Faust. [_entering with the_ /Poodle/.] Now field and meadow lie behind me, Hushed 'neath the veil of deepest night, And thoughts of solemn seeming find me, Too holy for the garish light. Calm now the blood that wildly ran, Asleep the hand of lawless strife; Now wakes to life the love of man, The love of God now wakes to life. Cease, poodle! why snuff'st and snifflest thou so, Running restless to and fro? Behind the stove there lie at rest, And take for bed my cushion the best! And as without, on our mountain-ramble, We joyed to see thy freakish gambol, So here, my hospitable care, A quiet guest, and welcome share. When in our narrow cell confined, The friendly lamp begins to burn, Then clearer sees the thoughtful mind, With searching looks that inward turn. Bright Hope again within us beams, And Reason's voice again is strong, We thirst for life's untroubled streams, For the pure fount of life we long. Quiet thee, poodle! it seems not well To break, with thy growling, the holy spell Of my soul's music, that refuses All fellowship with bestial uses. Full well we know that the human brood, What they don't understand condemn, And murmur in their peevish mood At things too fair and good for them; Belike the cur, as curs are they, Thus growls and snarls his bliss away. But, alas! already I feel it well, No more may peace within this bosom dwell. Why must the stream so soon dry up, And I lie panting for the cup That mocks my lips? so often why Drink pleasure's shallow fount, when scarce yet tasted, dry? Yet is this evil not without remeid; We long for heavenly food to feed Our heaven-born spirit, and the heart, now bent On things divine, to revelation turns, Which nowhere worthier or purer burns, Than here in our New Testament. I feel strange impulse in my soul The sacred volume to unroll, With honest purpose, once for all, The holy Greek Original Into my honest German to translate. [_He opens the Bible and reads._] "In the beginning was the /Word/:" thus here The text stands written; but no clear Meaning shines here for me, and I must wait, A beggar at dark mystery's gate, Lamed in the start of my career. The naked word I dare not prize so high, I must translate it differently, If by the Spirit I am rightly taught. "In the beginning of all things was /Thought/." The first line let me ponder well, Lest my pen outstrip my sense; Is it Thought wherein doth dwell All-creative omnipotence? I change the phrase, and write--the course Of the great stream of things was shaped by /Force/. But even here, before I lift my pen, A voice of warning bids me try again. At length, at length, the Spirit helps my need, I write--"In the beginning was the /Deed/."