Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine,
  Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine! 
        Leave all your troubles behind you,
        Ride where they never can find you,
          Into the gladness of morn,
  With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
        Swiftly o’er hillock and hollow,
          Sweeping along with the wind,—­
        Follow, you hunters, follow,
          Follow and find!

  What will you reach with your riding?  What is the charm of the chase? 
  Just the delight and the striding swing of the jubilant pace. 
        Danger is sweet when you front her,—­
        In at the death, every hunter! 
        Now on the breeze the mort is borne
  In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
        Winding merrily, over and over,—­
          Come, come, come! 
        Home again, Ranger! home again, Rover! 
          Turn again, home!

VI

DANCE-MUSIC

1

  Now let the sleep-tune blend with the play-tune,
  Weaving the mystical spell of the dance;
  Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay tune,
  Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance. 
  Half of it sighing, half of it smiling,
  Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate beat;
  Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling,
  Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet. 
        Every drop of blood
        Rises with the flood,
    Rocking on the waves of the strain;
        Youth and beauty glide
        Turning with the tide—­
      Music making one out of twain,
  Bearing them away, and away, and away,
        Like a tone and its terce—­
  Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers stay,
          And reverse.

  Violins leading, take up the measure,
  Turn with the tune again,—­clarinets clear
  Answer their pleading,—­harps full of pleasure
  Sprinkle their silver like light on the mere. 
        Semiquaver notes,
        Merry little motes,
        Tangled in the haze
        Of the lamp’s golden rays,
        Quiver everywhere
          In the air,
          Like a spray,—­
  Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune,
  Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon,
  Bears them all away, and away, and away,
      Floating in the trance of the dance.

2

  Then begins a measure stately,
      Languid, slow, serene;
  All the dancers move sedately,
  Stepping leisurely and straitly,
      With a courtly mien;
  Crossing hands and changing places,
      Bowing low between,
  While the minuet inlaces
  Waving arms and woven paces,—­
      Glittering damaskeen. 
  Where is she whose form is folden
      In its royal sheen? 
  From our longing eyes withholden
  By her mystic girdle golden,
      Beauty sought but never seen,
  Music walks the maze, a queen.