Through the rushes, through the snow-white Water-lilies, rings his death-song: "Lovely world, I now must leave thee; Lovely world I die reluctant!"

Thus he blew there. Were those tears which Glistened brightly on his trumpet, Or some rain-drops which had fallen?

Onward now; the sharp spurs quickly In the horse's flanks he presses, And is flying at full gallop Round the forest's farthest edge.

FOURTEENTH PART.

THE BOOK OF SONGS.

Werner went to distant countries, Margaretta's heart was blighted; Some few years will now pa.s.s over Ere the two are reunited.

But, meanwhile, abrupt transitions Are not to my taste, I own; So with songs, like wreaths of flowers, Shall this gap be overstrewn.

YOUNG WERNER'S SONGS.

I.

The moment when I saw thee first, Struck dumb, I stood there dreaming, My thoughts ran into harmonies, Which through my heart were streaming.

So here I stand, poor trumpeter, And on the sward am blowing; In words I cannot tell my love, In music it is flowing.

II.

The moment when I saw thee first, The sixth of March, like lightning, Came quickly from the azure sky A flash, my heart igniting.

It burn'd up all that dwelt therein, A dire destruction bringing, But from the ruins, ivy-like, My loved one's name was springing.

III.

Turn not thy timid glance away, To hide what there doth glisten; Come to the terrace, while I play, And to my music listen.

In vain your efforts to escape, I still continue blowing; With magic speed my tunes take shape Into a ladder growing.

On these sweet tones' melodious rounds Love gently is ascending; Through bolt and lock still pierce the sounds Which I to thee am sending.

Turn not thy timid glance away, To hide what there doth glisten; Come to the terrace while I play, And to my music listen.

IV.

A merry piece I blew on the sh.o.r.e, How clear my trumpet was pealing!

Above the storm the tones did soar Up to the castle stealing.

The water-nymph on her crystal couch Hears music through the wild roaring; She rises up to listen well To a human heart's outpouring.

And when she dives to her home below, With laughter the fishes she's telling, "O River-children, one doth see Strange things where mortals are dwelling.

"There stands someone on sh.o.r.e, in the storm: What do you think he's doing?

Blows evermore the same old tune-- The tune of Love's soft wooing."

V.

Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks, Be praise to thee forever, For teaching me thy Art divine, That Art which faileth never.

Though language is a n.o.ble thing, There are limits to what it expresses; No speech has uttered yet what lives In the soul's most hidden recesses.

It matters not that there are times, When words to us are wanting; For then, within, mysterious sounds Our spell-bound hearts are haunting.

It murmurs, hums, it swells and rings, Our hearts seem well-nigh breaking, Till music's glorious hosts burst forth, To forms of life awaking.

Oft I should stand before my love A stupid bashful fellow, Were not my trumpet there at hand, And love-songs sweet and mellow.

Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks, Be praise to thee forever, For teaching me thy Art divine, That Art which faileth never.

VI.

The skylark and the raven Are of a different tribe; I feel as if in heaven!

That I am not a scribe.

The world is not so prosy, The woods with mirth o'erflow, To me life seems all rosy, My trumpet rings hallo.

And merry tunes 'tis sending Forth in a constant flow; Who finds these sounds offending May to the cloister go.