glass and friends, And sees all sorts of ships go down the river gliding: And blesses then, as home he wends At night, our times of peace abiding.

Castles, with lofty Ramparts and towers, Maidens disdainful In Beauty’s array, Both shall be ours! Bold is the venture, Splendid the pay! Lads, let the trumpets For us be suing,— Calling to pleasure, Calling to ruin. Stormy our life is; Such is its boon! Maidens and castles Capitulate soon. Bold is the venture, Splendid the pay! And the soldiers go marching, Marching away!

Released from ice are brook and river By the quickening glance of the gracious Spring; The colors of hope to the valley cling, And weak old Winter himself must shiver, Withdrawn to the mountains, a crownless king: Whence, ever retreating, he sends again Impotent showers of sleet that darkle In belts across the green o’ the plain. But the sun will permit no white to sparkle; Everywhere form in development moveth; He will brighten the world with the tints he loveth, And, lacking blossoms, blue, yellow, and red, He takes these gaudy people instead. Turn thee about, and from this height Back on the town direct thy sight. Out of the hollow, gloomy gate, The motley throngs come forth elate: Each will the joy of the sunshine hoard, To honor the Day of the Risen Lord! They feel, themselves, their resurrection: From the low, dark rooms, scarce habitable; From the bonds of Work, from Trade’s restriction; From the pressing weight of roof and gable; From the narrow, crushing streets and alleys; From the churches’ solemn and reverend night, All come forth to the cheerful light. How lively, see! the multitude sallies, Scattering through gardens and fields remote, While over the river, that broadly dallies, Dances so many a festive boat; And overladen, nigh to sinking, The last full wherry takes the stream. Yonder afar, from the hill-paths blinking, Their clothes are colors that softly gleam. I hear the noise of the village, even; Here is the People’s proper Heaven; Here high and low contented see! Here I am Man,—dare man to be!

To stroll with you, Sir Doctor, flatters; ’Tis honor, profit, unto me. But I, alone, would shun these shallow matters, Since all that’s coarse provokes my enmity. This fiddling, shouting, ten-pin rolling I hate,—these noises of the throng: They rave, as Satan were their sports controlling. And call it mirth, and call it song!

All for the dance the shepherd dressed, In ribbons, wreath, and gayest vest Himself with care arraying: Around the linden lass and lad Already footed it like mad: Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! The fiddle-bow was playing. He broke the ranks, no whit afraid, And with his elbow punched a maid, Who stood, the dance surveying: The buxom wench, she turned and said: “Now, you I call a stupid-head!” Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! “Be decent while you’re staying!” Then round the circle went their flight, They danced to left, they danced to right: Their kirtles all were playing. They first grew red, and then grew warm, And rested, panting, arm in arm,— Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! And hips and elbows straying. Now, don’t be so familiar here! How many a one has fooled his dear, Waylaying and betraying! And yet, he coaxed her soon aside, And round the linden sounded wide. Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah—tarara-la! And the fiddle-bow was playing.

Sir Doctor, it is good of you, That thus you condescend, to-day, Among this crowd of merry folk, A highly-learned man, to stray. Then also take the finest can, We fill with fresh wine, for your sake: I offer it, and humbly wish That not alone your thirst is slake,— That, as the drops below its brink, So many days of life you drink!

In truth, ’tis well and fitly timed, That now our day of joy you share, Who heretofore, in evil days, Gave us so much of helping care. Still many a man stands living here, Saved by your father’s skillful hand, That snatched him from the fever’s rage And stayed the plague in all the land. Then also you, though but a youth, Went into every house of pain: Many the corpses carried forth, But you in health came out again.

With what a feeling, thou great man, must thou Receive the people’s honest veneration! How lucky he, whose gifts his station With such advantages endow! Thou’rt shown to all the younger generation: Each asks, and presses near to gaze; The fiddle stops, the dance delays. Thou goest, they stand in rows to see, And all the caps are lifted high; A little more, and they would bend the knee As if the Holy Host came by.

A few more steps ascend, as far as yonder stone!— Here from our wandering will we rest contented. Here, lost in thought, I’ve lingered oft alone, When foolish fasts and prayers my life tormented. Here, rich in hope and firm in faith, With tears, wrung hands and sighs, I’ve striven, The end of that far-spreading death Entreating from the Lord of Heaven! Now like contempt the crowd’s applauses seem: Couldst thou but read, within mine inmost spirit, How little now I deem, That sire or son such praises merit! My father’s was a sombre, brooding brain, Which through the holy spheres of Nature groped and wandered, And honestly, in his own fashion, pondered With labor whimsical, and pain: Who, in his dusky work-shop bending, With proved adepts in company, Made, from his recipes unending, Opposing substances agree. There was a Lion red, a wooer daring, Within the Lily’s tepid bath espoused, And both, tormented then by flame unsparing, By turns in either bridal chamber housed. If then appeared, with colors splendid, The young Queen in her crystal shell, This was the medicine—the patients’ woes soon ended, And none demanded: who got well? Thus we, our hellish boluses compounding, Among these vales and hills surrounding, Worse than the pestilence, have passed. Thousands were done to death from poison of my giving; And I must hear, by all the living, The shameless murderers praised at last!

Why, therefore, yield to such depression? A good man does his honest share In exercising, with the strictest care, The art bequeathed to his possession! Dost thou thy father honor, as a youth? Then may his teaching cheerfully impel thee: Dost thou, as man, increase the stores of truth? Then may thine own son afterwards excel thee.