Court and Lady’s Magazine/Volume 3/February 1839/The Magician’s Apprentice

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

For other English-language translations of this work, see The Sorcerer's Apprentice.

THE MAGICIAN’S APPRENTICE.
(Imitated from the “Der Zauberlehrling” of Goëthe.)
BY SUTHERLAND MENZIES.

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“My master, chief of the wizard band,
 Hath left me sole the house to keep;
 I long to see the spirits leap
And dance round his cauldron hand in hand;
To call them forth the spells I know,
Words causing lovers’ hearts to glow;
How with the stalks of young herbs bruised,
 Then boiled to bubbling froth,
 From the vase’ mouth to make spring forth
A thousand prodigies confused.
   Come on! come on!
   The fire is gleaming,
   The herbs are steaming
   In my huge cauldron.
   Come on! come on!
   More water in pour,
   Let it seethe and roar,
   And then bubble o’er.
   Come on! come on!
  In a bath with my sprite I’ll plunge anon.

“In my rich master’s robe attired—
 Damask embroider’d all so grand—
 Forth, sage broomstick, hither stand
And play the beau although bemired;
Upon thy two legs deftly toiling,
Pour fresh water on the boiling
From th’ iron pot thy head sustains:
 Dispatch—with thy work hasten thee;
 I’m sorcerer, and king would be,
Beside my queen who o’er thee reigns.

   Come on! come on!
   The fire is gleaming,
   The herbs are steaming
   In the huge cauldron.
   Come on! come on!
   More water in pour,
   Let it seethe and roar,
   And then bubble o’er.
   Come on! come on!
  In a bath with my sprite I’ll plunge anon.

“See! from the river’s brink through air
 Backwards to and fro he dashes,
 Speeding fast as lightning flashes—
He’s no sooner here than there;
The cauldron spacious—thanks to him—
Is filling—is fill’d to the brim.
Hold—enough! my besom docile,
 To swim or dive there’s water plenty
 For both of us—and others twenty,
Slender as I and my sylph agile.
   Come on! come on!
   And now quench the flame
   For I see my dame
   Near the cauldron.
   Come on! come on!
   Our water’s lukewarm,
   And clear and calm;
   Then cease the charm.
   Come on! come on!
  In my bath with my sprite I’ll plunge anon.

“Goblin! that word can I forget
 Which power hath thee to restrain?
 Dear broomstick, cease to pour amain,
With further labour do not fret:
Empty, if thy full pot needs
Its water to the ravine reeds.
With snow-white shoulders, jewell’d hands,
 Clear ’neath the crystal rippling wave
 I see my queen her beauty lave,
Who blushing, scarce my gaze withstands.
   Come on! come on!
   And now quench the flame,
   For I see my dame
   In the cauldron.
   Come on! come on!
   The water’s lukewarm,
   And clear and calm;
   Then cease the charm.
   Come on! come on!
  In my bath with my sprite I’ll plunge anon.

“Stay thee, devilish broomstick!
 Hast no reason in thy pate?
 Would’st the mansion inundate,
Slave to strongest powers of magic?

Damned broomstick! he hears me not,
But hastens with his water-pot.
Fiend of hell! what looks are gleaming—
 Haggard rolling, flaming lurid,
 One o’er th’ other swiftly hurried,
In the flood incessant streaming!
   Horror! horror!
   Goblin grows man,
   Each phantom wan
   Maddens with terror.
   Men change to apes!
   Hence, spectres gaunt!
   At my bidding avaunt,
   Each to his haunt.
   Horror! horror!
  Or I’ll wrestle amain with thy vapoury shapes.

“He still pours on!—my axe is keen,
 Thou comest ne’er to hie thee back—
 In two halves, broomstick, I’ll thee hack—
Monster, I’m rid of thee, I ween.
Victory! he’s overthrown!
Goblin, now the day’s my own!
With courage new my bosom heaves!
 I’m happy. I shall see again
 My fairy ’mid the wat’ry plain,
Whose tepid wave she gently cleaves.
   Woe! woe!
   Double phantoms appear,
   Goblins, grown men, draw near
   To hurl me below.
   Oh, woe! oh, woe!
   Ye accursed races, whose hideous faces
   Are stamp’d with hell’s traces.
   Oh, woe! oh, woe!
  Demon spawn, that twain grow at every blow.

“Vapours float on! all struggling’s vain—
 The flood must soon o’erwhelm me quite;
 Oh, haste! take pity on my plight,
Dear master, and these fiends restrain.
The threshhold totters—swiftly rushing
O’er it now the tide is gushing.
Haste hither, with thy wand and book!”
Thus call’d, the wizard homeward hies,
The waves his lifted finger dries,
Then smiling nods his head and cries—
   “Hence to thy nook,
   Mad broomstick, begone!
   And return thee anon,
   When night’s shadows advance,
   And the young witches fair,
   Buxom, blithe, débonnaire,
   Speeding swiftly through air,
   On their wooden steeds prance,
  Flocking this night at our Sabbath to dance.”