Daring the venture,
Glorious the pay!

When the brass trumpet
Summons us loudly,
Joy-ward or death-ward,
On we march proudly.
That is a storming!

Life in its splendor!
Castles and maidens
Both must surrender.
Daring the venture,
Glorious the pay.
There go the soldiers
Marching away!

FAUST _and_ WAGNER.

_Faust_. Spring's warm look has unfettered the fountains,
Brooks go tinkling with silvery feet;
Hope's bright blossoms the valley greet;
Weakly and sickly up the rough mountains
Pale old Winter has made his retreat.
Thence he launches, in sheer despite,
Sleet and hail in impotent showers,
O'er the green lawn as he takes his flight;
But the sun will suffer no white,
Everywhere waking the formative powers,
Living colors he yearns to spread;
Yet, as he finds it too early for flowers,
Gayly dressed people he takes instead.
Look from this height whereon we find us
Back to the town we have left behind us,
Where from the dark and narrow door
Forth a motley multitude pour.
They sun themselves gladly and all are gay,
They celebrate Christ's resurrection to-day.
For have not they themselves arisen?
From smoky huts and hovels and stables,
From labor's bonds and traffic's prison,
From the confinement of roofs and gables,
From many a cramping street and alley,
From churches full of the old world's night,
All have come out to the day's broad light.
See, only see! how the masses sally
Streaming and swarming through gardens and fields
How the broad stream that bathes the valley
Is everywhere cut with pleasure boats' keels,
And that last skiff, so heavily laden,
Almost to sinking, puts off in the stream;
Ribbons and jewels of youngster and maiden
From the far paths of the mountain gleam.
How it hums o'er the fields and clangs from the steeple!
This is the real heaven of the people,
Both great and little are merry and gay,
I am a man, too, I can be, to-day.

_Wagner_. With you, Sir Doctor, to go out walking
Is at all times honor and gain enough;
But to trust myself here alone would be shocking,
For I am a foe to all that is rough.
Fiddling and bowling and screams and laughter
To me are the hatefullest noises on earth;
They yell as if Satan himself were after,
And call it music and call it mirth.

[_Peasants (under the linden). Dance and song._]

The