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- <h1 class="testTitle">Rich Text Test</h1>
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- <div style="border: 1px dotted black;">
- <h3>test case for bug #6112</h3>
- <textarea dojoType="dijit._editor.RichText" id="editor1"
- styleSheets="../../../dojo/resources/dojo.css">
-<p>
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Faust, by Goethe
-</p>
-<p>
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
-
-</p>
-<p>
-
-Title: Faust
-
-</p>
-<p>
-Author: Goethe
-
-</p>
-<p>
-Release Date: December 25, 2004 [EBook #14460]
-
-</p>
-<p>
-Language: English
-
-</p>
-<p>
-Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
-
-</p>
-<p>
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAUST ***
-</p>
-<p>
-Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Bidwell and the PG Online
-Distributed Proofreading Team
-
-</p>
-<p>
-<h1> FAUST </h1>
-<h2>A TRAGEDY</h2>
-
-<h5>
-TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
-<br>
-OF
-<br>
-GOETHE
-
-<br>
-
-WITH NOTES
-
-<br>
-BY
-
-<br>
-CHARLES T BROOKS
-
-<br>
-
-SEVENTH EDITION.
-
-<br>
-BOSTON
-<br>
-TICKNOR AND FIELDS
-
-<br>
-MDCCCLXVIII.
-</h5>
-
-
-
-<p>
-
-Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856,
-by CHARLES T. BROOKS,
-In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
-of the District of Rhode Island.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-UNIVERSITY PRESS:
-WELCH, BIGELOW, AND COMPANY,
-CAMBRIDGE.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-
-
-
-TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-
-Perhaps some apology ought to be given to English scholars, that is, those
-who do not know German, (to those, at least, who do not know what sort of
-a thing Faust is in the original,) for offering another translation to the
-public, of a poem which has been already translated, not only in a literal
-prose form, but also, twenty or thirty times, in metre, and sometimes with
-great spirit, beauty, and power.
-</p>
-<p>
-
-The author of the present version, then, has no knowledge that a rendering
-of this wonderful poem into the exact and ever-changing metre of the
-original has, until now, been so much as attempted. To name only one
-defect, the very best versions which he has seen neglect to follow the
-exquisite artist in the evidently planned and orderly intermixing of
-_male_ and _female_ rhymes, _i.e._ rhymes which fall on the last syllable
-and those which fall on the last but one. Now, every careful student of
-the versification of Faust must feel and see that Goethe did not
-intersperse the one kind of rhyme with the other, at random, as those
-translators do; who, also, give the female rhyme (on which the vivacity of
-dialogue and description often so much depends,) in so small a proportion.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-A similar criticism might be made of their liberty in neglecting Goethe's
-method of alternating different measures with each other.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-It seems as if, in respect to metre, at least, they had asked themselves,
-how would Goethe have written or shaped this in English, had that been his
-native language, instead of seeking _con amore_ (and _con fidelità_) as
-they should have done, to reproduce, both in spirit and in form, the
-movement, so free and yet orderly, of the singularly endowed and
-accomplished poet whom they undertook to represent.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-As to the objections which Hayward and some of his reviewers have
-instituted in advance against the possibility of a good and faithful
-metrical translation of a poem like Faust, they seem to the present
-translator full of paradox and sophistry. For instance, take this
-assertion of one of the reviewers: "The sacred and mysterious union of
-thought with verse, twin-born and immortally wedded from the moment of
-their common birth, can never be understood by those who desire verse
-translations of good poetry." If the last part of this statement had read
-"by those who can be contented with _prose_ translations of good poetry,"
-the position would have been nearer the truth. This much we might well
-admit, that, if the alternative were either to have a poem like Faust in a
-metre different and glaringly different from the original, or to have it
-in simple and strong prose, then the latter alternative would be the one
-every tasteful and feeling scholar would prefer; but surely to every one
-who can read the original or wants to know how this great song _sung
-itself_ (as Carlyle says) out of Goethe's soul, a mere prose rendering
-must be, comparatively, a _corpus mortuum._
-
-</p>
-<p>
-The translator most heartily dissents from Hayward's assertion that a
-translator of Faust "must sacrifice either metre or meaning." At least he
-flatters himself that he has made, in the main, (not a compromise between
-meaning and melody, though in certain instances he may have fallen into
-that, but) a combination of the meaning with the melody, which latter is
-so important, so vital a part of the lyric poem's meaning, in any worthy
-sense. "No poetic translation," says Hayward's reviewer, already quoted,
