All with life teem, While the sweet stars above Blissfully gleam. V. MARGARET AT HER SPINNING-WHEEL. MY heart is sad, My peace is o'er; I find it never And nevermore. When gone is he, The grave I see; The world's wide all Is turned to gall. Alas, my head Is well-nigh crazed; My feeble mind Is sore amazed. My heart is sad, My peace is o'er; I find it never And nevermore. For him from the window Alone I spy; For him alone From home go I. His lofty step, His noble form, His mouth's sweet smile, His glances warm, His voice so fraught With magic bliss, His hand's soft pressure, And, ah, his kiss! My heart is sad, My peace is o'er; I find it never And nevermore. My bosom yearns For his form so fair; Ah, could I clasp him And hold him there! My kisses sweet Should stop his breath, And 'neath his kisses I'd sink in death! VI. SCENE--A GARDEN, Margaret. Faust. MARGARET. DOST thou believe in God? FAUST. Doth mortal live Who dares to say that he believes in God? Go, bid the priest a truthful answer give, Go, ask the wisest who on earth e'er trod,-- Their answer will appear to be Given alone in mockery. MARGARET. Then thou dost not believe? This sayest thou? FAUST. Sweet love, mistake not what I utter now! Who knows His name? Who dares proclaim:-- Him I believe? Who so can feel His heart to steel To sari believe Him not? The All-Embracer, The All-Sustained, Holds and sustains He not Thee, me, Himself? Hang not the heavens their arch overhead? Lies not the earth beneath us, firm? Gleam not with kindly glances Eternal stars on high? Looks not mine eye deep into thine? And do not all things Crowd on thy head and heart, And round thee twine, in mystery eterne, Invisible, yet visible? Fill, then, thy heart, however vast, with this, And when the feeling perfecteth thy bliss, O, call it what thou wilt, Call it joy! heart! love! God! No name for it I know! 'Tis feeling all--nought else; Name is but sound and smoke, Obscuring heaven's bright glow. VII. MARGARET, Placing fresh flowers in the flower-pots. O THOU well-tried in grief, Grant to thy child relief, And view with mercy this unhappy one! The sword within thy heart, Speechless with bitter smart, Thou Lookest up towards thy dying son. Thou look'st to God on high, And breathest many a sigh O'er his and thy distress, thou holy One! Who e'er can know The depth of woe Piercing my very bone? The sorrows that my bosom fill, Its trembling, its aye-yearning will, Are known to thee, to thee alone! Wherever I may go, With woe, with woe, with woe, My bosom sad is aching! I scarce alone can creep, I weep, I weep, I weep, My very heart is breaking. The flowers at my window My falling tears bedewed, When I, at dawn of morning, For thee these flow'rets strewed. When early to my chamber The cheerful sunbeams stole, I sat upon my pallet, In agony of soul. Help! rescue me from death and misery! Oh, thou well-tried in grief,