The Complete Works of Richard Crashaw Volume I Part 39

MUSICK'S DUELL.[61]

Now Westward Sol had spent the richest beams 1 Of Noon's high glory, when hard by the streams Of Tiber, on the sceane of a greene plat, Vnder protection of an oake, there sate A sweet Lute's-master; in whose gentle aires 5 He lost the daye's 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 she!) 10 There stood she listning, and did entertaine The musick's 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; 15 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, He lightly skirmishes on every string, 20 Charg'd with a flying touch: and streightway she 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 25 By that shrill taste, she could do something too.

His nimble hands' instinct then taught each string A capring cheerefullnesse; and made them sing To their owne dance; now negligently rash He throwes his arme, and with a long drawne dash 30 Blends all together; then distinctly tripps From this to that; then quicke returning skipps And s.n.a.t.c.hes this again, and pauses there.

Shee measures every measure, every where Meets art with art; sometimes as if in doubt 35 Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out, Trayles her plaine ditty in one long-spun note, Through the sleeke pa.s.sage of her open throat, A cleare unwrinckled song; then doth shee point it With tender accents, and severely joynt it 40 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 45 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 groans disdaines the treble's grace; 50 The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides, Vntill his finger (Moderatour) hides And closes the sweet quarrell, rowsing all, h.o.a.rce, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th' harvest of Death's field, and woo 55 Men's hearts into their hands: this lesson too Shee gives him back, her supple brest thrills out Sharpe aires, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetnesse, hovers o're her skill, And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill 60 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 lubrick throat In panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast, 65 That ever-bubling spring; the sugred nest Of her delicious soule, that there does lye Bathing in streames of liquid melodie; Musick's best seed-plot, whence in ripen'd aires A golden-headed harvest fairely reares 70 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 silver-roofe rings with the sprightly notes 75 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: 80 (Most divine service) whose so early lay, Prevents the eye-lidds of the blus.h.i.+ng Day!

There you might heare her kindle her soft voyce, In the close murmur of a sparkling noyse, And lay the ground-worke of her hopefull song, 85 Still keeping in the forward streame, so long, Till a sweet whirle-wind (striving to get 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, 90 Fluttering in wanton shoales, and to the sky Wing'd with their owne wild ecchos, 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, 95 Rising and falling in a pompous traine.

And while she thus discharges a shrill peale Of flas.h.i.+ng aires; she qualifies their zeale With the coole epode of a graver noat, Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat 100 Would reach the brazen voyce of War's h.o.a.rce bird; Her little soule is ravisht: and so pour'd Into loose extasies, that she is plac't Above her selfe, Musick's Enthusiast.

Shame now and anger mixt a double staine 105 In the Musitian's face; yet once againe (Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my lute Above her mocke, or be for ever mute; Or tune a song of victory to me, Or to thy selfe, sing thine own obsequie: 110 So said, his hands sprightly as fire, he flings And with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings.

The sweet-lip't sisters, musically frighted, Singing their feares, are fearefully delighted, Trembling as when Appolo's golden haires 115 Are fan'd and frizled, in the wanton ayres Of his own breath: which marryed to his lyre Doth tune the spheares, and make Heaven's selfe looke higher.

From this to that, from that to this he flyes.

Feeles Musick's pulse in all her arteryes; 120 Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads, His fingers struggle with the vocall threads.

Following those little rills, he sinkes into A sea of Helicon; his hand does goe Those pathes of sweetnesse which with nectar drop, 125 Softer than 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 be single. 130 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 lute's light genius now does proudly rise, 135 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; 140 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, he dares not tell, But whisper to the world: thus doe they vary 145 Each string his note, as if they meant to carry Their Master's blest soule (s.n.a.t.c.ht out at his eares By a strong extasy) through all the spheares Of Musick's heaven; and seat it there on high In th' empyraeum of pure harmony. 150 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) 155 A full-mouth'd diapason swallowes 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 throate,) Yet summons all her sweet powers for a noate. 160 Alas! in vaine! for while (sweet soule!) she tryes To measure all those wild diversities Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one Poore simple voyce, rais'd in a naturall tone; She failes, and failing grieves, and grieving dyes. 165 She dyes: and leaves her life the Victor's prise, Falling upon his lute: O, fit to have (That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave!

NOTES AND ILl.u.s.tRATIONS.

In our Essay we give the original Latin of this very remarkable poem, that the student may see how CRASHAW has enn.o.bled and transfigured STRADA. Still further to show how much we owe to our Poet, I print here (_a_) An anonymous translation, which I discovered at the British Museum in Additional MSS. 19.268; never before printed. (_b_) Sir FRANCIS WORTLEY'S translation from his 'Characters and Elegies' (1646). In the former I have been obliged to leave one or two words unfilled-in as illegible in the MS.

(_a_) _The Musicke Warre between ye Fidler and the Nightingale._

Nowe had greate Sol ye middle orbe forsooke When as a fidler by a slidinge brooke With shadie bowers was guarded from ye aire And on his fidle plaid away his care.

A nightingale hid in the leaues there stood The muse and harmeles Syren of the wood; Shee s.n.a.t.c.ht ye soundes and with an echo prates: What his hand playde her voice reiterates.

