When we have reached the Things, this Earth calls

good,

We call Things better, error and deception. The glorious feelings whence our life hath birth, Are numbed in the thronged scramble of the Earth.

What though with Hope her daring flight upholding,
Fancy dilates to guage the eternal realm;
Yet little space contents her soon, beholding,
How joy on joy doth time's abyss o'erwhelm.
In the heart's depths nestles care,
Secret sorrow nursing there,

To and fro uneasy tosses,

Ever peace and pleasure crosses ;

Taking some new mask her features to conceal.

Now house and land, now wife and child resembling,

Now fire and water now, now poison and now steel,
Before all things that never happen trembling;
Of things thou ne'er hast lost, the most thou weepest
the losses.

No godlike being am I, I feel conviction deep;
No, I am like the worm that in the dust doth creep,
That living in the dust upon the dust is fed,

And crushed into the dust, by passing traveller's

Are they not dust, the objects that surround

This dusty wall with all its hundred presses? This pedlar's booth with thousand toys hung round, That in this wretched world, my soul oppresses. Here shall I hope what I require to find?

Read through a thousand books and find alone, How has mankind for ever scourged mankind,

Whilst here and there appears a happy one. What doth thy grin thou hollow skull convey? But that thy brain like mine was once overwrought,

Searched in the twilight for the light of day,

In the desire of truth to madness brought? Ye instruments, forsooth, too, mock at me,

With wheels, cogs, cylinders and collars wrought; I stand before the door, and ye should be the key; Your wards are complex, yet the bolt moves not. Nature, inscrutable in broadest day,

Allows not that her veil be torn away;

What to thy mind she will not open fling,
With screws and levers canst thou never wring.
Thou, antient furniture, I never use;

Because my sire used thee dost here remain.
So long the lamp burns at this desk, the hues

Of smoke thy face, thou ancient scroll, will stain.

Better my little all in waste to spend,

Than sweat here with that little all oppressed;
The things that from thy forefathers descend

So use that they may be by thee possessed.
Unused possessions are a grievous load,
We can use only what is by the hour bestowed.

But what to yonder spot attracts my sight?
Why is yon flask a magnet to my gaze?
Why is all near me now so sweetly bright,

As when in woods by night the moonbeams round one plays?

Thou matchless Vial, thee I bow before

I take thee down at last with reverence deep;
All mind and art of man in thee I adore,

Thou essence of the holiest draughts of sleep.
Extract of powers of subtlest deadliness,
Some favour to thy master now display.
I see thee, and my agony grows less;

I feel thee, and my struggle dies away.
The spirit's tide hath turned-it ebbeth slow,
It bears me to the mighty main away;
The burnished ocean at my feet doth glow,

And to fresh shores beckons an untried day.

Whose hereditary doom,

Is to be girt with wickedness.

FAUST.

What a deep murmur on the night air swells,
What a clear tone draws irresistibly

The goblet from my mouth. Ye hollow bells,
Proclaim ye Easter's dawn is drawing nigh?
The words of hope in that sweet music ringing,
That once, when o'er his sepulchre did close
The shades of night, from angel lips arose,
Assurance of a covenant renewed to mortals bringing.

CHORUS OF WOMEN.

His body in death

With spices we dressed,

And unfailing in faith

We left him to rest;

With graveclothes we bound ·

His limbs for the bier,

Alas, and we found

Christ no more here.

CHORUS OF ANGELS.

Glorious in resurrection,

Christ is arisen on high,

Joy to the Lord of love; He whom his deep dejection, Soul-searching agony

Still doth stainless prove.

FAUST.

What in your mighty sweetness do

ye

seek,

Ye tones of Heaven, with me that dwell in dust?
Seek elsewhere mortals flexible and weak.

I hear the message, but I cannot trust;
Faith's chosen child is the miraculous.

I dare not strive those distant spheres to gain,
From whence these holy tidings came to us;
And it seems that long remembered strain
In youth, recalls me back to life again.*

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased
With melting airs, is martial, brisk, or grave;
Some chord in unison with what we hear,
Is touched within us,
and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again and louder still,
Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on;
With easy force it opens all the cells

Where memory slept. Whenever I have heard