_Faustus._ Oh, he, indeed, is happy, who still feels, And cherishes within himself, the hope To lift himself above this sea of errors! Of things we know not, each day do we find The want of knowledge—all we know is useless: But ’tis not wise to sadden with such thoughts This hour of beauty and benignity: Look yonder, with delighted heart and eye, On those low cottages that shine so bright (Each with its garden plot of smiling green), Robed in the glory of the setting sun! But he is parting—fading—day is over— Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life. Oh, for a wing to raise me up from earth, Nearer, and yet more near, to the bright orb, That unrestrained I still might follow him! Then should I see, in one unvarying glow Of deathless evening, the reposing world Beneath me—the hills kindling—the sweet vales, Beyond the hills, asleep in the soft beams The silver streamlet, at the silent touch Of heavenly light, transfigured into gold, Flowing in brightness inexpressible! Nothing to stop or stay my godlike motion! The rugged hill, with its wild cliffs, in vain Would rise to hide the sun; in vain would strive To check my glorious course; the sea already, With its illumined bays, that burn beneath The lord of day, before the astonished eyes Opens its bosom—and he seems at last Just sinking—no—a power unfelt before— An impulse indescribable succeeds! Onward, entranced, I haste to drink the beams Of the unfading light—before me day— And night left still behind—and overhead Wide heaven—and under me the spreading sea!— A glorious vision, while the setting sun Is lingering! Oh, to the spirit’s flight, How faint and feeble are material wings! Yet such our nature is, that when the lark, High over us, unseen in the blue sky Thrills his heart-piercing song, we feel ourselves Press up from earth, as ’twere in rivalry;— And when above the savage hill of pines, The eagle sweeps with outspread wings—and when The crane pursues, high off, his homeward path, Flying o’er watery moors and wide lakes lonely! _Wagner._ I, too, have had my hours of reverie; But impulse such as this I never felt. Of wood and fields the eye will soon grow weary; I’d never envy the wild birds their wings. How different are the pleasures of the mind; Leading from book to book, from leaf to leaf, They make the nights of winter bright and cheerful; They spread a sense of pleasure through the frame, And when you see some old and treasured parchments, All heaven descends to your delighted senses! FRIEDRICH SCHLEGEL.