mine!
Was it not sent to be mine and thine?
Thine, too--'tis thou! Scarce true doth it seem.
Give me thy hand! 'Tis not a dream!
Thy blessed hand!--But ah! there's dampness here!
Go, wipe it off! I fear
There's blood thereon.
Ah God! what hast thou done!
Put up thy sword again;
I pray thee, do!

_Faust_. The past is past--there leave it then,
Thou kill'st me too!

_Margaret_. No, thou must longer tarry!
I'll tell thee how each thou shalt bury;
The places of sorrow
Make ready to-morrow;
Must give the best place to my mother,
The very next to my brother,
Me a little aside,
But make not the space too wide!
And on my right breast let the little one lie.
No one else will be sleeping by me.
Once, to feel _thy_ heart beat nigh me,
Oh, 'twas a precious, a tender joy!
But I shall have it no more--no, never;
I seem to be forcing myself on thee ever,
And thou repelling me freezingly;
And 'tis thou, the same good soul, I see.

_Faust_. If thou feelest 'tis I, then come with me

_Margaret_. Out yonder?

_Faust_. Into the open air.

_Margaret_. If the grave is there,
If death is lurking; then come!
From here to the endless resting-place,
And not another pace--Thou
go'st e'en now? O, Henry, might I too.

_Faust_. Thou canst! 'Tis but to will! The door stands open.

_Margaret_. I dare not go; for me there's no more hoping.
What use to fly? They lie in wait for me.
So wretched the lot to go round begging,
With an evil conscience thy spirit plaguing!
So wretched the lot, an exile roaming--And
then on my heels they are ever coming!

_Faust_. I shall be with thee.

_Margaret_. Make haste! make haste!
No time to waste!
Save thy poor child!
Quick! follow the edge
Of the rushing rill,
Over the bridge
And by the mill,
Then into the woods beyond
On the left where lies the plank
Over the pond.
Seize hold of it quick!
To rise 'tis trying,
It struggles still!
Rescue! rescue!

_Faust_. Bethink thyself, pray!
A single step and thou art free!

_Margaret_. Would we were by the mountain. See!
There sits my mother on a stone,
The sight on my brain is preying!
There sits my mother on a stone,
And her head is constantly swaying;
She beckons not, nods not, her head falls o'er,
So long she's been sleeping, she'll wake no more.
She slept that we might take pleasure.
O that was bliss without measure!

_Faust_. Since neither reason nor prayer thou hearest;
I must venture by force to take thee, dearest.

_Marga