Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MUSIC'S DUEL, by FAMIANUS STRADA First Line: Now westward sol had spent the richest beams Last Line: (that liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave! Subject(s): Birds; Nightingales | ||||||||
Now Westward Sol had spent the richest Beames Of Noons high Glory, when hard by the streams Of Tiber, on the sceane of a greene plat, Under protection of an Oake; there sate A sweet Lutes-master: in whose gentle aires Hee lost the Dayes heat, and his owne 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. harmlesse Syren shee) There stood she listning, and did entertaine The Musicks soft report: and mold the same In her owne murmures, that what ever mood His curious fingers lent, her voyce made good: The man perceiv'd his Rivall, and her Art, Dispos'd to give the light'foot Lady sport Awakes his Lute, and 'gainst the fight to come Informes it, in a sweet Praeludium Of closer straines, and ere the warre begin, Hee lightly skirmishes on every string Charg'd with a flying touch: and streightway shee Carves out her dainty voyce as readily, Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd Tones, And reckons up in soft divisions, Quicke volumes of wild Notes; to let him know By that shrill taste, shee could doe something too. His nimble hands instinct then taught each string A capring cheerefullnesse; and made them sing To their owne dance; now negligently rash Hee throwes his Arme, and with a long drawne dash Blends all together; then distinctly tripps From this to that; then quicke returning skipps And snatches this againe, and pauses there. Shee measures every measure, every where Meets art with art; sometimes as if in doubt Not perfect yet, and fearing to bee out Trayles her playne Ditty in one long-spun note, Through the sleeke passage of her open throat: A cleare unwrinckled song, then doth shee point it With tender accents, and severely joynt it By short diminutives, that being rear'd In controverting warbles evenly shar'd With her sweet selfe shee wrangles; Hee amazed That from so small a channell should be rais'd The torrent of a voyce, whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety Straines higher yet; that tickled with rare art The tatling strings (each breathing in his part) Most kindly doe fall out; the grumbling Base In surly groanes disdaines the Trebles Grace. The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides, Untill his finger (Moderatour) hides And closes the sweet quarrell, rowsing all Hoarce, shrill, at once; as when the Trumpets call Hot Mars to th' Harvest of Deaths field, and woo Mens hearts into their hands; this lesson too Shee gives him backe; her supple Brest thrills out Sharpe Aires, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetnesse, hovers ore her skill, And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill, The plyant Series of her slippery song. Then starts shee suddenly into a Throng Of short thicke sobs, whose thundring volleyes float, And roule themselves over her lubricke throat In panting murmurs, still'd out of her Breast That ever'bubling spring; the sugred Nest Of her delicious soule, that there does lye Bathing in streames of liquid Melodie; Musicks best seed-plot, whence in ripend Aires A Golden-headed Harvest fairely reares His Honey-dropping tops, plow'd by her breath Which there reciprocally laboureth In that sweet soyle. It seemes a holy quire Founded to th' Name of great Apollo's lyre, Whose sylver-roofe rings with the sprightly notes Of sweet-lipp'd Angel-Imps, that swill their throats In creame of Morning Helicon, and then Preferre soft Anthems to the Eares of men, To woo them from their Beds, still murmuring That men can sleepe while they their Mattens sing: (Most divine service) whose so early lay, Prevents the Eye-lidds of the blushing day. There might you heare her kindle her soft voyce, In the close murmur of a sparkling noyse. And lay the ground-worke of her hopefull song, Still keeping in the forward streame, so long Till a sweet whirle-wind (striving to gett out) Heaves her soft Bosome, wanders round about, And makes a pretty Earthquake in her Breast, Till the fledg'd Notes at length forsake their Nest Fluttering in wanton shoales, and to the Sky Wing'd with their owne wild Eccho's pratling fly. Shee opes the floodgate, and lets loose a Tide Of streaming sweetnesse, which in state doth ride On the wav'd backe of every swelling straine, Rising and falling in a pompous traine. And while shee thus discharges a shrill peale Of flashing Aires; shee qualifies their zeale With the coole Epode of a graver Noat, Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Would reach the brasen voyce of warr's hoarce Bird; Her little soule is ravisht: and so pour'd Into loose extasies, that shee is plac't Above her selfe, Musicks Enthusiast. Shame now and anger mixt a double staine In the Musitians face; yet once againe (Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my Lute Above her mocke, or bee for ever mute. Or tune a song of victory to mee, Or to thy selfe, sing thine owne Obsequie; So said, his hands sprightly as fire hee flings, And with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings. The sweet-lip't sisters musically frighted, Singing their feares are fearfully delighted. Trembling as when Appollo's golden haires Are fan'd and frizled, in the wanton ayres Of his owne breath: which marryed to his lyre Doth tune the Sphaeares, and make Heavens self looke higher. From this to that, from that to this hee flyes Feels Musicks pulse in all her Arteryes, Caught in a net which there Appollo spreads, His fingers struggle with the vocall threads, Following those little rills, hee sinkes into A Sea of Helicon; his hand does goe Those parts of sweetnesse which with Nectar drop, Softer then that which pants in Hebe's cup. The humourous strings expound his learned touch, By various Glosses; now they seeme to grutch, And murmur in a buzzing dinne, then gingle In shrill tongu'd accents: striving to bee single. Every smooth turne, every delicious stroake Gives life to some new Grace; thus doth h'invoke Sweetnesse by all her Names; thus, bravely thus (Fraught with a fury so harmonious) The Lutes light Genius now does proudly rise, Heav'd on the surges of swolne Rapsodyes. Whose flourish (Meteor-like) doth curle the aire With flash of high-borne fancyes: here and there Dancing in lofty measures, and anon Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone: Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild aires Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares Because those pretious mysteryes that dwell, In musick's ravish't soule hee dare not tell, But whisper to the world: thus doe they vary Each string his Note, as if they meant to carry Their Masters blest soule (snatcht out at his Eares By a strong Extasy) through all the sphaeares Of Musicks heaven; and seat it there on high In th' Empyraeum 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 swallowes all. This done, hee lists what shee would say to this, And shee although her Breath's late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throate, Yet summons all her sweet powers for a Noate. Alas! in vaine! for while (sweet soule) shee tryes To measure all those wild diversities Of chatt'ring stringes, by the small size of one Poore simple voyce, rais'd in a Naturall Tone; Shee failes, and failing grieves, and grieving dyes. Shee dyes; and leaves her life the Victors prise, Falling upon his Lute; o fit to have (That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a Grave! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE IS LIKE THE SCENT OF SYRINGA by MINA LOY THE NIGHTINGALE IN BADELUNDA by TOMAS TRANSTROMER THE NIGHTINGALE by PAUL VERLAINE ODE, FR. THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM by RICHARD BARNFIELD NIGHTINGALES by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE NIGHTINGALE; A CONVERSATION POEM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |
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