A WATTEAU MELODY
Oh, let me take your lily hand, And where the secret star-beams shine Draw near, to see and understand Pierrot and Columbine.
Around the fountains, in the dew, Where afternoon melts into night, With gracious mirth their gracious crew Entice the shy birds of delight.
Of motley dress and masked face, Of sparkling unrevealing eyes, They track in gentle aimless chase The moment as it flies.
Their delicate beribboned rout, Gallant and fair, of light intent, Weaves through the shadows in and out With infinite artful merriment.
Dear lady of the lily hand-- Do then our stars so clearly shine That we, who do not understand, May mock Pierrot and Columbine?
Beyond this garden-grove I see The wise, the n.o.ble, and the brave In ultimate futility Go down into the grave.
And all they dreamed and all they sought, Crumbled and ashen grown, departs; And is as if they had not wrought These works with blood from out their hearts.
The nations fall, the faiths decay, The great philosophies go by-- And life lies bare, some bitter day, A charnel that affronts the sky.
The wise, the n.o.ble, and the brave-- They saw and solved--as we must see And solve--the universal grave, The ultimate futility.
Look--where beside the garden-pool A Venus rises in the grove, More suave, more debonair, more cool Than ever burned with Paphian love.
"Twas here the delicate ribboned rout Of gallants and the fair ones went Among the shadows in and out With infinite artful merriment.
Then let me take your lily hand, And let us tread, where star-beams shine, A dance; and be, and understand Pierrot and Columbine.
FAUST
Splendid! Delightful!
SATAN
You are flattering me.
How did you like it, really?
FAUST
Well, as art I think it splendid; as philosophy, I hardly praise it. "Tis a mood that comes And has its will of us in its own hours-- Yes, irresistibly. But past the hour Wait graver judges. I decline to be, As you suggest delightfully, a fly On the spoiled beer of life. Nor do I lean Toward your ingenious blending of despair, Satiety, and child"s-play.
SATAN
Those who take This att.i.tude, however, swiftly grow The darlings of existence--souls that sip Of every flower the nectar, and are bound Unto no laws or standards, but move free, Viewing all things as relative.... And yet Your special temperament may not prefer Nectar. Those lines of sternness round your mouth Convince me you are right; another cure Better befits you. And a mighty one I set before you, which has ever served As lodestar for all high and glorious minds, All kings of earth, all potentates of thought, All great achievers. Power I offer you-- The one chief prize that all men have desired And shall desire forever.
FAUST
Now you grow Rather more interesting. What do you mean?
A crown and sceptre and a thousand slaves To serve me?
SATAN
Do not jest. I offer you The one sole reservoir where power to-day Lies stored in sleeping cataracts. At noon Come with me into Wall Street; take your stand; Buy, sell, as I direct you; and one hour Shall make you richer than you ever dreamed In madness of desire. For three days more Come there each noon again; at end of these, If you have done my bidding, you shall be Master of the finances of the world, Despot of nations, unto whom the kings And captains of the earth shall kneel to crave Crumbs from the table. Then let pen and sword Forget their quarrel for supremacy; Since you can buy them both, or starve them both, Or cast them to the wilderness! Such power I offer as would make the pulses beat Even of a skeleton!
FAUST
But not a soul Grown sceptical of life. Power? Power? For what?
And over what? And toward what? Not a power Over myself or pain or loneliness Or ignorance or evil; not a strength To bid the near-world cease, and in its place Instate my visions beautiful and pale, Nearer the heart"s desire. No, you would give Power to direct the miseries of men, But not to stay them: power to hold the world As some cold robber-baron from his rocks Once held his little valley: power to sit In ultimate seclusion, and look down On streets and mines and workshops with the sense That I was fountain of the miseries Dark in them all. I thank you; but I think I should derive small sport from such a game.
You see, I am not Satan.
SATAN
Well, you are A subtle one, a shrewd one! On my word, I hardly had suspected you so deep.
What time I have been wasting! Mr. Faust, At last I know you for a prince of men-- A brilliant mind, a high intelligence, A spirit incorruptible. The trash, Baubles and claptrap which the foolish herd s.n.a.t.c.h at, you scoff--and rightly. I will not With one more word of it insult your mind That admirably penetrates to deeps Where I, too, love to dwell. I put aside All trivialities, and frankly say That I can offer you one ultimate gift Fit even for you--a subtle paradise Such as not Hercules mid Western Isles Found in the Garden of Hesperides.
It is a paradise of secret peace, A glorious land of amaranthine bloom; Where happiness, having fled the world, now dwells In shining gladness. Guarded, deep, sublime With lights and shadows, lies it: there have hearts The weariest and the greatest of mankind Found perfect refuge and abiding-place For time and for eternity. To few Its gates are open: it I promise you If you but trust me!
FAUST
But why should I trust you?
If history speaks true, you have deceived All who, since Eve, have put their faith in you.
Further, your paradise could hardly have Joys in it worth the grasping, to my taste.
So pardon me if frankly I admit I doubt your promise.
SATAN
Ah, you are wholly wrong!
I am quite honest with you, now having learned Your true capacity.
FAUST
Perhaps, perhaps.
And yet I must decline.
SATAN
You doubt me still.
But I will prove my utter honesty Beyond contention. In my deepest soul, I know this paradise will serve your need; And to make plain to you my fair intent, I offer you a bargain whose clear terms Must drive your doubts away. I am prepared To pledge myself to be your abject slave And servant for all time if you yourself Do not acknowledge that my paradise Delights you wholly!
FAUST
Well! That _is_ an offer!
SATAN
What could be fairer? You yourself shall judge; And you risk nothing. Ah, your look still doubts!
You have in mind those libellous poets" tales Of bonds inscribed in blood which I exact In payment, and destroy men"s souls! My friend, Have I yet asked you for a bond of blood?
And if I ever do, I give you leave To wring my neck unceremoniously.