INQUISITIVE TRAVELLER

  How name ye that stiff formal man,
   Who strides with lofty paces? 
  He tracks the game where’er he can,
   “He scents the Jesuits’ traces.”

  CRANE

  Where waters troubled are or clear,
   To fish I am delighted;
  Thus pious gentlemen appear
   With devils here united.

  WORLDLING

  By pious people, it is true,
   No medium is rejected;
  Conventicles, and not a few,
   On Blocksberg are erected.

  DANCER

  Another chorus now succeeds,
   Far off the drums are beating. 
  Be still!  The bitterns ’mong the reeds
   Their one note are repeating.

  DANCING MASTER

  Each twirls about and never stops,
   And as he can he fareth. 
  The crooked leaps, the clumsy hops,
   Nor for appearance careth.

  FIDDLER

  To take each other’s life, I trow,
   Would cordially delight them! 
  As Orpheus’ lyre the beasts, so now
   The bagpipe doth unite them.

  DOGMATIST

  My views, in spite of doubt and sneer,
   I hold with stout persistence,
  Inferring from the devils here,
   The evil one’s existence.

  IDEALIST

  My every sense rules Phantasy
   With sway quite too potential;
  Sure I’m demented if the I
   Alone is the essential.

  REALIST

  This entity’s a dreadful bore,
   And cannot choose but vex me;
  The ground beneath me ne’er before
   Thus totter’d to perplex me.

  SUPERNATURALIST

  Well pleased assembled here I view
   Of spirits this profusion;
  From devils, touching angels too,
   I gather some conclusion.

  SCEPTIC

  The ignis fatuus they track out,
   And think they’re near the treasure. 
  Devil alliterates with doubt,
   Here I abide with pleasure.

  LEADER OF THE BAND

  Frog and cricket in the mosses,—­
  Confound your gasconading! 
  Nose of fly and gnat’s proboscis;—­
  Most tuneful serenading!

  THE KNOWING ONES

  Sans souci, so this host we greet,
   Their jovial humor showing;
  There’s now no walking on our feet,
   So on our heads we’re going.

  THE AWKWARD ONES

  In seasons past we snatch’d, ’tis true,
   Some tit-bits by our cunning;
  Our shoes, alas, are now danced through,
   On our bare soles we’re running.

  WILL-O’-THE-WISPS

  From marshy bogs we sprang to light,
   Yet here behold us dancing;
  The gayest gallants of the night,
   In glitt’ring rows advancing.

  SHOOTING STAR

  With rapid motion from on high,
   I shot in starry splendor;
  Now prostrate on the grass I lie;—­
   Who aid will kindly render?

  THE MASSIVE ONES