Mephistopheles. No whiff I feel that hath a smell of May; I am most wintry cold in every limb; I'd sooner track my road o'er frost and snow. How sadly mounts the imperfect moon!--so dim Shines forth its red disk, with belated glow, We run the risk, at every step, on stones Or stumps of crazy trees, to break our bones. You must allow me to request the aid Of a Will-o-the-Wisp;--I see one right ahead, And in the bog it blazes merrily. Holla! my good friend! dare I be so free? Two travellers here stand much in need of thee; Why should'st thou waste thy flickering flame in vain? Pray be so good as light us up the hill! Will-o-the-Wisp. Out of respect to you, I will restrain, If possible, my ever-shifting will; But all our natural genius, and our skill Is zigzag; straight lines go against the grain. Mephistopheles. Ha! ha! hast learned from men how to declaim? March on, I tell thee, in the Devil's name! Else will I blow thy flickering life-spark out. Will-o-the-Wisp. You are the master of the house, no doubt, And therefore I obey you cheerfully. Only remember! 'tis the first of May, The Brocken is as mad as mad can be; And when an _ignis fatuus_ leads the way, You have yourselves to blame, if you should stray. Faust, Mephistopheles, and Will-o-the-Wisp. [_in reciprocal song_] Through the realms of fairy dreaming, Through the air with magic teeming, Guide us forward, guide us fairly, Thanks to thee be rendered rarely; Guide us quick, and guide us sure, O'er the wide waste Brocken moor. Trees on trees thick massed before us Flit, and fling dark shadows o'er us, Cliffs on cliffs in rugged masses Nod above the narrow passes, And each rock from jagged nose, How it snorts, and how it blows! Over turf and stones are pouring Stream and streamlet, wildly roaring; Is it rustling? is it singing? Love's sweet plaint with gentle winging! Voices of those days, the dearest, When our light of hope was clearest! And the echo, like the sounds Of ancient story, back rebounds. Oohoo! Shoohoo! what a riot! Owl and pewit, jay and piet! Will no bird to-night be quiet? What is this? red salamanders, With long legs and swoll'n paunches, Weaving wreathy fire-meanders Through the thicket's bristling branches! And the trees, their roots outspreading From the sand and rocky bedding, Winding, stretching, twisting grimly, Through the dun air darting dimly Seek to seize us, seek to grasp us, And with snaky coils enclasp us! And the mice in motley muster, Red and white, and blue and grey, Thick as bees that hang in cluster, Crowd along the heathy way. And the fire-flies shooting lightly Through the weirdly winding glade, With bewildering escort, brightly Lead the streaming cavalcade!