From many lips I these glad news was hearing,
Which please the Poet more than heaps of gold:
The Trumpeter, whose story I'd been singing,
To young and old more joy was daily bringing.
As a vignette the weekly paper gracing
He's blowing politics instead of music now;
And even more, somebody has been placing
My hero on the stage--but ask not how.
Could I but see the walls of the new tower,
Which now is rising in the old one's place,