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312 Tutti! for earth and heaven;

(The Almighty leader now for once has signal'd with his wand.)

The manly strophe of the husbands of the world,

And all the wives responding.

The tongues of violins,

(I think O tongues ye tell this heart, that cannot tell itself,

This brooding yearning heart, that cannot tell itself.)

Ah from a little child,

Thou knowest soul how to me all sounds became music,

My mother's voice in lullaby or hymn,

(The voice, O tender voices, memory's loving voices,

Last miracle of all, O dearest mother's, sister's, voices;)

The rain, the growing corn, the breeze among the long-leaved corn,

The measur'd sea-surf beating on the sand,

The twittering bird, the hawk's sharp scream,

The wild-fowl's notes at night as flying low migrating north or south,

The psalm in the country church or mid the clustering trees, the open air camp-meeting,

The fiddler in the tavern, the glee, the long-strung sailor-song,

The lowing cattle, bleating sheep, the crowing cock at dawn.

All songs of current lands come sounding round me,

The German airs of friendship, wine and love,

Irish ballads, merry jigs and dances, English warbles,

Chansons of France, Scotch tunes, and o'er the rest,

Italia's peerless compositions.

Across the stage with pallor on her face, yet lurid passion,

Stalks Norma brandishing the dagger in her hand.

I see poor crazed Lucia's eyes' unnatural gleam,

Her hair down her back falls loose and dishevel'd.

I see where Ernani walking the bridal garden,

Amid the scent of night-roses, radiant, holding his bride by the hand,

Hears the infernal call, the death-pledge of the horn.

To crossing swords and gray hairs bared to heaven,

The clear electric base and baritone of the world,

The trombone duo, Libertad forever!