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.

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.