text_original: Ten thousand cymbals now begin, To rend the skies with brazen din; The cymbals' rattling sounds dispel The cloud, and drive the hag to hell. The moon, deliver'd from her pain, Displays her silver face again.
text_transcription: TEN THOUSAND SYMBALS NOW BEGIN TO REND THE SKIES WITH BRAZEN DIN THE CYMBAL'S RATTLING SOUNDS DISPEL THE CLOUD AND DRIVE THE HAG TO HELL THE MOON DELIVERED FROM HER PAIN DISPLAYS HER SILVER FACE AGAIN
phonemes: tˈɛn θˈaʊzənd sˈɪmbəlz nˈaʊ bɪɡˈɪn, tə ɹˈɛnd ðə skˈaɪz wɪð bɹˈeɪzən dˈɪn; ðə sˈɪmbəlz ɹˈæɾəlɪŋ sˈaʊndz dɪspˈɛl ðə klˈaʊd, ænd dɹˈaɪv ðə hˈæɡ tə hˈɛl. ðə mˈuːn, dᵻlˈɪvɚd fɹʌm hɜː pˈeɪn, dɪsplˈeɪz hɜː sˈɪlvɚ fˈeɪs ɐɡˈɛn.