 | The Cup of Quietness |  |
40
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
Not Alpine!—Himalayan is the range
Of thy stupendous voice. Through every clime
Of passion mounting, where the mists of time
Girdle unconquered heights, above all change
Of seasons, thou dost fling to Heaven thy strange
Prodigious harmonies, that grandly chime
In pauses of the storm of sound, sublime
As thunder of descending avalange.
Of thy stupendous voice. Through every clime
Of passion mounting, where the mists of time
Girdle unconquered heights, above all change
Of seasons, thou dost fling to Heaven thy strange
Prodigious harmonies, that grandly chime
In pauses of the storm of sound, sublime
As thunder of descending avalange.
Thine are the giant leaps, o'er monstrous chasms,
From ledge to ledge; depths of abysmal gloom;
Rending of stubborn rocks by lightning-spasms.
Thine too the gently-sloping vales, where loom
Soft forms, the rainbow weaves her frail phantasms,
Butterflies toy, and fairy flowers bloom.
From ledge to ledge; depths of abysmal gloom;
Rending of stubborn rocks by lightning-spasms.
Thine too the gently-sloping vales, where loom
Soft forms, the rainbow weaves her frail phantasms,
Butterflies toy, and fairy flowers bloom.
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Mid yonder pinnacles of ice, that hold
Communion with the silent hosts of heaven,
Where broods the eagle and where sleeps the levin,
Where first alights the day's young dream of gold,
There well the fountains, free and clear and cold,
Of music's mightiest flood, its pathway riven
By glacier-ploughs, till all its streams are driven
To where the runes of ocean are unrolled.
Communion with the silent hosts of heaven,
Where broods the eagle and where sleeps the levin,
Where first alights the day's young dream of gold,
There well the fountains, free and clear and cold,
Of music's mightiest flood, its pathway riven
By glacier-ploughs, till all its streams are driven
To where the runes of ocean are unrolled.
There is its power at large; the billows raise
The pæan which the sons of morning sang;
Deep in its bosom huge Behemoth plays,
The tempest tears its breast with granite fang;
Or, when the great tides slumber, placid bays
Reflect the snow-clad mountains whence it sprang.
The pæan which the sons of morning sang;
Deep in its bosom huge Behemoth plays,
The tempest tears its breast with granite fang;
Or, when the great tides slumber, placid bays
Reflect the snow-clad mountains whence it sprang.
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Many the crownéd heads of music;—thou
Of song's wide realms art emperor alone;
No rival hath assailed that peerless throne,
Such splendour shines upon no other brow;
Poets before thy footstool pay their vow;
Thou keep'st a state whereat proud kings fall prone,
A majesty of music all thine own,
A sway to which the laureled masters bow.
Of song's wide realms art emperor alone;
No rival hath assailed that peerless throne,
Such splendour shines upon no other brow;
Poets before thy footstool pay their vow;
Thou keep'st a state whereat proud kings fall prone,
A majesty of music all thine own,
A sway to which the laureled masters bow.
To thee the lords of song ascribe their fame,
For thee the chiming spheres attune their fires;
To all the ends of earth thy glorious name
Resounds, while high in heaven immortal lyres
Salute thee, and the streets of gold acclaim
Thy worth with plaudits of celestial choirs.
For thee the chiming spheres attune their fires;
To all the ends of earth thy glorious name
Resounds, while high in heaven immortal lyres
Salute thee, and the streets of gold acclaim
Thy worth with plaudits of celestial choirs.
| The Cup of Quietness | |