Away, away!

 And hurry your phantom kind

 Through the gates of day,

 Or ever the king’s dark cup

 With its studs and spars

61

 Be inverted, and earth look up

 To the shuddering stars.

 Blaring and triumphing now,

 Now quailing and lone,

 Thou, thou, thou

 Of the joys unknown!

 Unknown and wild, wild,

 Where the merrymen be,

 Sink to sleep, soul of a child,

 Slumber, thou sea!

 All this his fiddle plays,

 And many a thing

 As strange, when his mood so lays

 The bow to the string.

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