The tulip of this meadowland is yet all flecked with hue; cast not the shield out of thy hand, for battle flares anew.

A tumult, in whose swelling breast two hundred tumults wait that maiden is who dwells caressed in Europe’s cradle yet.

O thou who sittest at thy ease beside the shore, arise! The whirlpool roars across the seas, the shark in menace lies.

No part of wisdom ’tis, I trow, the trusty axe to shun; within the rock’s heart, even now, are rubies to be won.

Await! And I will raise the veil, that other songs may thrill; what should I of such music tell the lute concealeth still?

When the world’s wondrous Artist viewed the madness in my brain, he cried, ‘Too mighty swells thy mood, this ruin to contain!’