The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01 · Chapter 64CI-Devant Genius of the Age
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With proper folks when we appear, No one can then surpass us! Keep close, wide is the Blocksberg here As Germany's Parnassus.
How name ye that stiff formal man, Who strides with lofty paces? He tracks the game where'er he can, "He scents the Jesuits' traces."
Where waters troubled are or clear, To fish I am delighted; Thus pious gentlemen appear With devils here united.
By pious people, it is true, No medium is rejected; Conventicles, and not a few, On Blocksberg are erected.
Another chorus now succeeds, Far off the drums are beating. Be still! The bitterns 'mong the reeds Their one note are repeating.
Each twirls about and never stops, And as he can he fareth. The crooked leaps, the clumsy hops, Nor for appearance careth.
To take each other's life, I trow, Would cordially delight them! As Orpheus' lyre the beasts, so now The bagpipe doth unite them.
My views, in spite of doubt and sneer, I hold with stout persistence, Inferring from the devils here, The evil one's existence.
My every sense rules Phantasy With sway quite too potential; Sure I'm demented if the I Alone is the essential.
This entity's a dreadful bore, And cannot choose but vex me; The ground beneath me ne'er before Thus totter'd to perplex me.
Well pleased assembled here I view Of spirits this profusion; From devils, touching angels too, I gather some conclusion.
The ignis fatuus they track out, And think they're near the treasure. Devil alliterates with doubt, Here I abide with pleasure.
Frog and cricket in the mosses,— Confound your gasconading! Nose of fly and gnat's proboscis;— Most tuneful serenading!
Sans souci, so this host we greet, Their jovial humor showing; There's now no walking on our feet, So on our heads we're going.
In seasons past we snatch'd, 'tis true, Some tit-bits by our cunning; Our shoes, alas, are now danced through, On our bare soles we're running.
From marshy bogs we sprang to light, Yet here behold us dancing; The gayest gallants of the night, In glitt'ring rows advancing.
With rapid motion from on high, I shot in starry splendor; Now prostrate on the grass I lie;— Who aid will kindly render?
Room! wheel round! They're coming! lo! Down sink the bending grasses. Though spirits, yet their limbs, we know, Are huge substantial masses.
Don't stamp so heavily, I pray; Like elephants you're treading! And 'mong the elves be Puck today, The stoutest at the wedding!
If nature boon, or subtle sprite, Endow your soul with pinions;— Then follow to you rosy height, Through ether's calm dominions!
ORCHESTRA (pianissimo)
Drifting cloud and misty wreathes Are fill'd with light elysian; O'er reed and leaf the zephyr breathes— So fades the fairy vision!