Just a modern, shallow worldling,
Void of faith and penetration,
And the’ accusers sceptically
Were dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.
Publicly Uraca follow’d
Quite an honest occupation,
Namely, selling mountain-simples
And stuff’d birds to those who sought them.
Full her cottage was of suchlike
Curiosities, and frightful
Was the smell of fungi in it,
Cuckoo-flow’rs and elderberries.
There was quite a fine collection
Of the vulture tribe display’d there,
With their wings extended fully,
And their monstrous beaks projecting.
Was’t the strange plants’ smell that mounted
To my head and stupified me?
Wondrous feelings stole across me,
As I gazed upon those birds.
They’re perchance enchanted mortals,
Who, by magic art o’erpower’d,
To the wretched stuff’d condition
Of poor birds have been converted.
Fixedly they gaze upon me,
Sadly, yet with much impatience;
Often they appear to throw
Tow’rd the witch shy glances also.
But the latter, old Uraca,
Close beside her son Lascaro
Cowers in the chimney corner,
Melting lead and casting bullets,—
Bullets that by fate are destined
To destroy poor Atta Troll.
How the flames with hasty motion
Quiver o’er the witch’s features!
She incessantly keeps moving
Her thin lips, but nothing says she;
Mutters she the witches’ blessing,
That the casting be successful?