Prologue in Heaven - Goethe's Faust rendered into English Verse

In the Prologue in Heaven Mephistopheles (the "devil") and The Lord discuss the fate of Faust.

PROLOGUE IN HEAVEN

The Lord. The Heavenly Hosts. Later Mephistopheles. Three Archangels come forward.

RAPHAEL

In ways of old the sun sounds forth,

Where brother spheres as rivals sing,

Full-ending his pre-written course

With far-resounding thundering.

His aspect gives the angels might,

Though none may fathom his foundation.

Works, great beyond thought’s grasp, are bright

As on the first day of creation.

GABRIEL

And swiftly, swift beyond all grasping,

There spins the splendour of earth's light-

A paradise of brightness passing

To dark and shiver-filled, deep night.

And in broad streams up-foams the ocean

Upon the rocks' deep-founded base;

And rock and sea sweep on in motion

In planets' swift eternal race.

MICHAEL

And tempests roar in rivalry

From sea to land, from land to sea;

In fury forge wide chains that flare

With deepest working through the air.

There flashing desolations sear

The path before the thunder play;

Yet Lord, Your messengers revere

The gentle changes of Your day.

ALL THREE

This aspect gives the angels might,

While none may fathom Your foundation.

And all of Your high works are bright

As on the first day of creation.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Since You, O Lord, once again draw near

To ask how things are going down with us,

And since You used to like to see me, here

Am I where all Your household helpers fuss.

Please pardon, but I can't work high-worded styles,

Though all this circle mock and scoff.

I'm sure, my pathos would just make You laugh,

Had You not sworn off laughing this long while.

I've nothing grand to spout of sun and worlds,

I only see that humans plague themselves.

The world's small god is still the same, old way-

As deeply strange as on the dawn of its first day.

They'd lead a somewhat better life

If you'd withheld a seeming sheen of heaven's light.

They call it reason, merely using this

To be more bestial than any beast.

It seems, please pardon if it's impolite,

That his is that long-legged* grasshopper's plight,        (*legged one syllable not leggéd)

That tries to fly yet springs along

And in the grasses sings the same, old song.

Yet would he only lie within the grasses!

He pokes his nose in any poo he passes.

THE LORD

You've nothing further but this strain?

Come you but ever to complain?

Is nothing on the earth now ever right by you?

MEPHISTOPHELES

No, Lord! I find it there, as ever, bad right through.

I feel so saddened by the wretched lives of men

That even I am loath to torment them.

THE LORD

Do you know Faust?

MEPHISTOPHELES

The doctor?

THE LORD

My servant.

MEPHISTOPHELES

In truth, his way of serving's strange enough!

That madcap's drink and food's not earthly stuff.

His ferment urges him afar.

He's half-aware of his own craziness.

From heaven he demands the highest stars

And from the earth all highest happiness.

Yet nothing, from both near and far,

Can calm deep trouble brewing in his breast.

THE LORD

If He but serves Me in confusion's night,

Soon I shall lead him into greater light.

The gardener knows, although the sapling's green,

In coming years the flower and fruit are seen.

MEPHISTOPHELES

What will you bet? You'll still lose him I say

As long as I may have your leave

To lead him gently down my way.

THE LORD

As long as he's on earth alive

You're not forbidden to go ahead.

The human errs while yet it strives.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Thanks there. For never towards the dead

Have I a bias, so to speak.

For most of all I love the full, fresh cheek.

If corpses call, I'm not at home that day.

A cat upon a mouse, that's how I play.

THE LORD

Very well. Then you may have your day.

So drag his spirit from its ancient spring

And lead, if you can seize and cling,

Off there upon your downward way.

Then stand ashamed when finally you say,

A good man, with a dim, impulsive force,

Is well aware of rightly-rising course.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Good. Fine. And little time I'll take,

No fear I'll lose this bet. And for my sake,

When I attain my aim, my stake,

You'll let my heart fill with triumphant might.

Dust he'll devour and with delight,

Just like my cousin, the famous snake.

THE LORD

There too you may appear as free.

Your type has never had My hate.

Of all the spirits that deny, for Me

The roguish knave is least of weight.

The human's doing all too lightly slips to dream

And soon loves unconditional rest. Therefore

I'm pleased to partner them with one who's sure

To work and goad, with active devil-scheme.

But you, true sons of God, delight

In rich and vibrant beauty's sight.

May-Coming-To-Being, that ever works and lives,

Encompass you with gracious bounds of love.

And what's afloat in shimmering sheen-creation

Hold fast with lasting contemplation.

THE HEAVENS CLOSE, THE ARCHANGELS SEPARATE

MEPHISTOPHELES (ALONE)

I like to see the Old One from time to time;

And take pains not to break with Him. From the level

Of such a Great Lord, it is rather fine

To speak so humanly with the very devil.

