o her is close and drear.
Her thoughts are on thy image only,
She holds thee, past all utterance, dear.
At first thy passion came bounding and rushing
Like a brooklet o'erflowing with melted snow and rain;
Into her heart thou hast poured it gushing:
And now thy brooklet's dry again.
Methinks, thy woodland throne resigning,
'Twould better suit so great a lord
The poor young monkey to reward
For all the love with which she's pining.
She finds the time dismally long;
Stands at the window, sees the clouds on high
Over the old town-wall go by.
"Were I a little bird!"[26] so runneth her song
All the day, half the night long.
At times she'll be laughing, seldom smile,
At times wept-out she'll seem,
Then again tranquil, you'd deem,--
Lovesick all the while.

_Faust_. Viper! Viper!

_Mephistopheles_ [_aside_]. Ay! and the prey grows riper!

_Faust_. Reprobate! take thee far behind me!
No more that lovely woman name!
Bid not desire for her sweet person flame
Through each half-maddened sense, again to blind me!

_Mephistopheles_. What then's to do? She fancies thou hast flown,
And more than half she's right, I own.

_Faust_. I'm near her, and, though far away, my word,
I'd not forget her, lose her; never fear it!
I envy e'en the body of the Lord,
Oft as those precious lips of hers draw near it.

_Mephistopheles_. No doubt; and oft my envious thought reposes
On the twin-pair that feed among the roses.

_Faust_. Out, pimp!

_Mephistopheles_. Well done! Your jeers I find fair game for laughter.
The God, who made both lad and lass,
Unwilling for a bungling hand to pass,
Made opportunity right after.
But come! fine cause for lamentation!
Her chamber is your destination,
And not the grave, I guess.

_Faust_. What are the joys of heaven while her fond arms enfold me?
O let her kindling bosom hold me!
Feel I not always her distress?
The houseless am I not? the unbefriended?
The monster without aim or rest?
That, like a cataract, from rock to rock descended
To the abyss, with maddening greed possest:
She, on its brink, with childlike thoughts and lowly,--
Perched on the little Alpine field her cot,--
This narrow world, so still and holy
Ensphering, like a heaven, her lot.
And I, God's hatred daring,
Could not be content
The rocks all headlong bearing,
By me to ruins rent,--
Her, yea her peace, must I o'erwhelm and bury!
This victim, hell, to thee was necessary!
Help me, thou fiend, the pang soon ending!
Wha