MARGERY.]

_Evil Spirit_. How different was it with thee, Margy,
When, innocent and artless,
Thou cam'st here to the altar,
From the well-thumbed little prayer-book,
Petitions lisping,
Half full of child's play,
Half full of Heaven!
Margy!
Where are thy thoughts?
What crime is buried
Deep within thy heart?
Prayest thou haply for thy mother, who
Slept over into long, long pain, on thy account?
Whose blood upon thy threshold lies?
--And stirs there not, already
Beneath thy heart a life
Tormenting itself and thee
With bodings of its coming hour?

_Margery_. Woe! Woe!
Could I rid me of the thoughts,
Still through my brain backward and forward flitting,
Against my will!

_Chorus_. Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla.

[_Organ plays_.]

_Evil Spirit_. Wrath smites thee!
Hark! the trumpet sounds!
The graves are trembling!
And thy heart,
Made o'er again
For fiery torments,
Waking from its ashes
Starts up!

_Margery_. Would I were hence!
I feel as if the organ's peal
My breath were stifling,
The choral chant
My heart were melting.

_Chorus_. Judex ergo cum sedebit,
Quidquid latet apparebit.
Nil inultum remanebit.

_Margery_. How cramped it feels!
The walls and pillars
Imprison me!
And the arches
Crush me!--Air!

_Evil Spirit_. What! hide thee! sin and shame
Will not be hidden!
Air? Light?
Woe's thee!

_Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus?
Cum vix justus sit securus.

_Evil Spirit_. They turn their faces,
The glorified, from thee.
To take thy hand, the pure ones
Shudder with horror.
Woe!

_Chorus_. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?

_Margery_. Neighbor! your phial!--
[_She swoons._]

WALPURGIS NIGHT.[32]

_Harz Mountains._

_District of Schirke and Elend._

FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES.

_Mephistopheles_. Wouldst thou not like a broomstick, now, to ride on?
At this rate we are, still, a long way off;
I'd rather have a good tough goat, by half,
Than the best legs a man e'er set his pride on.

_Faust_. So long as I've a pair of good fresh legs to stride on,
Enough for me this knotty staff.
What use of shortening the way!
Following the valley's labyrinthine winding,
Then up this rock a pathway finding,
From which the spring leaps down in bubbling play,
That is what spices such a walk, I say!
Spring through the birch-tree's veins is flowing,
The very pine is feeling it;
Should not its influence