[
CANTATA
.
DELL
METASTAISO
.
]
TRANSLATION
.
Dark
,
mournful
clouds
hang
o'er
the
sun
,
Lights
gleam
portentous
in
the
air
,
And
yet
who
knows
?
This
troubled
heart
Still
gives
not
up
to
blank
despair
.
Not
big
with
shipwrecks
every
storm
,
That
sweeps
the
bosom
of
the
main
,
Nor
does
the
threatening
,
turbid
sky
,
Always
the
thunder-bolt
contain
.