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Rh

And lower down beneath the brightest star Lies Mentz: the spirit of her Faust Beams in that star, the mightiest master, he Of our forbidden art. Clothed in a silvery mist Across the stretching corn-fields, richly gemmed With forests dark and rustic villages, The Vosges mountains bound the distant view, The fair and fertile hills of jocund France, And to the east lies our own Odenwald, Girt with the granite ribs of mother earth. Steep cliffs vine-garlanded, and winding vales, And seas of rocks sublime, and woods of pine Mark the gay chaos, wild fantastical, The sport of nature's most capricious mood. Hark the owl hoots—'tis answered by the toad, With her harsh croak—the signal—I am here! Where is our master?

He will come anon. This is our jubilee; to-night we weave