And under the turf all is quiet.

But one of them stumbles and shuffles there still,

And gropes at the graves in despair;
Yet ’tis by no comrade he’s treated so ill

The shroud he soon scents in the air. 
So he rattles the door—­for the warder ’tis well
That ’tis bless’d, and so able the foe to repel,

All cover’d with crosses in metal.

The shroud he must have, and no rest will allow,

There remains for reflection no time;
On the ornaments Gothic the wight seizes now,

And from point on to point hastes to climb. 
Alas for the warder! his doom is decreed! 
Like a long-legged spider, with ne’er-changing speed,

Advances the dreaded pursuer.

The warder he quakes, and the warder turns pale,

The shroud to restore fain had sought;
When the end,—­now can nothing to save him avail,—­

In a tooth formed of iron is caught. 
With vanishing lustre the moon’s race is run,
When the bell thunders loudly a powerful One,

And the skeleton fails, crush’d to atoms.

1813.
-----
The pupil in magic.

I am now,—­what joy to hear it!—­

Of the old magician rid;
And henceforth shall ev’ry spirit

Do whate’er by me is bid;

    I have watch’d with rigour

      All he used to do,

    And will now with vigour

      Work my wonders too.

  Wander, wander

   Onward lightly,

   So that rightly

     Flow the torrent,

  And with teeming waters yonder

     In the bath discharge its current!

And now come, thou well-worn broom,

And thy wretched form bestir;
Thou hast ever served as groom,

So fulfil my pleasure, sir!

    On two legs now stand,

      With a head on top;

    Waterpail in hand,

      Haste, and do not stop!

  Wander, wander

    Onward lightly,

  So that rightly

    Flow the torrent,

  And with teeming waters yonder

    In the bath discharge its current!

See! he’s running to the shore,

And has now attain’d the pool,
And with lightning speed once more

Comes here, with his bucket full!

    Back he then repairs;

      See how swells the tide!

    How each pail he bears

      Straightway is supplied!

  Stop, for, lo!

    All the measure

    Of thy treasure

      Now is right!—­

  Ah, I see it! woe, oh woe!

      I forget the word of might.

Ah, the word whose sound can straight

Make him what he was before! 
Ah, he runs with nimble gait!

Would thou wert a broom once more!