Faust.  Thee, flame-born creature, shall I fear?  ’Tis I, ’tis Faust, behold thy peer!

Spirit.  In life’s tide currents, in action’s storm,
Up and down, like a wave,
Like the wind I sweep! 
Cradle and grave—­
A limitless deep—–­
An endless weaving
To and fro,
A restless heaving
Of life and glow,—­
So shape I, on Destiny’s thundering loom,
The Godhead’s live garment, eternal in bloom.

Faust.  Spirit that sweep’st the world from end to end, How near, this hour, I feel myself to thee!

Spirit.  Thou’rt like the spirit thou canst comprehend, Not me! [Vanishes.]

Faust. [Collapsing.] Not thee? 
  Whom then? 
  I, image of the Godhead,
  And no peer for thee!
         [A knocking.]
O Death!  I know it!—­’tis my Famulus—­
Good-bye, ye dreams of bliss Elysian! 
Shame! that so many a glowing vision
This dried-up sneak must scatter thus!

[WAGNER, in sleeping-gown and night-cap, a lamp in his hand.
FAUST turns round with an annoyed look.]

Wagner.  Excuse me! you’re engaged in declamation;
’Twas a Greek tragedy no doubt you read? 
I in this art should like initiation,
For nowadays it stands one well instead. 
I’ve often heard them boast, a preacher
Might profit with a player for his teacher.

Faust.  Yes, when the preacher is a player, granted:  As often happens in our modern ways.

Wagner.  Ah! when one with such love of study’s haunted,
And scarcely sees the world on holidays,
And takes a spy-glass, as it were, to read it,
How can one by persuasion hope to lead it?

Faust.  What you don’t feel, you’ll never catch by hunting,
It must gush out spontaneous from the soul,
And with a fresh delight enchanting
The hearts of all that hear control. 
Sit there forever!  Thaw your glue-pot,—­
Blow up your ash-heap to a flame, and brew,
With a dull fire, in your stew-pot,
Of other men’s leavings a ragout! 
Children and apes will gaze delighted,
If their critiques can pleasure impart;
But never a heart will be ignited,
Comes not the spark from the speaker’s heart.

Wagner.  Delivery makes the orator’s success; There I’m still far behindhand, I confess.

Faust.  Seek honest gains, without pretence! 
Be not a cymbal-tinkling fool! 
Sound understanding and good sense
Speak out with little art or rule;
And when you’ve something earnest to utter,
Why hunt for words in such a flutter? 
Yes, your discourses, that are so refined’
In which humanity’s poor shreds you frizzle,
Are unrefreshing as the mist and wind
That through the withered leaves of autumn whistle!

Wagner.  Ah God! well, art is long! 
And life is short and fleeting. 
What headaches have I felt and what heart-beating,
When critical desire was strong. 
How hard it is the ways and means to master
By which one gains each fountain-head! 
And ere one yet has half the journey sped,
The poor fool dies—­O sad disaster!