MUSIC'S DUEL.

From the Latin of Strada.

BY RICHARD CRASHAW,

[RICHARD CRASHAW was born in London, probably in 1615, and was educated at Cambridge, where, having taken orders, he was made Master of Peterhouse, whence he was expelled by the Parliament. He then fell into great distress, and joined the Roman Catholics, but did not receive any advantage from the change until Cowley recommended him to the exiled Queen Henrietta Maria, by whose advice he went to Rome, where he became secretary to a Cardinal, and Canon of Loretto. He died in 1650.

Crashaw was a good linguist; his mind was of a dreamy character, and many of his poems are merely religious raptures; his descriptive powers are, however, considerable, and his verse is very harmonious. He was very successful as a translator.]

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 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 whatever mood
His curious fingers lent, her voice made good:

The man perceived 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 e'er the war begin,

He lightly skirmishes on every string

Charged with a flying touch; and straightway 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 brea.hing in his part,
Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling base
In surly groans disdains the treble's grace;
The high-percht 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 them 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 thund'ring 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,

Sounded 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 echoes, prattling fly.
She opes the flood-gate, 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 mix'd 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 quavering coyness tastes the strings:
The sweet-lipp'd sisters musically frighted,