-"can give the rhythm and rhyme of the original; it can only substitute the
-rhythm and rhyme of the translator." One might just as well say "no
-_prose_ translation can give the _sense and spirit_ of the original; it
-can only substitute the _sense and spirit of the words and phrases of the
-translator's language_;" and then, these two assertions balancing each
-other, there will remain in the metrical translator's favor, that he may
-come as near to giving both the letter and the spirit, as the effects of
-the Babel dispersion will allow.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-As to the original creation, which he has attempted here to reproduce, the
-translator might say something, but prefers leaving his readers to the
-poet himself, as revealed in the poem, and to the various commentaries of
-which we have some accounts, at least, in English. A French translator of
-the poem speaks in his introduction as follows: "This Faust, conceived by
-him in his youth, completed in ripe age, the idea of which he carried with
-him through all the commotions of his life, as Camoens bore his poem with
-him through the waves, this Faust contains him entire. The thirst for
-knowledge and the martyrdom of doubt, had they not tormented his early
-years? Whence came to him the thought of taking refuge in a supernatural
-realm, of appealing to invisible powers, which plunged him, for a
-considerable time, into the dreams of Illuminati and made him even invent
-a religion? This irony of Mephistopheles, who carries on so audacious a
-game with the weakness and the desires of man, is it not the mocking,
-scornful side of the poet's spirit, a leaning to sullenness, which can be
-traced even into the earliest years of his life, a bitter leaven thrown
-into a strong soul forever by early satiety? The character of Faust
-especially, the man whose burning, untiring heart can neither enjoy
-fortune nor do without it, who gives himself unconditionally and watches
-himself with mistrust, who unites the enthusiasm of passion and the
-dejectedness of despair, is not this an eloquent opening up of the most
-secret and tumultuous part of the poet's soul? And now, to complete the
-image of his inner life, he has added the transcendingly sweet person of
-Margaret, an exalted reminiscence of a young girl, by whom, at the age of
-fourteen, he thought himself beloved, whose image ever floated round him,
-and has contributed some traits to each of his heroines. This heavenly
-surrender of a simple, good, and tender heart contrasts wonderfully with
-the sensual and gloomy passion of the lover, who, in the midst of his
-love-dreams, is persecuted by the phantoms of his imagination and by the
-nightmares of thought, with those sorrows of a soul, which is crushed, but
-not extinguished, which is tormented by the invincible want of happiness
-and the bitter feeling, how hard a thing it is to receive or to bestow."
-
-</p>
-<p>
-
-
-
-DEDICATION.[1]
-
-</p>
-<p>
-Once more ye waver dreamily before me,
-Forms that so early cheered my troubled eyes!
-To hold you fast doth still my heart implore me?
-Still bid me clutch the charm that lures and flies?
-Ye crowd around! come, then, hold empire o'er me,
-As from the mist and haze of thought ye rise;
-The magic atmosphere, your train enwreathing,
-Through my thrilled bosom youthful bliss is breathing.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-Ye bring with you the forms of hours Elysian,
-And shades of dear ones rise to meet my gaze;
-First Love and Friendship steal upon my vision
-Like an old tale of legendary days;
-Sorrow renewed, in mournful repetition,
-Runs through life's devious, labyrinthine ways;
-And, sighing, names the good (by Fortune cheated
-Of blissful hours!) who have before me fleeted.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-These later songs of mine, alas! will never
-Sound in their ears to whom the first were sung!
-Scattered like dust, the friendly throng forever!
-Mute the first echo that so grateful rung!
-To the strange crowd I sing, whose very favor
-Like chilling sadness on my heart is flung;
-And all that kindled at those earlier numbers
-Roams the wide earth or in its bosom slumbers.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-And now I feel a long-unwonted yearning
-For that calm, pensive spirit-realm, to-day;
-Like an Aeolian lyre, (the breeze returning,)
-Floats in uncertain tones my lisping lay;
-Strange awe comes o'er me, tear on tear falls burning,
-The rigid heart to milder mood gives way!
-What I possess I see afar off lying,
-And what I lost is real and undying.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-
-
-
-PRELUDE
-
-</p>
-<p>
-IN THE THEATRE.
-
-
-</p>
-<p>
- _Manager. Dramatic Poet. Merry Person._
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Manager_. You who in trouble and distress
-Have both held fast your old allegiance,
-What think ye? here in German regions
-Our enterprise may hope success?
-To please the crowd my purpose has been steady,
-Because they live and let one live at least.
-The posts are set, the boards are laid already,
-And every one is looking for a feast.
-They sit, with lifted brows, composed looks wearing,
-Expecting something that shall set them staring.
