Both chorusses. The wind is hushed, the star shoots by,
The moon she hides her sickly eye.
The whirling, whizzing magic-choir
Darts forth ten thousand sparks of fire.
Voice [from below]. Ho, there! whoa, there!
Voice [from above]. Who calls from the rocky cleft below there?
Voice [below]. Take me too! take me too!
Three hundred years I've climbed to you,
Seeking in vain my mates to come at,
For I can never reach the summit.
Both chorusses. Can ride the besom, the stick can ride,
Can stride the pitchfork, the goat can stride;
Who neither will ride to-night, nor can,
Must be forever a ruined man.
Half-witch [below]. I hobble on—I'm out of wind—
And still they leave me far behind!
To find peace here in vain I come,
I get no more than I left at home.
Chorus of witches. The witch's salve can never fail,
A rag will answer for a sail,
Any trough will do for a ship, that's tight;
He'll never fly who flies not to-night.
Both chorusses. And when the highest peak we round,
Then lightly graze along the ground,
And cover the heath, where eye can see,
With the flower of witch-errantry.
[They alight.]
Mephistopheles. What squeezing and pushing, what rustling and hustling!
What hissing and twirling, what chattering and bustling!
How it shines and sparkles and burns and stinks!
A true witch-element, methinks!
Keep close! or we are parted in two winks.
Where art thou?
Faust [in the distance]. Here!