Faust. Stay but one minute, I've scarce seen your face. Speak; you should know the newest of the new. Mephistopheles. I'll answer thee at length some other day; At present, I beseech thee, let me loose. Faust. I laid no trap to snare thee in the way, Thyself didst thrust thy head into the noose; Whoso hath caught the devil, hold him fast! Such lucky chance returns not soon again. Mephistopheles. If 'tis your pleasure so, I will remain, But on condition that the time be passed In worthy wise, and you consent to see Some cunning sleights of spirit-craft from me. Faust. Thy fancy jumps with mine. Thou may'st commence, So that thy dainty tricks but please the sense. Mephistopheles. Thou shalt, in this one hour, my friend, More for thy noblest senses gain, Than in the year's dull formal train, From stale beginning to stale end. The songs the gentle Spirits sing thee, The lovely visions that they bring thee, Are not an empty juggling show. On thine ear sweet sounds shall fall, Odorous breezes round thee blow, Taste, and touch, and senses all With delicious tingling glow. No lengthened prelude need we here, Sing, Spirit-imps that hover near! Spirits. Vanish ye murky Old arches away! Through the cloud curtain That blinds heaven's ray Mild and serenely Look forth the queenly Eye of the day! Star now and starlet Beam more benign, And purer suns now Softlier shine. In beauty ethereal, A swift-moving throng, Of spirits aërial, Are waving along, And the soul follows On wings of desire; The fluttering garlands That deck their attire, Cover the meadows, Cover the bowers, Where lovers with lovers Breathe rapturous hours. Bower on bower! The shoots of the vine, With the leaves of the fig-tree, Their tendrils entwine! Clusters of ripe grapes, Bright-blushing all, Into the wine-press Heavily fall; From fountains divine Bright rivers of wine Come foaming and swirling; O'er gems of the purest, Sparkling and purling, They flow and they broaden In bright vista seen, To deep-bosomed lakes Lightly fringed with the green, Where leafy woods nod In their tremulous sheen. On light-oaring pinions The birds cut the gale, Through the breezy dominions As sunward they sail; They sail on swift wings To the isles of the blest, On the soft swelling waves That are cradled to rest; Where we hear the glad spirits In jubilee sing, As o'er the green meadows Fleet-bounding they spring: With light airy footing, A numberless throng, Like meteors shooting The mountains along; Some there are flinging Their breasts to the seas, Others are swinging In undulant ease, Lovingly twining