Пёрселл Генри - Begin the song (The Resurrection) - текст песни (слова)

Begin the song, and strike the living lyre!
 Lo! How the years to come, a numerous and well fitted quire,
 All hand in hand do decently advance, 
 And to my song with smooth and equal measures dance.
 
 Whilst the dance lasts how long so e'er it be,
 My music's voice shall bear it company 
 Till all gentle notes be drown'd 
 In the last trumpet's dreadful sound,
 That to the spheres themselves shall silence bring,
 Untune the universal string:
 Then all the wide extended sky 
 And all th'harmonious world on high 
 And Virgil's sacred work shall die;
 And he himself shall see in one fire shine 
 Rich nature's ancient 
 Troy, though built by hands divine.
 
 Whom thunder's dismal noise 
 And all the prophets and apostles louder spake 
 And all the creatures' plain conspiring voice 
 Could not, whilst they liv'd, awake,
 This mightier sound shall make 
 When dead to arise 
 And open tombs and open eyes 
 to the long sluggards of five thousand years,
 This mightier sound shall make its hearer's ears.
 Then shall the scatter'd atoms crowding come, 
 Back to their ancient home, 
 Some from birds, from fishes some,
 Some from earth, and some from seas,
 Some from beasts, and some from trees, 
 Some descend from clouds on high,
 Some from metals upward fly 
 And, where th'attending soul naked and shiv'ring stands,
 Meet, salute, and join their hands,
 As dispers'd soldiers at the trumpet's call 
 Haste to their colours all,
 Unhappy most, like tortur'd men,
 Their joints new set, to be new wrack'd again:
 To mountains the for shelter pray,
 The mountains shake and run about no less confus'd than they, 
 Stop, my muse, allay thy vig'rous heat,
 Kindled at a hint so great;
 Hold thy Pindaric Pegasus closely in,
 Which does to rage begin 
 And this steep hill would gallop up with violent course;
 'Tis an unruly and hard mouth'd horse,
 Fierce and unbroken yet,
 Impatient of the spur or bit,
 Now prances stately and anon flies o'er the place,
 Disdains the servile law of any settled pace,
 Conscious and proud of his own nat'ral force, 
 'Twill no unskilful touch endure,
 But flings writer and reader too that sits not sure.