MUSIC'S DUEL.

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,

Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted:
Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs
Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton airs

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,
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 humorous strings expound his learned touch
By various glosses; now they seem to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle
In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single;
Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke

Gives life to some new grace; thus doth he invoke
Sweetness by all her names: thus, bravely thus
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)

The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,
Heaved on the surges of swoll'n rhapsodies;
Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air
With flash of high-born fancies, here and there
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,
Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,

Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares;

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Because those precious mysteries that dwell
In music's ravish'd soul he dare not tell,
But whisper to the world thus do they vary,
Each string his note, as if they meant to carry
Their master's blest soul (snatch'd out at his ears
By a strong ecstasy) through all the spheres

Of music's heaven; and seat it there on high,
In th' empyreum 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 swallows all.

This done, he lists what she would say to this;
And she, although her breath's late exercise
Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,
Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note.
Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul) she tries
To measure all those wild diversities

Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone;
She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies:
She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize,
Falling upon his lute: oh fit to have,

(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