A gift for her I bid thee get!
[Exit.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Presents at once?  That’s good:  he’s certain to get at her! 
Full many a pleasant place I know,
And treasures, buried long ago: 
I must, perforce, look up the matter. [Exit.
[Illustration]

VIII

EVENING A SMALL, NEATLY KEPT CHAMBER

MARGARET

(plaiting and binding up the braids of her hair)

I’d something give, could I but say
Who was that gentleman, to-day. 
Surely a gallant man was he,
And of a noble family;
And much could I in his face behold,—­
And he wouldn’t, else, have been so bold!

[Exit

MEPHISTOPHELES FAUST

MEPHISTOPHELES

Come in, but gently:  follow me!

FAUST (after a moment’s silence)

Leave me alone, I beg of thee!

MEPHISTOPHELES (prying about)

Not every girl keeps things so neat.

FAUST (looking around)

O welcome, twilight soft and sweet,
That breathes throughout this hallowed shrine! 
Sweet pain of love, bind thou with fetters fleet
The heart that on the dew of hope must pine! 
How all around a sense impresses
Of quiet, order, and content! 
This poverty what bounty blesses! 
What bliss within this narrow den is pent!

(He throws himself into a leathern arm-chair near the bed.)

Receive me, thou, that in thine open arms
Departed joy and pain wert wont to gather! 
How oft the children, with their ruddy charms,
Hung here, around this throne, where sat the father! 
Perchance my love, amid the childish band,
Grateful for gifts the Holy Christmas gave her,
Here meekly kissed the grandsire’s withered hand. 
I feel, O maid! thy very soul
Of order and content around me whisper,—­
Which leads thee with its motherly control,
The cloth upon thy board bids smoothly thee unroll,
The sand beneath thy feet makes whiter, crisper. 
O dearest hand, to thee ’tis given
To change this hut into a lower heaven! 
And here!

(He lifts one of the bed-curtains.)

What sweetest thrill is in my blood! 
Here could I spend whole hours, delaying: 
Here Nature shaped, as if in sportive playing,
The angel blossom from the bud. 
Here lay the child, with Life’s warm essence
The tender bosom filled and fair,
And here was wrought, through holier, purer presence,
The form diviner beings wear!

And I?  What drew me here with power? 
How deeply am I moved, this hour! 
What seek I?  Why so full my heart, and sore? 
Miserable Faust!  I know thee now no more.