Mysterious home of lofty thought, Unholy plotting place of sins, Uutil your silent work is wrought Nothing begins. In you the regal mountains rise, In you the merry streamlets run, In you the anthem of the skies Greets the lord sun. Within your tiny-vast domain The mystic seasons come and go; All history upon this plain Stalks to and fro. The forum of the world is here, And here the only battle-ground. Here clash all forces of the sphere Without a sound. Whoever here has victor strode And watched the weakling foemen fall, Though no one knows his mean abode, Is king of all. |