-I know the public palate, that's confest;
-Yet never pined so for a sound suggestion;
-True, they are not accustomed to the best,
-But they have read a dreadful deal, past question.
-How shall we work to make all fresh and new,
-Acceptable and profitable, too?
-For sure I love to see the torrent boiling,
-When towards our booth they crowd to find a place,
-Now rolling on a space and then recoiling,
-Then squeezing through the narrow door of grace:
-Long before dark each one his hard-fought station
-In sight of the box-office window takes,
-And as, round bakers' doors men crowd to escape starvation,
-For tickets here they almost break their necks.
-This wonder, on so mixed a mass, the Poet
-Alone can work; to-day, my friend, O, show it!
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Poet_. Oh speak not to me of that motley ocean,
-Whose roar and greed the shuddering spirit chill!
-Hide from my sight that billowy commotion
-That draws us down the whirlpool 'gainst our will.
-No, lead me to that nook of calm devotion,
-Where blooms pure joy upon the Muses' hill;
-Where love and friendship aye create and cherish,
-With hand divine, heart-joys that never perish.
-Ah! what, from feeling's deepest fountain springing,
-Scarce from the stammering lips had faintly passed,
-Now, hopeful, venturing forth, now shyly clinging,
-To the wild moment's cry a prey is cast.
-Oft when for years the brain had heard it ringing
-It comes in full and rounded shape at last.
-What shines, is born but for the moment's pleasure;
-The genuine leaves posterity a treasure.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Merry Person_. Posterity! I'm sick of hearing of it;
-Supposing I the future age would profit,
-Who then would furnish ours with fun?
-For it must have it, ripe and mellow;
-The presence of a fine young fellow,
-Is cheering, too, methinks, to any one.
-Whoso can pleasantly communicate,
-Will not make war with popular caprices,
-For, as the circle waxes great,
-The power his word shall wield increases.
-Come, then, and let us now a model see,
-Let Phantasy with all her various choir,
-Sense, reason, passion, sensibility,
-But, mark me, folly too! the scene inspire.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Manager_. But the great point is action! Every one
-Comes as spectator, and the show's the fun.
-Let but the plot be spun off fast and thickly,
-So that the crowd shall gape in broad surprise,
-Then have you made a wide impression quickly,
-You are the man they'll idolize.
-The mass can only be impressed by masses;
-Then each at last picks out his proper part.
-Give much, and then to each one something passes,
-And each one leaves the house with happy heart.
-Have you a piece, give it at once in pieces!
-Such a ragout your fame increases;
-It costs as little pains to play as to invent.
-But what is gained, if you a whole present?
-Your public picks it presently to pieces.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Poet_. You do not feel how mean a trade like that must be!
-In the true Artist's eyes how false and hollow!
-Our genteel botchers, well I see,
-Have given the maxims that you follow.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Manager_. Such charges pass me like the idle wind;
-A man who has right work in mind
-Must choose the instruments most fitting.
-Consider what soft wood you have for splitting,
-And keep in view for whom you write!
-If this one from _ennui_ seeks flight,
-That other comes full from the groaning table,
-Or, the worst case of all to cite,
-From reading journals is for thought unable.
-Vacant and giddy, all agog for wonder,
-As to a masquerade they wing their way;
-The ladies give themselves and all their precious plunder
-And without wages help us play.
-On your poetic heights what dream comes o'er you?
-What glads a crowded house? Behold
-Your patrons in array before you!
-One half are raw, the other cold.
-One, after this play, hopes to play at cards,
-One a wild night to spend beside his doxy chooses,
-Poor fools, why court ye the regards,
-For such a set, of the chaste muses?
-I tell you, give them more and ever more and more,
-And then your mark you'll hardly stray from ever;
-To mystify be your endeavor,
-To satisfy is labor sore....
-What ails you? Are you pleased or pained? What notion----
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Poet_. Go to, and find thyself another slave!
-What! and the lofty birthright Nature gave,
-The noblest talent Heaven to man has lent,
-Thou bid'st the Poet fling to folly's ocean!
-How does he stir each deep emotion?
-How does he conquer every element?
-But by the tide of song that from his bosom springs,
-And draws into his heart all living things?
-When Nature's hand, in endless iteration,
-The thread across the whizzing spindle flings,
-When the complex, monotonous creation
-Jangles with all its million strings:
-Who, then, the long, dull series animating,
-Breaks into rhythmic march the soulless round?
-And, to the law of All each member consecrating,
-Bids one majestic harmony resound?
-Who bids the tempest rage with passion's power?
-The earnest soul with evening-redness glow?
