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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 363 pages of information about The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01.

WITCHES (in chorus)

 Now to the Brocken the witches hie,
 The stubble is yellow, the corn is green;
 Thither the gathering legions fly,
 And sitting aloft is Sir Urian seen: 
 O’er stick and o’er stone they go whirling along,
 Witches and he-goats, a motley throng.


 Alone old Baubo’s coming now;
 She rides upon a farrow sow.


 Honor to her, to whom honor is due! 
 Forward, Dame Baubo!  Honor to you! 
 A goodly sow and mother thereon,
 The whole witch chorus follows anon.


Which way didst come?


O’er Ilsenstein! 
There I peep’d in an owlet’s nest. 
With her broad eye she gazed in mine!


Drive to the devil, thou hellish pest! 
Why ride so hard?


She has graz’d my side,
Look at the wounds, how deep and how wide!

WITCHES (in chorus)

 The way is broad, the way is long;
 What mad pursuit!  What tumult wild! 
 Scratches the besom and sticks the prong;
 Crush’d is the mother, and stifled the child.

WIZARDS (half chorus)

 Like house-encumber’d snail we creep;
 While far ahead the women keep,
 For when to the devil’s house we speed,
 By a thousand steps they take the lead.


 Not so, precisely do we view it;
 They with a thousand steps may do it;
 But let them hasten as they can,
 With one long bound ’tis clear’d by man.

VOICES (above)

Come with us, come with us from Felsensee.

VOICES (from below)

Aloft to you we would mount with glee! 
We wash, and free from all stain are we,
Yet barren evermore must be!


 The wind is hushed, the stars grow pale,
 The pensive moon her light doth veil;
 And whirling on, the magic choir
 Sputters forth sparks of drizzling fire.

VOICE (from below)

Stay! stay!

VOICE (from above)

What voice of woe
Calls from the cavern’d depths below?

VOICE (from below)

Take me with you!  Oh take me too! 
Three centuries I climb in vain,
And yet can ne’er the summit gain! 
To be with my kindred I am fain.


 Broom and pitch-fork, goat and prong,
 Mounted on these we whirl along;
 Who vainly strives to climb tonight,
 Is evermore a luckless wight!

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