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 !"