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. When ink it shall be raining, Sand fall instead of snow, Then, from my sin abstaining, I nevermore will blow. VII. Where 'neath the bridge the waters foam, Dame Trout was swimming downward, And met her cousin Salmon there: "How are you, river-comrade?" "I'm well," quoth he, "but thought just now: If only lightning flashing, Down there, would strike that stripling dead, Him and his trumpet smashing! The live-long day my fine young sir On shore is promenading; Rhine up, Rhine down, and never stops His hateful serenading." Dame Trout, then smiling, answered him; "Dear cousin, you are spiteful, I, on the contrary, do find The Trumpeter delightful. "If you, like him, could but enjoy Fair Margaretta's favour, To learn the trumpet even now, You would not deem much labour." VIII. I pray that no fair rose for me, By thy dear hands, be broken; A slip of holly evergreen, Be of our love the token. The chaplet green with glossy sheen O'er the fruit good watch is keeping; And all will prick who try to pick What's for another's reaping. The gaudy rose, when Autumn comes, Finds that her beauty waneth; The holly leaf her modest green Through cold and snow retaineth. IX.