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Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
Bow themselves, when he did sing:
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art:
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
Orpheus dwong der bomen toppen
Ja, der bergen sneeuw'ge koppen
Diep te buigen, als hij zong;
Planten sproten allerween;
't Was of Meise zon en regen
De aard tot eeuwig bloeien drong.
Alles wat hem zingen hoorde,
Golven, woeste, fel verstoorde,
Bogen 't hoofd en gaven acht.
O, muziek kan toov'ren, kluist'ren:
Moordende angst en zorg,
bij 't luist'ren slapen ze in of sterven zacht.
.