Now westward Sol had spent the richest
Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the
Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,
Under protection of an oak, there satA sweet lute's master : in whose gentle
He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares. Close in the covert of the leaves there stoodA 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
The music's soft report, and mould the
In her own murmurs, that what ever
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
Informs it, in a sweet
Of closer strains ; and ere the war
He slightly skirmishes on every string,
Charged with a flying touch ; and staightway
Carves out her dainty voice as
Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones :
And reckons up in soft
Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him
By that shrill taste she could do something too. His nimble hand's instinct then taught each stringA cap'ring cheerfulness ; and made them
To their own dance ; now negligently
He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn
Blends all together, then distinctly
From this to that, then, quick returning,
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures every measure,
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
Through the sleek passage of her open throat :
A clear unwrinkled song ; then doth she point
With tender accents, and severely joint
By short diminutives, that, being
In controverting warbles evenly shared,
With her sweet self she wrangles ; he,
That from so small a channel should be
The torrent of a voice, whose
Could melt into such sweet variety,
Strains higher yet, that tickled with rare
The tattling strings—each breathing in his part—Most kindly do fall out ; the grumbling
In surly groans disdains the treble's grace ;
The high-perch'd treble chirps at this, and
Until his
And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all,
Hoarse, shrill, at once : as when the trumpets
Hot Mars to th' harvest of death's field, and
Men's hearts into their hands ; this lesson, too,
She gives him back, her supple breast thrills
Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling
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
Of short thick sobs, whose thundring volleys
And roll themselves over her lubric
In panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast,
That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd
Of her delicious soul, that there does
Bathing in streams of liquid melody,—Music's best seed-plot ; when in ripen'd airsA golden-headed harvest fairly
His honey-dropping tops, plough'd by her breath,
Which there reciprocally laboureth.
In that sweet soil it seems a holy
Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre ;
Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly
Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their
In cream of morning Helicon ; and
Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men,
To woo them from their beds, still
That men can sleep while they their matins sing ;—Most divine service ! whose so early
Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day.
There might you hear her kindle her soft
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
Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth
On the waved back of every swelling strain,
Rising and falling in a pompous train ;
And while she thus discharges a shrill
Of flashing airs, she qualifies their
With the cool epode of a graver note ;
Thus high, thus low, as if her silver
Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird ;
Her little soul is ravish'd : and so
Into loose ecstasies, that she is
Above herself—music's enthusiast ! Shame now and anger mixed a double
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
Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton
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 intoA sea of Helicon : his hand does
Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop,
Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup :
The humourous strings expound his learnèd
By various glosses ; now they seem to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing din, then
In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single ;
Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke,
Gives life to some new grace : thus doth he
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
With flash of high-born fancies ; here and
Dancing in lofty measures, and
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,
Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares ;
Because those precious mysteries that
In music's ravish'd soul he dare not tell,
But whisper to the world : thus do they
Each string his note, as if they meant to
Their master's blest soul, snatch'd out at his
By a strong ecstacy, through all the
Of music's heaven ; and seat it there on
In th' empyræum of pure harmony.
At length—after so long, so loud a
Of all the strings, still breathing the best
Of blest variety, attending
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
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
To measure all those wild
Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of
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 !
