The lush blue whortle-berries
We'll gather eve and morn
And we'll wander where the brocket
Rubs the velvet from his horn.
Come, shepherd, come—
I will not sing; the shepherd will not come.
I'll go and call the forest children. (She takes up her basket.)
Oswald— Selma.
Selma—Night-bird hooting at noon!
Oswald— Listen to me.
Selma—I'll listen to the jay; he's merrier.
Oswald—You are not of the witches that at night
Fly through the air to that far windy crag
That beetles o'er the foam of the wild sea
And there, with orgies lewd to the black goat,
Whirl in the revel with dark Barrabam?
Selma—There is no fairy with a name like that.
Oswald—He is the prince of fairies and of fiends.
Father Paul says that oft on stormy nights,
When stars scarce venture to the brink of heaven,
Witches go down the sky scattering fogs,
Diseases, blights, and death, and with them go
Those whom their cursed arts have wrought upon
To taste the air of Hell. Far in the West,
From every quarter of the earth and sky
And from those awful rivers, they assemble
And hold their sabbaths on a windy cliff,
A headland hanging over the edge of the world,
About whose base an ocean bellows so
That nothing dares approach save frenzied things.
There, while the moon protrudes an awful horn
Far off at sea and rocks among the waves,
They curse God's watchful planets from the sky
And lead their converts, dizzy with the brew,
To trample on the blood of Christ and swear
To serve the arch-demon who is known to them
As Barrabam. A while ago you said
You did not know his name as Satan. Selma,—
Selma—You said he used my hair, but 'tis not mine.
The other day I saw him in the stream
Snaring the silver chubs. Said he: "My lass,
I'll give two shiners for a lock of hair."
"To snare the fishes with! You horrid man.
I will not give it." And I ran away.
'Tis not my hair he uses.