Choir for 4 voices
Soprano solo
Alto solo
Tenor solo
Bass solo
Travers flute I + II
Oboe d`amore I + II
Violin I + II
Viola
Viola da gamba I + II
Lute I + II
Basso continuo

Part 1
Let, Princess, let still one more glance
Shoot forth from Salem's starry heavens.
And see how many tearful off'rings
We pour around thy monument.





Thy Saxons, like thy saddened Meissen,
Stand numb beside thy royal tomb;
The eye doth weep, the tongue cries out:
My pain must be without description!
Here mourn August and Prince and land,
The nobles moan, the commons sorrow,
How much for thee thy folk lamented
As soon as it thy fall perceived!

Be mute, be mute, ye lovely lyres!
No sound could to the nations' woe
At their dear cherished mother's death,
O painful word!, give meet expression.

The tolling of the trembling bells
Shall our lamenting souls' great terror
Through their rebounding bronze awaken
And pierce us to the very core.
Oh, would that now this anxious peeling,
Which on our ears each day doth shrill,
To all the European world
A witness of our grief might render!

How died our Lady so content!
How valiantly her spirit struggled,
For her the arm of death did vanquish
Before it did her breast subdue.


Her living let the art of dying
With ever steadfast skill be seen;
It would have been impossible
Before her death that she grow pallid.
Ah, blessed he whose noble soul
Doth raise itself above our nature,
At crypt and coffin doth not tremble,
When him his maker calls to part.

In thee, thou model of great women,
In thee, illustrious royal queen,
In thee, thou keeper of the faith,
The form of kindness was to witness.





Part 2

Eternity's sapphiric house,
O Princess, these thy cheerful glances
From our own low estate now draweth
And blots out earth's corrupted form.
A brilliant light a hundred suns make,
Which doth our day to mid of night
And doth our sun to darkness turn,
Hath thy transfigured head surrounded.

What wonder this? This thou hast earned,
Thou model of all queens forever!
For thou wast meant to win the glory
Which hath transfigured now thy head.
Before the lamb's own throne thou wearest
Instead of purple's vanity
A pearl-white robe of purity
And scornest now the crown forsaken.
As far the brimming Vistula,
The Dniester and the Warth are flowing,
As far the Elb' and Muld' are streaming,
Extol thee / both the / town and land.
Thy Torgau walketh now in mourning,
Thy Pretzsch is weary, pale and weak;
For with the loss it hath in thee,
It loseth all it vision's rapture.

No, royal queen! Thou shalt not die;
We see in thee our great possession;
Posterity shall not forget thee,
Till all this universe shall fall.
Ye poets, write! For we would read it:
She hath been virtue's property
Her loyal subjects' joy and fame,
Of royal queens the crown and glory.