While thus my friend discoursed, we pass Out of the path, and take the grass. The grass had still the green of May, And still the unblackened elms were gay; The kine were resting in the shade, The flies a summer murmur made. Bright was the morn, and south the air; The soft-couched cattle were as fair As those which pastured by the sea, That old-world morn, in Sicily, When on the beach the Cyclops lay, And Galatea from the bay Mocked her poor lovelorn giant’s lay. “Behold,” I said, “the painter’s sphere! The limits of his art appear. The passing group, the summer morn, The grass, the elms, that blossomed thorn,-- Those cattle couched, or, as they rise, Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes,-- These, or much greater things, but caught 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.” Still we walked 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 Came rustling from the garden-trees, And on the sparkling waters played; Light-plashing waves an answer made, And mimic boats their haven neared. Beyond, the abbey-towers appeared, By mist and chimneys unconfined, Free to the sweep of light and wind; While through their earth-moored nave below, Another breath of wind doth blow, Sound as of wandering breeze--but sound In laws by human artists bound. “The world of music!” I exclaimed,-- “This breeze that rustles by, that famed Abbey, recall it! what a sphere, Large and profound, hath genius here! The inspired musician, what a range, What power of passion, wealth of change! Some source of feeling he must choose, And its locked fount of beauty use, And through the stream of music tell Its else unutterable spell; To choose it rightly is his part, And press into its inmost heart. “_Miserere, Domine!_ The words are uttered, and they flee. 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 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, 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,-- _Miserere, Domine!_”