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 A sweet lute's-master; in whose gentle airs 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 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 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 Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art, And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all, Hoarse, shrill, at once; as when the trumpets call Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, 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; 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; In cream of morning Helicon, and then To woo them from their beds, still murmuring And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song, 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: |