MUSIC'S DUEL. 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 In the close murmur of a sparkling noise; And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song, Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal 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 : Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted: 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, A sea of Helicon; his hand does go Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop, Gives life to some new grace; thus doth he invoke The lute's light genius now does proudly rise, Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares; Ꮓ Because those precious mysteries that dwell Of music's heaven; and seat it there on high, 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 swallows all. This done, he lists what she would say to this; Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one (That lived so sweetly,) dead, so sweet a grave! [RICHARD LOVELACE was born at Woolwich, in 1618, and was educated at Oxford. He was deputed by the county of Kent to deliver a petition to the House of Commons for the restoration of monarchy, and for this he was sent to prison. He expended nearly all he possessed in the cause of Charles I., and then entered the French army; but being wounded at the siege of Dunkirk, he returned to England, and was thrown into prison, where he remained until the king's execution. He then obtained his liberty; but he had lost all his property, and his destitution brought on a consumption, of which he died in 1658, in a miserable alley. He was a man of fine personal appearance, most accomplished manners, and excellent character. His poems are the productions of his happier days; he dedicated them, under the name of Lucasta, to Lucy Sacheverell, a highly accomplished lady, to whom he was strongly attached, but who, hearing that he had died of his wounds at Dunkirk, married another lover. They show a deep devotion to his king and his mistress, and are both graceful and spirited.] That from the nunnery |