Werner went to distant countries, Margaretta's heart was blighted; Some few years will now pass 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 shore, 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 shore, 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 noble 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.