And the wild Teuton leaps in glory.
Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Echoes of Melody, ye answer, "Dying, dying."
O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
With no perspiring players showing;
O sweet and far from bar to bar
The horns and trumpets faintly blowing.
Blow—let us hear composers' ghosts replying;
Blow, Wagner, blow, while Melody is dying.
"Sweet tunes," they cry, "you shall not die,