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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 363 pages of information about The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01.

FAUST (awaking)

Am I once more deluded! must I deem
That thus the throng of spirits disappear? 
The devil’s presence—­was it but a dream? 
Hath but a poodle scap’d and left me here?

STUDY

FAUST, MEPHISTOPHELES

FAUST

A knock?  Come in!  Who now would break my rest?

MEPHISTOPHELES

’Tis I!

FAUST

 Come in!

MEPHISTOPHELES

 Thrice be the words express’d.

FAUST

Then I repeat, Come in!

MEPHISTOPHELES

’Tis well,
I hope that we shall soon agree! 
For now your fancies to expel,
Here, as a youth of high degree,
I come in gold-lac’d scarlet vest,
And stiff-silk mantle richly dress’d,
A cock’s gay feather for a plume,
A long and pointed rapier, too;
And briefly I would counsel you
To don at once the same costume,
And, free from trammels, speed away,
That what life is you may essay.

FAUST

In every garb I needs must feel oppress’d,
My heart to earth’s low cares a prey. 
Too old the trifler’s part to play,
Too young to live by no desire possess’d. 
What can the world to me afford? 
Renounce! renounce! is still the word;
This is the everlasting song
In every ear that ceaseless rings,
And which, alas, our whole life long,
Hoarsely each passing moment sings. 
But to new horror I awake each morn,
And I could weep hot tears, to see the sun
Dawn on another day, whose round forlorn
Accomplishes no wish of mine—­not one. 
Which still, with froward captiousness, impains
E’en the presentiment of every joy,
While low realities and paltry cares
The spirit’s fond imaginings destroy. 
Then must I too, when falls the veil of night,
Stretch’d on my pallet languish in despair. 
Appalling dreams my soul affright;
No rest vouchsafed me even there. 
The god, who throned within my breast resides,
Deep in my soul can stir the springs;
With sovereign sway my energies he guides,
He cannot move external things;
And so existence is to me a weight,
Death fondly I desire, and life I hate.

MEPHISTOPHELES

And yet, methinks, by most ’twill be confess’d
That Death is never quite a welcome guest.

FAUST

Happy the man around whose brow he binds
The bloodstain’d wreath in conquest’s dazzling hour;
Or whom, excited by the dance, he finds
Dissolv’d in bliss, in love’s delicious bower! 
O that before the lofty spirit’s might,
Enraptured, I had rendered up my soul!

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