NOTE: 
117 How 1824; Now 1822.

MEPHISTOPHELES: 
Cling tightly to the old ribs of the crag. 120
Beware! for if with them thou warrest
In their fierce flight towards the wilderness,
Their breath will sweep thee into dust, and drag
Thy body to a grave in the abyss. 
A cloud thickens the night. 125
Hark! how the tempest crashes through the forest! 
The owls fly out in strange affright;
The columns of the evergreen palaces
Are split and shattered;
The roots creak, and stretch, and groan; 130
And ruinously overthrown,
The trunks are crushed and shattered
By the fierce blast’s unconquerable stress. 
Over each other crack and crash they all
In terrible and intertangled fall; 135
And through the ruins of the shaken mountain
The airs hiss and howl—­
It is not the voice of the fountain,
Nor the wolf in his midnight prowl. 
Dost thou not hear? 140
Strange accents are ringing
Aloft, afar, anear? 
The witches are singing! 
The torrent of a raging wizard song
Streams the whole mountain along. 145

NOTE: 
132 shattered]scattered Rossetti.

CHORUS OF WITCHES: 
The stubble is yellow, the corn is green,
Now to the Brocken the witches go;
The mighty multitude here may be seen
Gathering, wizard and witch, below. 
Sir Urian is sitting aloft in the air; 150
Hey over stock! and hey over stone! 
’Twixt witches and incubi, what shall be done? 
Tell it who dare! tell it who dare!

NOTE: 
150 Urian]Urean editions 1824, 1839.

A VOICE: 
Upon a sow-swine, whose farrows were nine,
Old Baubo rideth alone. 155

CHORUS: 
Honour her, to whom honour is due,
Old mother Baubo, honour to you! 
An able sow, with old Baubo upon her,
Is worthy of glory, and worthy of honour! 
The legion of witches is coming behind, 160
Darkening the night, and outspeeding the wind—­

A VOICE: 
Which way comest thou?

A VOICE: 
Over Ilsenstein;
The owl was awake in the white moonshine;
I saw her at rest in her downy nest,
And she stared at me with her broad, bright eyne. 165

NOTE: 
165 eyne 1839, 2nd edition; eye 1822, 1824, 1839, 1st edition.

VOICES: 
And you may now as well take your course on to Hell,
Since you ride by so fast on the headlong blast.

A VOICE: 
She dropped poison upon me as I passed. 
Here are the wounds—­

CHORUS OF WITCHES: 
Come away! come along! 
The way is wide, the way is long, 170
But what is that for a Bedlam throng? 
Stick with the prong, and scratch with the broom. 
The child in the cradle lies strangled at home,
And the mother is clapping her hands.—­