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Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti! Risvegliate in vano 'l cor che non può liberarsi.

and whither bear'st thou up my spirit, On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill? It hath no crown of victory to inherit— Be still, triumphant harmony! be still!

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling Into rich floods of joy:—it is but pain To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, To sink so fast, so heavily again!