Prelude in the Theatre from Goethe's Faust- English version Mark Scrivener

After the Dedication comes the Prelude in the Theatre. Three characters- the Director, the Comic Actor, and the Poet represent the viewpoints of the director/manager, the writer/poet, and the performer/comic in discussing the role of theatre and entertainment. The last lines of the director lead us on into the play which will start with a Prologue in Heaven.

PRELUDE IN THE THEATRE

Director. Theatre Poet. Comic Actor.

DIRECTOR

You both who have so often stood by me

In trials of need and trouble’s sting,

What hopes for this, our venturing

Have you this time in Germany?

Great is my wish to please the multitude,

Especially since they live and let us live.

The posts are in, the seats are set up true,

And all look to a feast from what we give.

They sit already with their eyebrows raised;

Relaxed there now, they'd like to be amazed.

I know what reconciles the people, yet

I've never felt in such a tricky spot.

I know they're not accustomed to the best;

Although it's true they've read a frightful lot.

How shall we act so all is fresh and new,

With meaning's depth and yet so pleasing too?

For frankly I like seeing crowds stream in,

Surge towards our booth, and press into the place,

With powerful, repeating labouring,

On past the narrow portal way of grace.

In bright day, even earlier than four,

Up to the ticket box they fight and kick,

And as for bread, in famine, at the baker's door,

To get a ticket almost break a neck.

Only the poet works this wonder way

On many different folk; friend, do it today!

POET

Don't speak of that most motley mass to me,

For at the very sight our spirits fly.

Keep surging crowds concealed, that contrary

Of our will leads us to the whirlpool's eye.

No, bring me to a corner of calm heaven,

The only place a poet's joy will blossom,

Where love and friendship nurture and create,

With godlike hand, the blessings on the heart.

What's issued from our heart's own deeper powers,

And shyly stammered on our lips in quiet,

A failure or perhaps success of ours,

Is swallowed up by one wild moment's might.

It often goes for years before it flowers,

Appearing in its finished form. The light

Of glitter's born but for the moment's stages;

What's genuine's preserved for coming ages.

COMIC ACTOR

Don't give that coming ages stuff to me.

If all I talked of was posterity

Who's give the present world its fun?

It wants it and it will have it too.

The presence of a good, stout lad, look you,

Is something too, when all is done.

He who's at home, imparting all with ease,

Won't be a victim of the people's whim.
He wants a great, big circle please,

So he's more certain of impressing them.

Let it be good, your best in perfect fashion.

Let's have imagination, with all its chorus,

The understanding, reason, feeling, passion-

But mind! Don't leave out folly for us!

DIRECTOR

Have plenty happening especially.

You come to look and you love most to see.

Spin out so many things before their eyes
That all the audience can gape amazed.

You'll win a wide appeal, that treasured prize,

And you'll be loved and highly praised.

You only master mass by mass, my friend.

Each seeks what suits them in the end.

He who brings much, brings many some good touch;

And home they go, quite pleased by such.

You give a piece, so let it be in pieces!

With such a stew fair fortune never ceases.

It's easy to think up and easy to present.

What use would be the whole that you'd invent?

The public picks it all to pieces finally.

POET

You do not feel how awful such a trade can be!

How little pure artists are pleased by such!

Fine Mister Blotch-it-up, I see

Already that's your standard touch.

DIRECTOR

Well, such reproaches do not injure me.

Men thinking to work effectively

Must hold the best tools for the task.

Recall you're splitting softwood. Look, I ask-

For whom is it you really write?

Sheer boredom drives one out tonight,

One's full from overflowing food that day,

And what's the worst yet, many might

Have come from reading what the papers say.

Preoccupied, as to a masquerade, they press,

Each winged by merest curiosity.

The ladies show their jewelled beauty to the best,

Performing for us here for free.

What do you dream on your poetic height?

Why do full houses gladden you?

Peer closely at your patrons here tonight-

Half cold, half crude. When our play's through,

One hopes for card play and yet another chooses

A wild night on a wench's breast. So please explain,

Why do you plague the gracious muses,

You poor mad fools, for such an aim?

I tell you give us more and always, always more,

And you will never miss the bull's eye then.

Just try to mystify all men,

To satisfy them's hard, that's sure-

What's got you now? Creative ecstasy or pain?

POET

Push off and find yourself another slave!

For should a poet see what nature gave,

His highest right, the human right, be bent

To sinful waste to suit your role?

How does he sway each single soul?

How does he conquer every element?

Does not his inward harmony sound out

A unison that wraps the world into his heart?

And if the thread of Nature, ever-long,

Is forced on the impassive-turning spindle,

If crowds, discordant, of all beings ring

Through one another, a tiresome jangle,

Who parts the stream of uniform creation,

So livingly, in rhythm's flow? Who's he

Who calls each thing to universal consecration

And makes it pulse in splendid harmony?

Who lets the storm rage in a passion's power?

Who fills the evening glow with earnest thoughts?

And who will strew each beautiful spring flower

Upon the path his loved one walks?

