If God speaks anywhere, in any voice,
To us, his creatures, surely here and now
We hear Him, while the great chords seem to bow
Our heads, and all the symphony's breathless noise
Breaks over us with challenge to our souls!
Beethoven's music! From the mountain peaks
The strong, divine, compelling thunder rolls,
And, “Come up higher, come!” the words it speaks,
“Out of your darkened valleys of despair,
Behold, I lift you upon mighty wings
Into Hope's living, reconciling air!
Breathe, and forget your life's perpetual stings;

My soul, praise the Lord! O God, thou art great:
In fathomless works thyself thou dosthide.
Before thy dark wisdom and power uncreate,
Man's mind, that dare praise thee, in awe must abide.

The earth where we dwell, that journeys in space,
With air as a robe thou wrappest around:
Her countries she turneth to greet the sun's face,
Then plungeth to slumber in darkness profound.

Lo, there is thy sea, whose bosom below
With creatures doth teem, scaled fishes and finn'd:
Above, the ships laden with merchandise go,

To love, and be lov'd, how transporting the bliss,
To give, and receive, the soft conjugal kiss;
To see a young race of sweet prattlers around,
Is a pleasure superior to all can be found.

Let libertines rail at the joys they ne'er know,
Such joys as from rambling can sure never flow;
A bottle and Thais may please for a night,
But wedlock affords never fading delight.

Tho' censure may seem to have room for its rage,
In this money-job, scandalous, match-making age;
When parents and guardians their children dispose,

Though all should smile denying, I believe
These elms have borne the Fieldfare's fabulous nest.
Why else in England should he build and rest,
Quitting the flock in which his brethren leave

Our shores forsaken on an April eve,
Save, on these lawns, to preen a speckled breast,
And hear your feathery friends proclaim you blest?
Where else so safe a bower could fieldfare weave?

Ah! might he borrow notes as sweet as those
With which the Mavis pays you all day long
(Our delicate Mavis with her slighted song),

From all, who dwell on earth below,
Let praise to God unceasing flow;
Your breath in praise employ:
Spread wide your Maker's name around,
Till heav'n shall echo back the sound—
The gen'ral burst of joy.

Said the Earth to the Stars, ‘Oh my sisters,
Fellow-travellers through this dread immensity,
Send a voice to my spirit and declare,
If, serenely as ye smile on me, and fair,
Ye are dwellings for all miseries, like me?

‘Oh tell me if in you, my glorious sisters,
Rules a tyrant like the one enthronèd here?
If death has ever enter'd in your climes,
And Suffering, and Calamity, and Crimes
Ever rob you of the children that you rear?

‘Oh tell me if in you, my myriad sisters,
The weak are ever trampled by the strong?

“Is there a knight or squire who dare
Dive into yonder abyss?
A golden goblet lies buried there,
Above it the waters boil and hiss.
Whoever presents it again to my sight
Shall keep it for ever: I grant him the right.”

Thus spake the King, and speaking, hurled
The cup from the cliff where he stood,
Into the seething gulf which whirled
Far below in Charybdis' flood.
“Again, I demand, is there any so bold
As to search in these depths for my goblet of gold?”

Never a word spake Knight or Squire,
But stood with downcast eyes;

On Dionysius Damon glared;
A dagger his mantle contains:
The guardians threw him in chains.
“Varlet, for whom was this dagger prepared?”
The Tyrant exclaimed, “What hast thou dared?
“To remove the Tyrant I meant!”
“On the cross thou shalt repent!”

And he straightly replied: “I am ready to die,
For life I do not pray;
Yet would I crave delay.
For three days' grace I would humbly apply
My sister's marriage to sanctify;
A hostage I leave my friend;
Slay him if I fail to attend.”

Then smiled the King with cunning base,

Jove is no proper lover, that I know;
Or else he'd change and come again below.
Leda, Europa, Danaë were fair,
But none with my proud beauty could compare:
Perhaps he scorns a lass who can be bought,
And only to princesses pays his court.

The fatal hours are wondrous near,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is given; in vain:
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.

A little space, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious Time that space devours.

Near yonder beech is Delia's way,
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Should draw my longing eyes aside.

The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees his mangled legions die,
Casts not a more impatient glance