Mephistopheles

Under the old ribs of the rock retreating, Hold fast, lest thou be hurled down the abysses there! The night with the mist is black; Hark! how the forests grind and crack! Frightened, the owlets are scattered: Hearken! the pillars are shattered. The evergreen palaces shaking! Boughs are groaning and breaking, The tree-trunks terribly thunder, The roots are twisting asunder! In frightfully intricate crashing Each on the other is dashing, And over the wreck-strewn gorges The tempest whistles and surges! Hear’st thou voices higher ringing? Far away, or nearer singing? Yes, the mountain’s side along, Sweeps an infuriate glamouring song!

WITCHES (in chorus)

The witches ride to the Brocken’s top, The stubble is yellow, and green the crop. There gathers the crowd for carnival: Sir Urian sits over all.

And so they go over stone and stock; The witch she——s, and——s the buck.