Who plaits the plain, green leaves into a wreath,

A crown, for merit of all sorts to show it?

Who binds and guards Olympus from beneath?

The human power revealed within the poet.

COMIC ACTOR

Then use these fine, fair powers to aid

And carry on your poet's trade

Just like a love affair is carried out.

By chance you 're near. You're moved. You hang about.

And time by time you're drawn in by degrees.

Your bliss first grows, then you compete to please.

At first you're charmed and then love's pains advance-

And, before you know it, it's a real romance.

Let's have this in the piece we're giving.

Just catch hold of full human living.

Though lived by all, it's only known by few.

Wherever you grab hold it interests you.

Kaleidoscopic scenes with little clarity,

Much error, a spark of full reality;

Yes, that's the way the best drink's brewed,

That makes the whole world feel refreshed, renewed.

For then the fairest flower of the youth

Come see the play and hear its revelation.

Then every tender soul imbibes, in truth,

Melancholy nourishment from your creation.

For as now this, now that emotion's stirred,

All see their inner feelings in your words.

The young are still prepared to laugh and weep all night;

They still crave verve, enjoy illusion on the stage.

For those who've finished growing, nothing's right.

The grateful ones are still of growing age.

POET

So give to me those times once more

When I was growing still; when from within

Full-crowding songs, new-born, would pour

As from an ever-flowing spring.

It seemed a mist still veiled the world.

A bud still promised miracle.

I plucked the thousand flowers which filled

All valleys with sweet, rich profusion.

I'd nothing, yet I was fulfilled:

My urge for truth, joy of illusion.

Give me those drives yet unrestrained,

The deep and anguished happiness,

The force of hate, love's power and bliss.

Oh, give me back my youthful days!

COMIC ACTOR

But youth, good friend, is what is needed most

When foes beset you in a fight;

When on your neck a loving host

Of women hang in sheer delight;

When in fast race, afar you glance

The hard-earned goal, the wreath's in view;

When after wild and whirling dance

You feast and drink whole nights. But you
We need to pluck familiar tone

Upon the strings with fiery grace,

With beautiful digressions roam,
Concluding at your chosen place.

For that's your role, old sirs, today,

For we don't venerate you any less.

For age won't make us childish, as some say,

It finds what still is truly child in us.

DIRECTOR

Enough exchange of chat and banter;

Let's finally see deeds. Each one

Turns compliments upon the other,

When something useful could be done.

What use is talk of moods? Refrain,

And you will never find the mood inspired.

Now if you're poets, as you claim,

Command the poetry desired.

You know just what we need, don't you?

To slurp down some high, potent brew.

So start the mix and don't delay!

Tomorrow you won't do what you don't do today.

We should not let an hour slip by.

The resolute will bravely grasp

The possibilities before they fly;

And hold them by the slightest tuft,

Then work on further for they must.

You know that on our German stage

Each one tries what he likes- feel free.
And so today, for me, don't save

On stage effects and scenery.

So use the great and little heaven's light,

Squander the stars; there's no lack at all

Of water, fire, rocky wall

And birds and beasts for your delight.

So pace out on the narrow house of board

All that creation can afford

And with deliberate speed, range well

From heaven through the world to hell.

Dedication Goethe's Faust rendered into English verse

The aim of this blog is to publish this rendering into English verse as I revise or newly translate. I shall follow the order of the play so bit by bit anyone who is interested can follow this attempt.

The Dedication to the work is a poem, something of an ode, written by Goethe on the occasion of taking up work on Faust again. It is a meditation on life, time, the past, friendship and destiny as he starts work on it some 20 years after he wrote his first partial version in his youth.

DEDICATION

You near once more, you floating forms, who passed

My troubled view in early days’ confusion.

Oh, should I try this time to hold you fast?

Now shall my heart still draw towards that illusion?

You crowd on me! Then you may rule my gaze.

Oh, how you rise around from mist and haze.

My heart feels stirred, as in far younger days,

By magic breath surrounding your lost ways.

You bring with you the scenes of joyful times,

And many long-loved shades rise in my view;

And like an old, half-fading tale I find

First love and friendship both spring up with you.

My pain grows fresh and it laments anew

The labyrinthine, erring course of life,

And names the good- those whom false fortune’s flight

Stole from fair hours to vanish from my sight.

They do not hear the songs that follow on,

Those souls to whom I sang my first. Today

The friendly troop is long dispersed and gone;

First echoing response has died away.

My song now rings out to an unknown throng;

Their very cheers just bring my heart dismay.

Of those my song once pleased all those not dead

Are distant, scattered through the world instead.

I’m seized by long-unwonted yearning here

For that serene and earnest spirit-land.

My moving song floats murmuring, like clear,

Aeolian harp strings touched by the wind’s light hand.

I tremble, tear is following on tear.

My stern, strict heart grows soft. From where I stand,

What I possess seems far away from me,

And what has vanished becomes reality.