James Clerk Maxwell - To the Chief Musician Upon Nabla, A Tyndallic Ode

Richard Mitchley - Pop, In English
James Clerk Maxwell - To the Chief Musician Upon Nabla, A Tyndallic Ode
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Duration: 2:45
Lyrics
I I come from fields of fractured ice Whose wounds are cured by squeezing Melting they cool, but in a trice Get warm again by freezing Here, in the frosty air, the sprays With fern-like hoar-frost bristle There, liquid stars their watery rays Shoot through the solid crystal II I come from empyrean fires— From microscopic spaces Where molecules with fierce desires Shiver in hot embraces The atoms clash, the spectra flash Projected on the screen The double D, magnesian b And Thallium's living green III We place our eye where these dark rays Unite in this dark focus Right on the source of power we gaze Without a screen to cloak us Then, where the eye was placed at first We place a disc of platinum It glows, it puckers! will it burst? How ever shall we flatten him! IV This crystal tube the electric ray Shows optically clean No dust or haze within, but stay! All has not yet been seen What gleams are these of heavenly blue? What air-drawn form appearing What mystic fish, that, ghostlike, through The empty space is steering? V I light this sympathetic flame My faintest wish that answers I sing, it sweetly sings the same It dances with the dancers I shout, I whistle, clap my hands And stamp upon the platform The flame responds to my commands In this form and in that form VI What means that thrilling, drilling scream Protect me! 'tis the siren: Her heart is fire, her breath is steam Her larynx is of iron Sun! dart thy beams! in tepid streams Rise, viewless exhalations! And lap me round, that no rude sound May mar my meditations VII Here let me pause.—These transient facts These fugitive impressions Must be transformed by mental acts To permanent possessions Then summon up your grasp of mind Your fancy scientific Till sights and sounds with thought combine Become of truth prolific VIII Go to! prepare your mental bricks Fetch them from every quarter Firm on the sand your basement fix With best sensation mortar The top shall rise to heaven on high— Or such an elevation That the swift whirl with which we fly Shall conquer gravitation
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Credits
- Writers
- James Clerk Maxwell