What bliss! what torture! vainly I essay
To turn me from that piteous look away.
How strangely doth a single crimson line
Around that lovely neck its coil entwine,
It shows no broader than a knife’s blunt edge!
Quite right. I see it also, and allege
That she beneath her arm her head can bear,
Since Perseus cut it off.—But you I swear
Are craving for illusions still!
Come then, ascend yon little hill!
As on the Prater all is gay,
And if my senses are not gone,
I see a theatre,—what’s going on?
They are about to recommence;—the play,
Will be the last of seven, and spick-span new—
’Tis usual here that number to present.
A dilettante did the piece invent,
And dilettanti will enact it too.
Excuse me, gentlemen; to me’s assign’d,
As dilettante to uplift the curtain.
You on the Blocksberg I’m rejoiced to find,
That ’tis your most appropriate sphere is certain.
WALPURGIS-NIGHT’S DREAM; OR, OBERON AND
TITANIA’S GOLDEN WEDDING-FEAST
* * * * *
Vales, where mists still shift and play,
To ancient hill succeeding,—
These our scenes;—so we, today,
May rest, brave sons of Mieding.
That the marriage golden be,
Must fifty years be ended;
More dear this feast of gold to me,
Contention now suspended.
Spirits, if present, grace the scene,
And if with me united,
Then gratulate the king and queen,
Their troth thus newly plighted!
Puck draws near and wheels about,
In mazy circles dancing!
Hundreds swell his joyous shout,
Behind him still advancing.
Ariel wakes his dainty air,
His lyre celestial stringing.—
Fools he lureth, and the fair,
With his celestial singing.
Wedded ones, would ye agree,
We court your imitation:
Would ye fondly love as we,
We counsel separation.
If husband scold and wife retort,
Then bear them far asunder;
Her to the burning south transport,
And him the North Pole under.
THE WHOLE ORCHESTRA (fortissimo)
Flies and midges all unite
With frog and chirping cricket,
Our orchestra throughout the night,
Resounding in the thicket!