deg.42
The soft-couch’d cattle were as fair
As those which pastured by the sea,
That old-world morn, in Sicily, 45
When on the beach the Cyclops lay,
And Galatea from the bay
Mock’d her poor lovelorn giant’s lay. deg. deg.48
“Behold,” I said, “the painter’s sphere! 
The limits of his art appear. 50
The passing group, the summer-morn,
The grass, the elms, that blossom’d thorn—­
Those cattle couch’d, or, as they rise,
Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes—­
These, or much greater things, but caught 55
Like these, and in one aspect brought! 
In outward semblance he must give
A moment’s life of things that live;
Then let him choose his moment well,
With power divine its story tell.” 60

Still we walk’d on, in thoughtful mood,
And now upon the bridge we stood. 
Full of sweet breathings was the air,
Of sudden stirs and pauses fair. 
Down o’er the stately bridge the breeze 65
Came rustling from the garden-trees
And on the sparkling waters play’d;
Light-plashing waves an answer made,
And mimic boats their haven near’d. 
Beyond, the Abbey-towers deg. appear’d, deg.70
By mist and chimneys unconfined,
Free to the sweep of light and wind;
While through their earth-moor’d nave below
Another breath of wind doth blow,
Sound as of wandering breeze—­but sound 75
In laws by human artists bound.

“The world of music deg.!” I exclaimed:—­ deg.77
“This breeze that rustles by, that famed
Abbey recall it! what a sphere
Large and profound, hath genius here! 80
The inspired musician what a range,
What power of passion, wealth of change
Some source of feeling he must choose
And its lock’d fount of beauty use,
And through the stream of music tell 85
Its else unutterable spell;
To choose it rightly is his part,
And press into its inmost heart.

“Miserere Domine deg.! deg.89
The words are utter’d, and they flee. 90
Deep is their penitential moan,
Mighty their pathos, but ’tis gone. 
They have declared the spirit’s sore
Sore load, and words can do no more. 
Beethoven takes them then—­those two 95
Poor, bounded words—­and makes them new;
Infinite makes them, makes them young;
Transplants them to another tongue,
Where they can now, without constraint,
Pour all the soul of their complaint, 100
And roll adown a channel large
The wealth divine they have in charge. 
Page after page of music turn,
And still they live and still they burn,
Eternal, passion-fraught, and free—­ 105
Miserere Domine deg.!" deg.106