The Magician’s Apprentice.
119
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
