Ode to Francisco Salinas
The air becomes serene
and is clothed in beauty and strange radiance,
Salinas, when there sounds
the incomparable music
governed by your skilled hand.
At that heavenly sound
my soul, that is sunk in forgetfulness,
recovers its judgement
and the lost memory
of its first, exalted origin.
And as it knows itself,
it improves its fate and thought;
it disdains the gold
that the blind multitude worships,
and perishable, deceitful beauty.
It traverses the ether
until it reaches the highest sphere,
and there it hears another mode
of imperishable
music, the first, the source of all.
It sees how the Great Master,
playing this immense cither,
with skilled movement
produces the sacred sound
by wich this eternal temple is sustained.
And as it is composed
of concordant numbers, it emits
a consonant response,
and from their vying
is mingled the sweetest harmony.
Here the soul steers
through a sea of sweetness, and at last
sinks so deep within,
that it hears or feels
no strange or rare event.
O blessed trance!
O death that gives life! O sweet oblivion!
Could I but remain in your repose
without being restored
ever to these low and abject senses!
To this bliss i call you
glory of Apollo's sacred choir,
friends whom I love
beyond all treasure,
since all visible things are sorrowful tears.
Oh, may your music, Salinas,
sound everlastingly in my ears;
hearing it, my senses
awaken to God's goodness,
and to all else remain oblivious.
Translated by Eugenio Florit
Serene, Salinas, grows the air
and decks itself in beauty
and unaccustomed light
when consummate music sounds
steered by your knowing hand.
At its divine sound my soul
that's in oblivion sunk
retrieves its sense
and lost remembrance,
illumined by its primary source.
And as it knows itself,
its fate and thoughts improve;
and it ignores the gold
the blinded mob adores,
fleeting beauty that deceives.
It goes beyond all air,
reaching the highest sphere,
and thereupon it hears
music of another mode,
imperishable, primordial.
It sees how the great master,
plying the immense cither,
with deft stroke brings forth
the sacred music that upholds
this everlasting temple.
And since composed of numbers
in accord, it sends at once
a consonant response,
and both then mingling vie
in sweetest harmony.
Here upon a sea of sweetness
the soul sails, absorbed
at length to such degree
it neither hears nor feels
whatever's alien or strange.
O blessed swoon! O life-
bestowing death! O sweet oblivion!
Would that I could linger
in your bliss and never be restored
to this lower, viler sense.
Glory of Apollo's sacred choir,
I call you to this rapture,
friends I love
above all treasure,
for all the rest is but sad plaint.
O let your strains ring
always in my ears, Salinas,
by which my senses wake
to heavenly good
while to all else they stay asleep.
Translated by Michael Smith
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