FAUST and WAGNER

FAUST

Loosed from their fetters are streams and rills
Through the gracious spring-tide’s all-quickening glow;
Hope’s budding joy in the vale doth blow;
Old Winter back to the savage hills
Withdraweth his force, decrepid now. 
Thence only impotent icy grains
Scatters he as he wings his flight,
Striping with sleet the verdant plains;
But the sun endureth no trace of white;
Everywhere growth and movement are rife,
All things investing with hues of life
Though flowers are lacking, varied of dye,
Their colors the motley throng supply. 
Turn thee around, and, from this height,
Back to the town direct thy sight. 
Forth from the hollow, gloomy gate,
Stream forth the masses, in bright array. 
Gladly seek they the sun today;

The Lord’s Resurrection they celebrate: 
For they themselves have risen, with joy,
From tenement sordid, from cheerless room,
From bonds of toil, from care and annoy,
From gable and roof’s o’erhanging gloom,
From crowded alley and narrow street,
And from the churches’ awe-breathing night
All now have come forth into the light. 
Look, only look, on nimble feet,
Through garden and field how spread the throng,
How o’er the river’s ample sheet
Many a gay wherry glides along;
And see, deep sinking in the tide,
Pushes the last boat now away. 
E’en from yon far hill’s path-worn side,
Flash the bright hues of garments gay. 
Hark!  Sounds of village mirth arise;
This is the people’s paradise. 
Both great and small send up a cheer;
Here am I man, I feel it here.

WAGNER

Sir Doctor, in a walk with you
There’s honor and instruction too;
Yet here alone I care not to resort,
Because I coarseness hate of every sort. 
This fiddling, shouting, skittling, I detest;
I hate the tumult of the vulgar throng;
They roar as by the evil one possess’d,
And call it pleasure, call it song.

PEASANTS (under the linden-tree)

Dance and Sing.

  The shepherd for the dance was dress’d,
  With ribbon, wreath, and colored vest,
  A gallant show displaying. 
  And round about the linden-tree,

  They footed it right merrily. 
   Juchhe!  Juchhe! 
   Juchheisa!  Heisa!  He! 
  So fiddle-bow was braying. 
  Our swain amidst the circle press’d,
  He push’d a maiden trimly dress’d,
  And jogg’d her with his elbow;
  The buxom damsel turn’d her head,
  “Now that’s a stupid trick!” she said,
   Juchhe!  Juchhe! 
   Juchheisa!  Heisa!  He! 
  Don’t be so rude, good fellow!

  Swift in the circle they advanced,
  They danced to right, to left they danced,
  And all the skirts were swinging. 
  And they grew red, and they grew warm,
  Panting, they rested arm in arm,
   Juchhe!  Juchhe! 
   Juchheisa!  Heisa!  He! 
  To hip their elbow bringing.