And lower down beneath the brightest star
Lies Mentz: the spirit of her Faust
Beams in that star, the mightiest master, he
Of our forbidden art. Clothed in a silvery mist
Across the stretching corn-fields, richly gemmed
With forests dark and rustic villages,
The Vosges mountains bound the distant view,
The fair and fertile hills of jocund France,
And to the east lies our own Odenwald,
Girt with the granite ribs of mother earth.
Steep cliffs vine-garlanded, and winding vales,
And seas of rocks sublime, and woods of pine
Mark the gay chaos, wild fantastical,
The sport of nature's most capricious mood.
Hark the owl hoots—'tis answered by the toad,
With her harsh croak—the signal—I am here!
Where is our master?
Second Witch, appearing.
He will come anon.
This is our jubilee; to-night we weave
