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Richard Crashaw
Music's Duel
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- NOW Westward Sol had spent the richest Beams
- Of Noon's high Glory, when hard by the streams
- Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,
- Under protection an an Oak, there sat
- A sweet Lute's-master, in whose gentle aires
- 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 neighboring 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 mold the same
- In her own murmurs, that what ever mood
- His curious fingers lent, her voice made good;
- The man preceiv'd his Rival, and her Art,
- Dispos'd to give the light-foot Lady sport
- Awakes his Lute, and 'gainst the fight to come
- Informs it, in a sweet Praeludium
- Of closer strains, and ere the war begin,
- He lightly skirmishes on every string
- Char'd 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 hands instinct then taught each string
- A cap'ring cheerfulness, and made them sing
- Toi 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, every where
- 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 unwrinckled song, then doth she point it
- With tender accents, and severely joint it
- By short diminutives, that being rear'd
- In controverting warbles evenly shar'd,
- With her sweet self she wrangles; He amaz'd
- That from so small a channel should be rais'd
- The torrent of a voice, whose melody
- Could melt into such sweet variety
- Strains higher yet; that tickled with rare art
- The tatling 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 Aires, and staggers in a warbling doubt
- Of dallying sweetness, hovers o"er her skillk,
- And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill,
- The pliant Series of her slippery song.
- Then starts she suddenly into a Throng
- Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring volleys float,
- And roll themselves over her lubrick 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, whenced in ripen'd Aires
- A Golden-headed Harvest fairly rears
- His Honey-dripping tops, plow'd by her breath
- Which there reciprocally laboreth
- In that sweet soil. It seems a holy choir
- 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 Eye-lids 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 whirl-wind (striving to get out)
- Heaves her soft Bosom, wanders round about,
- And makes a pretty Earthquake in her Breast,
- Till the fledg'd Notes at length forsake their Nest;
- Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the Sky
- Wing'd with their own wild Echo's prattling fly.
- She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a Tide
- Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride
- On the wav'd back of every swelling strain,
- Rising and falling in a pompous train.
- And while she thus discharges a shrill peal
- Of flashing Aires, 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 ravisht, and so pour'd
- Into loose ecstasies, that she is plac't
- Above her self, Music's Enthusiast.
- Shame now and anger mixt 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 thy self, sing thine own Obsequy."
- So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings,
- And with a quavering 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 aires
- Of his own breath, which married to his Lyre
- Doth tune the Spheres, and make Heav'n'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 learned touch,
- By various Glosses; now they seem to grutch,
- And murmur in a buzzing din, then jingle
- In shrill-tongu'd accents, striving to be single.
- Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke
- Gives life to some new Grace; thus doth h'invoke
- Sweetness by all her Names; thus, bravely thus
- (Fraught with a fury so harmonious)
- The Lute's light Genius now does proudly rise,
- Heav'd on the surges of swoll'n Rhapsodies.
- Whose flourish (Meteor-like) doth curl the air
- With flash of high-borne fancies; here and there
- Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
- Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,
- Who trembling murmurs melting in wild aires
- Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares
- Because those precious mysteries that dwell,
- In Music's ravish't soul he dare not tell,
- But whisper to the world; thus do they vary
- Each string his Note, as if they meant to carry
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