Midnight. The Evil Spirit appears, flying about in the form of a maiden.
Evil Spirit. It is not long since at this same hour I coursed the earth—the spirits of the lower world now drive me on; they force me to assume a holy part.
He flies over a garden.
Ye perfumed flowers! tear yourselves from your green stems, and fly into my hair!
He flies over a graveyard.
Living bloom and fresh charms of buried maidens, lost here, and floating vainly about above forgotten graves—fly into, and paint my swarthy cheeks with roseate hues of youth and love!
Under this white stone a fair-haired girl moulders and festers into wormy rottenness; shadows of her lustrous curls, come—twine round my burning brow!
Under this fallen cross, two soft eyes of heavenly blue are dying in their sunken sockets—to me! to me! the pure and lambent flame which once lightened and glimmered through them!
Behind those iron bars which guard that vault of kings, a hundred torches burn to light corruption—a princess was buried there to-day: ye white and lustrous robes of costly satin, come! fluttering like snowy, downy doves leave to the worms, undraped, the youthful form—fly through the trellised grating—and softly fall around my scathed and fleshless limbs!
And now, on! on! on!