-Who scatters vernal bud and summer flower
-Along the path where loved ones go?
-Who weaves each green leaf in the wind that trembles
-To form the wreath that merit's brow shall crown?
-Who makes Olympus fast? the gods assembles?
-The power of manhood in the Poet shown.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Merry Person_. Come, then, put forth these noble powers,
-And, Poet, let thy path of flowers
-Follow a love-adventure's winding ways.
-One comes and sees by chance, one burns, one stays,
-And feels the gradual, sweet entangling!
-The pleasure grows, then comes a sudden jangling,
-Then rapture, then distress an arrow plants,
-And ere one dreams of it, lo! _there_ is a romance.
-Give us a drama in this fashion!
-Plunge into human life's full sea of passion!
-Each lives it, few its meaning ever guessed,
-Touch where you will, 'tis full of interest.
-Bright shadows fleeting o'er a mirror,
-A spark of truth and clouds of error,
-By means like these a drink is brewed
-To cheer and edify the multitude.
-The fairest flower of the youth sit listening
-Before your play, and wait the revelation;
-Each melancholy heart, with soft eyes glistening,
-Draws sad, sweet nourishment from your creation;
-This passion now, now that is stirred, by turns,
-And each one sees what in his bosom burns.
-Open alike, as yet, to weeping and to laughter,
-They still admire the flights, they still enjoy the show;
-Him who is formed, can nothing suit thereafter;
-The yet unformed with thanks will ever glow.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Poet_. Ay, give me back the joyous hours,
-When I myself was ripening, too,
-When song, the fount, flung up its showers
-Of beauty ever fresh and new.
-When a soft haze the world was veiling,
-Each bud a miracle bespoke,
-And from their stems a thousand flowers I broke,
-Their fragrance through the vales exhaling.
-I nothing and yet all possessed,
-Yearning for truth and in illusion blest.
-Give me the freedom of that hour,
-The tear of joy, the pleasing pain,
-Of hate and love the thrilling power,
-Oh, give me back my youth again!
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Merry Person_. Youth, my good friend, thou needest certainly
-When ambushed foes are on thee springing,
-When loveliest maidens witchingly
-Their white arms round thy neck are flinging,
-When the far garland meets thy glance,
-High on the race-ground's goal suspended,
-When after many a mazy dance
-In drink and song the night is ended.
-But with a free and graceful soul
-To strike the old familiar lyre,
-And to a self-appointed goal
-Sweep lightly o'er the trembling wire,
-There lies, old gentlemen, to-day
-Your task; fear not, no vulgar error blinds us.
-Age does not make us childish, as they say,
-But we are still true children when it finds us.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Manager_. Come, words enough you two have bandied,
-Now let us see some deeds at last;
-While you toss compliments full-handed,
-The time for useful work flies fast.
-Why talk of being in the humor?
-Who hesitates will never be.
-If you are poets (so says rumor)
-Now then command your poetry.
-You know full well our need and pleasure,
-We want strong drink in brimming measure;
-Brew at it now without delay!
-To-morrow will not do what is not done to-day.
-Let not a day be lost in dallying,
-But seize the possibility
-Right by the forelock, courage rallying,
-And forth with fearless spirit sallying,--
-Once in the yoke and you are free.
- Upon our German boards, you know it,
-What any one would try, he may;
-Then stint me not, I beg, to-day,
-In scenery or machinery, Poet.
-With great and lesser heavenly lights make free,
-Spend starlight just as you desire;
-No want of water, rocks or fire
-Or birds or beasts to you shall be.
-So, in this narrow wooden house's bound,
-Stride through the whole creation's round,
-And with considerate swiftness wander
-From heaven, through this world, to the world down yonder.
-
-
-</p>
-<p>
-
-
- PROLOGUE
-
-</p>
-<p>
-
- IN HEAVEN.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-
-[THE LORD. THE HEAVENLY HOSTS _afterward_ MEPHISTOPHELES.
-_The three archangels_, RAPHAEL, GABRIEL, _and_ MICHAEL, _come forward_.]
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Raphael_. The sun, in ancient wise, is sounding,
- With brother-spheres, in rival song;
-And, his appointed journey rounding,
- With thunderous movement rolls along.
-His look, new strength to angels lending,
- No creature fathom can for aye;
-The lofty works, past comprehending,
- Stand lordly, as on time's first day.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Gabriel_. And swift, with wondrous swiftness fleeting,
- The pomp of earth turns round and round,
-The glow of Eden alternating
- With shuddering midnight's gloom profound;
-Up o'er the rocks the foaming ocean
- Heaves from its old, primeval bed,
-And rocks and seas, with endless motion,
- On in the spheral sweep are sped.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Michael_. And tempests roar, glad warfare waging,
- From sea to land, from land to sea,
-And bind round all, amidst their raging,
- A chain of giant energy.
