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MUSIC'S DUEL. Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the streams Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat, Under protection of an oak, there sat A sweet lute's master : in whose gentle airs He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares. Close in the covert of the leaves there stood A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood :— The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, Their muse, their Syren, harmless Syren she,— There stood she list'ning, and did entertain The music's soft report, and mould the same In her own murmurs, that what ever mood His curious fingers lent, her voice made good. The man preceived his rival, and her art ; Disposed to give the light-foot lady sport, Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come Informs it, in a sweet præludium Of closer strains ; and ere the war begin He slightly skirmishes on every string, Charged with a flying touch ; and staightway she Carves out her dainty voice as readily Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones : And reckons up in soft divisions Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know By that shrill taste she could do something too. His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string A cap'ring cheerfulness ; and made them sing To their own dance ; now negligently rash He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash Blends all together, then distinctly trips From this to that, then, quick returning, skips And snatches this again, and pauses there. She measures every measure, everywhere Meets art with art ; sometimes, as if in doubt— Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out— Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note Through the sleek passage of her open throat : A clear unwrinkled song ; then doth she point it With tender accents, and severely joint it By short diminutives, that, being rear'd In controverting warbles evenly shared, With her sweet self she wrangles ; he, amazed That from so small a channel should be raised The torrent of a voice, whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety, Strains higher yet, that tickled with rare art The tattling strings—each breathing in his part— Most kindly do fall out ; the grumbling base In surly groans disdains the treble's grace ; The high-perch'd treble chirps at this, and chides Until his finger—moderator—hides And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all, Hoarse, shrill, at once : as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th' harvest of death's field, and woo Men's hearts into their hands ; this lesson, too, She gives him back, her supple breast thrills out Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill, The pliant series of her slippery song ; Then starts she suddenly into a throng Of short thick sobs, whose thundring volleys float And roll themselves over her lubric throat In panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast, That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd nest Of her delicious soul, that there does lie Bathing in streams of liquid melody,— Music's best seed-plot ; when in ripen'd airs A golden-headed harvest fairly rears His honey-dropping tops, plough'd by her breath, Which there reciprocally laboureth. In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre ; Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their throats In cream of morning Helicon ; and then Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men, To woo them from their beds, still murmuring That men can sleep while they their matins sing ;— Most divine service ! whose so early lay Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. There might you hear her kindle her soft voice In the close murmur of a sparkling noise, And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song ; Still keeping in the forward stream so long, Till a sweet whirlwind, striving to get out, Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about, And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast ; Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest, Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky, Wing'd with their own wild echos, pratt'ling fly. She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride On the waved back of every swelling strain, Rising and falling in a pompous train ; And while she thus discharges a shrill peal Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal With the cool epode of a graver note ; Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird ; Her little soul is ravish'd : and so pour'd Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed Above herself—music's enthusiast ! Shame now and anger mixed a double stain In the musician's face ; yet once again, Mistress, I come. Now reach a strain, my lute, Above her mock, or be for ever mute ; Or tune a song of victory to me, Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy ! So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings, And with a quivering coyness tastes the strings : The sweet-lipp'd sisters, musically frighted, Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted : Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton airs Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre, Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self look higher ; From this to that, from that to this, he flies, Feels music's pulse in all her arteries ; Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads, His fingers struggle with the vocal threads, Following those little rills, he sinks into A sea of Helicon : his hand does go Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop, Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup : The humourous strings expound his learnèd touch By various glosses ; now they seem to grutch, And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single ; Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke, Gives life to some new grace : thus doth he invoke Sweetness by all her names ; thus, bravely thus— Fraught with a fury so harmonious— The lute's light Genius now does proudly rise, Heaved on the surges of swoll'n rhapsodies, Whose flourish, meteor-like, doth curl the air With flash of high-born fancies ; here and there Dancing in lofty measures, and anon Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone, Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares ; Because those precious mysteries that dwell In music's ravish'd soul he dare not tell, But whisper to the world : thus do they vary Each string his note, as if they meant to carry Their master's blest soul, snatch'd out at his ears By a strong ecstacy, through all the spheres Of music's heaven ; and seat it there on high In th' empyræum of pure harmony. At length—after so long, so loud a strife Of all the strings, still breathing the best life Of blest variety, attending on His fingers' fairest revolution, In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall— A full-mouth'd diapason swallows all. This done, he lists what she would say to this ; And she, although her breath's late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat, Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note. Alas, in vain ! for while, sweet soul, she tries To measure all those wild diversities Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone, She fails ; and failing, grieves ; and grieving, dies ;— She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize, Falling upon his lute. O, fit to have— That lived so sweetly—dead, so sweet a grave ! |
Source:
The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw. William B. Turnbull, Ed.
London: John Russell Smith, 1858. 87-92.
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