  Written in German for Mademoiselle Paradis, by her blind friend M. Pfeffel, of Colmar, and set to music by her musicmaster, M. Leopold Kozeluch, of Vienna, 11th November, 1784. IMITATED BY DR. BURNEY. “The new born insect sporting in the sun, Is the true semblance of my infant state, When ev’ry prize for which life’s race is run Was hidden from me by malignant fate. “Instant destruction quench’d each visual ray, No mother’s tears, no objects were reveal’d! Extinguish’d was the glorious lamp of day, And ev’ry work of God at once conceal’d! “Where am I plunged? with trembling voice I cried, Ah! why this premature, this sudden night! What from my view a parent’s looks can hide, Those looks more cheering than celestial light! “Vain are affliction’s sobs, or piercing cries; The fatal mischief baffles all relief! The healing art no succour can devise, Nor balm extract from briny tears and grief! “How should I wander through the gloomy maze, Or hear the black monotony of woe, Did not maternal kindness gild my days, And guide my devious footsteps to and fro! “Upon a festival designed To praise the Father of mankind, When joining in the lofty theme, I tried to hymn the great Supreme, A rustling sound of wings I hear, Follow’d by accents sweet and clear, Such as from inspiration flow When Haydn’s fire and fancy glow. “‘I am the genius of that gentle art Which soothes the sorrows of mankind, And to my faithful votaries impart Extatic joys the most refin’d. “‘On earth, each bard sublime my power displays; Divine Cecilia was my own; In heav’n each saint and seraph breathes my lays In praises round th’ eternal throne. “‘To thee, afflicted maid, I come with friendly aid, To put despair to flight, And cheer thy endless night.’ “Then, gently leading to the new-made lyre, He plac’d my fingers on the speaking keys; ‘With these (he cries) thou listening crowds shalt fire, And rapture teach on every heart to seize.’ “Elastic force my nerves new brac’d, And from my voice new accents flow; My soul new pleasures learn’d to taste, And sound’s sweet power alleviates woe. “Theresa! great in goodness as in power, Whose fav’rite use of boundless sway, Was benefits on all to shower, And wipe the tear of wretchedness away; “When first my hand and voice essay’d, Sweet Pergolesi’s pious strains, Her pitying goodness she displayed, To cherish and reward my pains. “But now, alas! this friend to woe, This benefactress is no more! And though my eyes no light bestow They’ll long with tears her loss deplore! “Yet still where’er my footsteps bend, My helpless state has found a friend. “How sweet the pity of the good! How grateful is their praise! How every sorrow is subdued, When they applaud my lays! “The illustrious patrons I have found, Whose approbation warms my heart, Excite a wish that every sound Seraphic rapture could impart. “The wreathes my feeble talents share, The balmy solace friends employ, Lifting the soul above despair, Convert calamity to joy.” |
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