The coach, well shaken and well smashed, brings up
In sad plight on a steep hill's top.

"This is not quite the thing! No, no!" Says Hans, considering, with a frown. "In this way I shall never make it go.

Let's see if 'twill not tame the wild-fire down,

To work him hard, and keep him low."

The trial's made. The beast, so fair and trim,

Before three days are gone looks gaunt and grim,

And to a shadow shrunk. "I have it! I have found it

now!"

66

Cries Hans. Come on, now.

Yoke me him

Beside my strongest ox before the plow."

So said, so done. In droll procession now,

See ox and winged horse before the plow.

Unwilling steps the griffin, strains what little might
Of longing's left in him, to take his fond old flight.

In vain deliberately steps his neighbor,

And Phoebus' high-souled steed must bend to his slow labor, Till now, by long resistance spent his force,

His trembling limbs he can no longer trust, And, bowed with shame, the noble, godlike horse Falls to the ground, and rolls him in the dust.

"You cursèd beast!" Hans breaks out furious now, And scolds and blusters, while he lays the blows on; “You are too poor, then, even for the plow!

You rascal, so my ignorance to impose on!"

And while in this way angrily he goes on,
And swings the lash, behold! upon the way
A pleasant youth steps up so smart and gay.
A harp shakes ringing in his hand,

And through his glossy, parted hair

Winds glittering a golden band.

"Where now, friend, with that wondrous pair?" From far off to the boor he spoke.

"The bird and ox together in that style?

I pray you, man, why, what a yoke!
But come, to try a little while,

Will you entrust your horse to me?
Look well: a wonder you shall see."

The hippogriff's unyoked, and with a smile.

The youth springs lightsomely upon his back. Scarce feels the beast the master's certain hand, But gnashes at his wings' confining band,

And mounts, with lightning-look, the airy track.

No more the being that he was, but royally,

A spirit now, a god, up mounteth he;

Unfurls at once, as for their far storm-flight,

His splendid wings, and shoots to heaven with fierce, wild neigh;

And ere the eye can follow him, away

He melts into the clear blue height.

Wolfgang von Goethe

Satanic Advice to a Student

MEPHISTOPHELES, in Faust's Gown, and STUDENT.

Stu. But recently I've quitted home;
Full of devotion am I come,

A man to see and hear, whose name-
With reverence-is known to fame.

Meph. Your courtesy much flatters me!
A man like other men you see;
Pray, have you yet applied elsewhere?
I would entreat your friendly care!
I've youthful blood and courage high;
Of gold I bring a fair supply;

Stu.

To let me go, my mother was not fain;
But here I longed true knowledge to attain.

Meph. You've hit upon the very place.

Stu.

And yet my steps I would retrace.
These walls, this melancholy room,
O'erpower me with a sense of gloom.
The space is narrow; nothing green,
No friendly tree is to be seen;

And in these halls, with benches lined,
Sight, hearing, fail; fails, too, my mind.

Meph. It all depends on habit. Thus, at first,
The infant takes not kindly to the breast,

But before long, its eager thirst

Is fain to slake with hearty zest.

Stu.

Thus at the breasts of wisdom day by day With keener relish you'll your thirst allay. Upon her neck I fain would hang with joy; To reach her, say, what means must I employ? Meph. Explain, ere further time we lose,

Stu.

What special faculty you choose.

Profoundly learned I would grow;
What heaven contains would comprehend;
O'er earth's wide realm my gaze extend;
Nature and science I desire to know.
Meph. You are upon the proper track, I find;
Take heed, let nothing dissipate your mind.
My heart and soul are in the chase!
Though, to be sure, I fain would seize
On pleasant summer holidays

Stu.

A little liberty and careless ease.

Meph. Use well your time, so rapidly it flies.
Method will teach you time to win;
Hence, my young friend, I would advise,
With logic's study to begin.

Then will your mind be so well braced,

In Spanish boots so tightly laced,
That on 'twill circumspectly creep,
Thought's beaten track securely keep;
Nor will it, ignis-fatuus like,

Into the path of error strike.

Then many a day they'll teach you how
The mind's spontaneous acts, till now
As eating and as drinking free,
Require a process: one, two, three!
In truth, the subtle web of thought
Is like the weaver's fabric wrought:

Stu.

Stu.

One treadle moves a thousand lines,
Swift dart the shuttles to and fro,
Unseen the threads together flow,
A thousand knots one stroke combines.
Then forward steps your sage to show,
And prove to you, it must be so;
The first being so, and so the second,
The third and fourth deduc'd we see;
And if there were no first and second,
Nor third nor fourth would ever be.
This, scholars of all countries prize,
Yet 'mong themselves no weavers rise.

He who would know and treat of aught alive,
Seeks first the living spirit thence to drive;
Then are the lifeless fragments in his hand,
There only fails, alas! the spirit-band.

This process, chemists name, in learned thesis,
Mocking themselves, Naturæ encheiresis.

Your words I cannot fully comprehend.
Meph. In a short time you will improve, my friend,
When of scholastic forms you learn the use,
And how by method all things to reduce.
So doth all this my brain confound,
As if a mill-wheel there were turning round.
Meph. And next, before aught else you learn,
You must with zeal to metaphysics turn.
There see that you profoundly comprehend
What doth the limit of man's brain transcend;
For that which is or is not in the head,

A sounding phrase will serve you in good stead.
But, before all, strive this half year
From one fix'd order ne'er to swerve.