and castles
        Capitulate soon. 
        Bold is the venture,
        Splendid the pay! 
        And the soldiers go marching,
        Marching away!

FAUST AND WAGNER

FAUST

Released from ice are brook and river
By the quickening glance of the gracious Spring;
The colors of hope to the valley cling,
And weak old Winter himself must shiver,
Withdrawn to the mountains, a crownless king: 
Whence, ever retreating, he sends again
Impotent showers of sleet that darkle
In belts across the green o’ the plain. 
But the sun will permit no white to sparkle;
Everywhere form in development moveth;
He will brighten the world with the tints he loveth,
And, lacking blossoms, blue, yellow, and red,
He takes these gaudy people instead. 
Turn thee about, and from this height
Back on the town direct thy sight. 
Out of the hollow, gloomy gate,
The motley throngs come forth elate: 
Each will the joy of the sunshine hoard,
To honor the Day of the Risen Lord! 
They feel, themselves, their resurrection: 
From the low, dark rooms, scarce habitable;
From the bonds of Work, from Trade’s restriction;
From the pressing weight of roof and gable;
From the narrow, crushing streets and alleys;
From the churches’ solemn and reverend night,
All come forth to the cheerful light. 
How lively, see! the multitude sallies,
Scattering through gardens and fields remote,
While over the river, that broadly dallies,
Dances so many a festive boat;
And overladen, nigh to sinking,
The last full wherry takes the stream. 
Yonder afar, from the hill-paths blinking,
Their clothes are colors that softly gleam. 
I hear the noise of the village, even;
Here is the People’s proper Heaven;
Here high and low contented see! 
Here I am Man,—­dare man to be!

WAGNER

To stroll with you, Sir Doctor, flatters;
’Tis honor, profit, unto me. 
But I, alone, would shun these shallow matters,
Since all that’s coarse provokes my enmity. 
This fiddling, shouting, ten-pin rolling
I hate,—­these noises of the throng: 
They rave, as Satan were their sports controlling. 
And call it mirth, and call it song!

PEASANTS, UNDER THE LINDEN-TREE (Dance and Song.)

All for the dance the shepherd dressed,
In ribbons, wreath, and gayest vest
Himself with care arraying: 
Around the linden lass and lad
Already footed it like mad: 
Hurrah! hurrah! 
Hurrah—­tarara-la! 
The fiddle-bow was playing.

He broke the ranks, no whit afraid,
And with his elbow punched a maid,
Who stood, the dance surveying: 
The buxom wench, she turned and said: 
“Now, you I call a stupid-head!”
Hurrah! hurrah! 
Hurrah—­tarara-la! 
“Be decent while you’re staying!”