CHORUS MYSTICS.
Each thing of mortal birth
Is but a type
What was of feeble worth
Here becomes ripe.
What was a mystery
Here meets the eye;
The ever-womanly
Draws us on high.
(Finis.)
——-
FROM IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS.
ACT IV. SCENE 5.
SONG OF THE FATES.
YE children of mortals
The deities dread!
The mastery hold they
In hands all-eternal,
And use them, unquestioned,
What manner they like.