After dame Martha Schwerdtlein I inquire!
Master, forgive this rude salute! But I perceive no cloven foot. And your tworavens, where are they?
Ariel wakes his dainty air, His lyre celestial stringing. Fools he lureth, and thefair, With his celestial singing.
Poor Son of Earth, without my aid, How would thy weary days have flown?Thee of thy foolish whims I've cured, Thy vain imaginations banished, And butfor me, be well assured, Thou from this sphere must soon have vanished. Inrocky hollows and in caverns drear, Why like an owl sit moping here?Wherefore from dripping stones and moss with ooze embued, Dost suck, likeany toad, thy food? A rare, sweet pastime. Verily! The doctor cleaveth still tothee.
He whom we mourned as dead, Living and glorious, From the dark gravehath fled, O'er death victorious; Almost creative bliss Waits on his growingpowers; Ah! Him on earth we miss; Sorrow and grief are ours. Yearning heleft his own, Mid sore annoy; Ah! we must needs bemoan. Master, thy joy!Chorus of Angels