To-whoo! to-whoo! near, nearer now 65
The sound of song, the rushing throng! 
Are the screech, the lapwing, and the jay,
All awake as if ’twere day? 
See, with long legs and belly wide,
A salamander in the brake! 70
Every root is like a snake,
And along the loose hillside,
With strange contortions through the night,
Curls, to seize or to affright;
And, animated, strong, and many, 75
They dart forth polypus-antennae,
To blister with their poison spume
The wanderer.  Through the dazzling gloom
The many-coloured mice, that thread
The dewy turf beneath our tread, 80
In troops each other’s motions cross,
Through the heath and through the moss;
And, in legions intertangled,
The fire-flies flit, and swarm, and throng,
Till all the mountain depths are spangled. 85

Tell me, shall we go or stay? 
Shall we onward?  Come along! 
Everything around is swept
Forward, onward, far away! 
Trees and masses intercept 90
The sight, and wisps on every side
Are puffed up and multiplied.

NOTES:  48 frowning]fawning 1822. 70 brake 1824; lake 1822.

MEPHISTOPHELES: 
Now vigorously seize my skirt, and gain
This pinnacle of isolated crag. 
One may observe with wonder from this point, 95
How Mammon glows among the mountains.

FAUST: 
Ay—­
And strangely through the solid depth below
A melancholy light, like the red dawn,
Shoots from the lowest gorge of the abyss
Of mountains, lightning hitherward:  there rise 100
Pillars of smoke, here clouds float gently by;
Here the light burns soft as the enkindled air,
Or the illumined dust of golden flowers;
And now it glides like tender colours spreading;
And now bursts forth in fountains from the earth; 105
And now it winds, one torrent of broad light,
Through the far valley with a hundred veins;
And now once more within that narrow corner
Masses itself into intensest splendour. 
And near us, see, sparks spring out of the ground, 110
Like golden sand scattered upon the darkness;
The pinnacles of that black wall of mountains
That hems us in are kindled.

MEPHISTOPHELES: 
Rare:  in faith! 
Does not Sir Mammon gloriously illuminate
His palace for this festival?—­it is 115
A pleasure which you had not known before. 
I spy the boisterous guests already.

FAUST: 
How
The children of the wind rage in the air! 
With what fierce strokes they fall upon my neck!