-There, lurid desolation, blazing,
- Foreruns the volleyed thunder's way:
-Yet, Lord, thy messengers[2] are praising
- The mild procession of thy day.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_All Three_. The sight new strength to angels lendeth,
- For none thy being fathom may,
-The works, no angel comprehendeth,
- Stand lordly as on time's first day.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Mephistopheles_. Since, Lord, thou drawest near us once again,
-And how we do, dost graciously inquire,
-And to be pleased to see me once didst deign,
-I too among thy household venture nigher.
-Pardon, high words I cannot labor after,
-Though the whole court should look on me with scorn;
-My pathos certainly would stir thy laughter,
-Hadst thou not laughter long since quite forsworn.
-Of sun and worlds I've nought to tell worth mention,
-How men torment themselves takes my attention.
-The little God o' the world jogs on the same old way
-And is as singular as on the world's first day.
-A pity 'tis thou shouldst have given
-The fool, to make him worse, a gleam of light from heaven;
-He calls it reason, using it
-To be more beast than ever beast was yet.
-He seems to me, (your grace the word will pardon,)
-Like a long-legg'd grasshopper in the garden,
-Forever on the wing, and hops and sings
-The same old song, as in the grass he springs;
-Would he but stay there! no; he needs must muddle
-His prying nose in every puddle.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_The Lord_. Hast nothing for our edification?
-Still thy old work of accusation?
-Will things on earth be never right for thee?
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Mephistopheles_. No, Lord! I find them still as bad as bad can be.
-Poor souls! their miseries seem so much to please 'em,
-I scarce can find it in my heart to tease 'em.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_The Lord_. Knowest thou Faust?
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Mephistopheles_. The Doctor?
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_The Lord_. Ay, my servant!
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Mephistopheles_. He!
-Forsooth! he serves you in a famous fashion;
-No earthly meat or drink can feed his passion;
-Its grasping greed no space can measure;
-Half-conscious and half-crazed, he finds no rest;
-The fairest stars of heaven must swell his treasure.
-Each highest joy of earth must yield its zest,
-Not all the world--the boundless azure--
-Can fill the void within his craving breast.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_The Lord_. He serves me somewhat darkly, now, I grant,
-Yet will he soon attain the light of reason.
-Sees not the gardener, in the green young plant,
-That bloom and fruit shall deck its coming season?
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Mephistopheles_. What will you bet? You'll surely lose your wager!
-If you will give me leave henceforth,
-To lead him softly on, like an old stager.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_The Lord_. So long as he shall live on earth,
-Do with him all that you desire.
-Man errs and staggers from his birth.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Mephistopheles_. Thank you; I never did aspire
-To have with dead folk much transaction.
-In full fresh cheeks I take the greatest satisfaction.
-A corpse will never find me in the house;
-I love to play as puss does with the mouse.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_The Lord_. All right, I give thee full permission!
-Draw down this spirit from its source,
-And, canst thou catch him, to perdition
-Carry him with thee in thy course,
-But stand abashed, if thou must needs confess,
-That a good man, though passion blur his vision,
-Has of the right way still a consciousness.
-
-</p>
-<p>
-_Mephistopheles_. Good! but I'll make it a short story.
-About my wager I'm by no means sorry.
-And if I gain my end with glory
-Allow me to exult from a full breast.
-Dust shall he eat and that with zest,
-Like my old aunt, the snake, whose fame is hoary.
-</p>
-<p>
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-_The Lord_. Well, go and come, and make thy trial;
-The like of thee I never yet did hate.
-Of all the spirits of denial
-The scamp is he I best can tolerate.
-Man is too prone, at best, to seek the way that's easy,
-He soon grows fond of unconditioned rest;
-And therefore such a comrade suits him best,
-Who spurs and works, true devil, always busy.
-But you, true sons of God, in growing measure,
-Enjoy rich beauty's living stores of pleasure!
-The Word[3] divine that lives and works for aye,
-Fold you in boundless love's embrace alluring,
-And what in floating vision glides away,
-That seize ye and make fast with thoughts enduring.
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-[_Heaven closes, the archangels disperse._]
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-_Mephistopheles. [Alone.]_ I like at times to exchange with him a word,
-And take care not to break with him. 'Tis civil
-In the old fellow[4] and so great a Lord
-To talk so kindly with the very devil.
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projects / eow / blobdiff