Valentin. I tell thee, all thy tears are vain! When with thy honor thou didst part, Thou dealt the blow that pierced my heart. I go through death, with fearless mood, To meet my God, as a soldier should. [_Dies._ Scene IX. _A Cathedral._ _Mass, Organ, and Song._ /Margaret/ _amid a crowd of people,_ /Evil Spirit/ _behind her._ Evil Spirit. How different, Margaret, was thy case, When, in thine innocence, thou didst kneel Before the altar, And from the well-worn book Didst lisp thy prayers, Half childish play, Half God in thy heart! Margaret! Where is thy head? Within thy heart What dire misdeed? Prayest thou for thy mother's soul, whom thou Didst make to sleep a long, long sleep of sorrow? Whose blood is on thy threshold? --And, underneath thy heart, Moves not the swelling germ of life already, And, with its boding presence Thee tortures, and itself? Margaret. Woe, woe! That I might shake away the thoughts, That hither flit and thither, Against me! Quire. _Dies iræ, dies illa,_ _Solvet saeclum in favilla._ [_The organ sounds._ Evil Spirit. Terror doth seize thee! The trumpet sounds! The graves quake! And thy heart, From its rest of ashes, To fiery pain Created again, Quivers to life! Margaret. Would I were hence! I feel as if the organ stopped My breath, And, at the hymn, My inmost heart Melted away! Quire. _Judex ergo cum sedebit,_ _Quidquid latet adparebit,_ _Nil inultum remanebit._ Margaret. I feel so straitened! The pillar shafts Enclasp me round! The vault Is closing o'er me!--Air! Evil Spirit. Yea! let them hide thee! but thy sin and shame No vault can hide! Air? Light? No! Woe on thee! woe! Quire. _Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?_ _Quem patronum rogaturus?_ _Cum vix justus sit securus._ Evil Spirit. The blessèd turn Their looks away, And the pure shudder From touch of thee! Woe! Margaret. Neighbor, help! help! I faint! [_She falls down in a swoon._ /end of act fourth/. ACT V. Scene I. _Walpurgis-Night._ _The Hartz Mountains. Neighborhood of Schirke and Elend._ /Faust/ _and_ /Mephistopheles/. Mephistopheles. Would you not like a broomstick to bestride? Would God I had a stout old goat to ride! The way is long; and I would rather spare me This uphill work. Faust. While my good legs can bear me, This knotted stick will serve my end. What boots it to cut short the way? Through the long labyrinth of vales to wend, These rugged mountain-steeps to climb, And hear the gushing waters' ceaseless chime, No better seasoning on my wish to-day Could wait, to make the Brocken banquet prime! The Spring is waving in the birchen bower, And ev'n the pine begins to feel its power; Shall we alone be strangers to its sway?