Faust.

Sweet love, mistake not what I utter now! 
Who knows His name? 
Who dares proclaim:—­
Him I believe? 
Who so can feel
His heart to steel
To sari believe Him not? 
The All-Embracer,
The All-Sustained,
Holds and sustains He not
Thee, me, Himself?

Hang not the heavens their arch overhead? 
Lies not the earth beneath us, firm? 
Gleam not with kindly glances
Eternal stars on high? 
Looks not mine eye deep into thine? 
And do not all things
Crowd on thy head and heart,
And round thee twine, in mystery eterne,
Invisible, yet visible? 
Fill, then, thy heart, however vast, with this,
And when the feeling perfecteth thy bliss,
O, call it what thou wilt,
Call it joy! heart! love!  God! 
No name for it I know! 
’Tis feeling all—­nought else;
Name is but sound and smoke,
Obscuring heaven’s bright glow.

VII. 
Margaret, Placing fresh flowers in the flower-pots.

O thou well-tried in grief,

Grant to thy child relief,
And view with mercy this unhappy one!

The sword within thy heart,

Speechless with bitter smart,
Thou Lookest up towards thy dying son.

Thou look’st to God on high,

And breathest many a sigh
O’er his and thy distress, thou holy One!

  Who e’er can know

  The depth of woe

Piercing my very bone? 
The sorrows that my bosom fill,
Its trembling, its aye-yearning will,

Are known to thee, to thee alone!

Wherever I may go,

With woe, with woe, with woe,
My bosom sad is aching!

I scarce alone can creep,

I weep, I weep, I weep,
My very heart is breaking.

The flowers at my window

My falling tears bedewed,
When I, at dawn of morning,

For thee these flow’rets strewed.

When early to my chamber

The cheerful sunbeams stole,
I sat upon my pallet,

In agony of soul.

Help! rescue me from death and misery!

Oh, thou well-tried in grief,

Grant to thy child relief,
And view with mercy my deep agony!

FROM FAUST—­SECOND PART.

I.

Ariel.

When in spring the gentle rain

Breathes into the flower new birth,
When the green and happy plain

Smiles upon the sons of earth,
Haste to give what help we may,

Little elves of wondrous might! 
Whether good or evil they,

Pity for them feels the sprite.

II. 
Chorus of spirits.

When the moist and balmy gale

Round the verdant meadow sighs,
Odors sweet in misty veil

At the twilight-hour arise. 
Murmurings soft of calm repose