Perceavinge how ye listninge bird did sit Ye fidler faine would make some sport with it, And neately stroke ye lute; then she began And through those notes ran glib division; Then with quicke hand he strikes ye tremblinge strings, Now with a skilfull negligence he flings His carelesse armes, then softly playes his part: Then shee begins and answers art with art, And now as if vncertaine how to singe Lengthens her notes and choisest art doth bringe, And interminglinge softer notes with shrill Daintily quavers through her trembling bill.

Ye fidler wonders such melodious notes Shold haue proceedinges from soe slender throats; Tryes her againe, then loudly spoke ye....

Sometimes graue were ye tones, sometimes....

Then high, then lowe againe, yn sweetly iarrs Just like a trumpet callinge men to warrs.

Thus did ye dainty Philomela doe And with hoa.r.s.e voice sange an alarme too.

The fidler blusht, and al in ragg [_i.e._ rage] he went About to breake his conquered instrument, But yet suspectinge lest ambitious shee Shold to the woods warble her victory; Strikes with inimitable blowes And flies through all the strings, now these, now those, Then tryes the notes, labours in each strayne And then expects if shee replyed agayne.

The poore harmonious bird now almost dombe, But impatient, to be overcome Calls her sweet strength together all in vayne, For while shee thinkes to imitate each strayne In pure and natiue language, in this strife And dayntie musicke warre shee left her life, And yeldinge to the gladsome conquerour Falls in his fidle: a fit sepulchere.

(_b_) _From 'Characters and Elegies.' By Francis Wortley, knight and baronet: 1646_ (p. 66). _A Paraphrase upon the Verses which Famia.n.u.s Strada made of the Lutanist and Philomell in Contestation._

'When past the middle orbe the parching sun Had downward nearer our horizon run A Lutenist neare Tiber's streames had found Where the eccho did resound.

Under a holme a shady bower he made To ease his cares, his severall phancies play'd; The philomell no sooner did the musicke hear But straight-wayes she drew neare.

The harmlesse Syren, musicke of the wood, Hid in a leavy-bush, she hearking stood, She ruminates upon the ayers he plaid, And to him answers made.

With her s.h.i.+rl voyce doth all his paines requite Lost not one note, but to his play sung right; Well pleased to heare her skil, and envy, he Tryes his variety.

And dares her with his severall notes, runs throw Even all the strains his skill could reach unto: A thousand wayes he tryes: she answers all, And for new straynes dares call.

He could not touch a string in such a straine, To which she warble and not sung it plaine; His fingers could not reach to greater choice, Then she did with her voyce.

The Lutenist admired her narrow throat Could reach so high or fall to any note: But that which he did thinke in her most strange, She instantly could change.

Or sharpe or flat, or meane, or quicke, or slow, What ere he plaid, she the like skill would show: And if he inward did his notes recall, She answer made to all.

Th' inraged Lutenist, he blusht for shame That he could not this weake corrivall tame: If thou canst answer this I'le breake my lute, And yeild in the dispute.

He said no more, but aimes at such a height Of skill, he thought she could not imitate: He shows the utmost cunning of his hand And all he could command.

He tryes his strength, his active fingers flye To every string and stop, now low, now high, And higher yet he multiplyes his skill, Then doth his chorus fill.

Then he expecting stands to try if she His envy late would yeeld the victory: She would not yeeld, but summons all her force Though tyred out and hoa.r.s.e.

She strives with various strings the lute's bast chest The spirit of man, one narrow throat and chest: Unequal matches, yet she's pleased that she Concludes victoriously.

Her spirit was such she would not live to heare The Lutenist bestow on her a jeere, But broken-hearted fall upon the tombe She choose the sweet lute's wombe.

The warbling lutes doe yet their triumphs tell (With mournfull accents) of the philomell, And have usurpt the t.i.tle ever since, Of harmony the prince.

The morall this, by emulation wee May much improve both art and industry, Though she deserve the name of Philomell Yet men must her excell.'

A third (anonymous) translation, with the Latin on the opposite pages, I came on in LANSDOWNE MSS. 3910, Pl. lxvi. from which extracts will be found in our Essay.

In the SANCROFT MS. the heading is 'Fidicinis et Philomelae Bellum Music.u.m. R. CR.' It reads in line 79 'whence' for 'where;' adopted: line 125, 'pathes' for 'parts;' adopted: other variations only orthographic, as is the case with the different editions. I note these: in 1670, line 83 reads 'might you:' line 99, 1646 misprints 'grave:' line 156, our text misprints 'full-mouth,' and so 1646; I adopt 'full-mouth'd' from 1670 and SANCROFT MS. G.

THE PRAISE OF THE SPRING:

OUT OF VIRGIL.[62]

All trees, all leavy groves confesse the Spring 1 Their gentlest friend; then, then the lands begin To swell with forward pride, and feed desire To generation; Heaven's Almighty Sire Melts on the bosome of His love, and powres 5 Himselfe into her lap in fruitfull showers.

And by a soft insinuation, mixt With Earth's large ma.s.se, doth cherish and a.s.sist Her weake conceptions. No lone shade but rings With chatring birds' delicious murmurings; 10 Then Venus' mild instinct (at set times) yields The herds to kindly meetings, then the fields (Quick with warme Zephyre's lively breath) lay forth Their pregnant bosomes in a fragrant birth.

Each body's plump and jucy, all things full 15 Of supple moisture: no coy twig but will Trust his beloved blossome to the sun (Growne l.u.s.ty now): no vine so weake and young That feares the foule-mouth'd Auster or those stormes That the Southwest-wind hurries in his armes, 20 But hasts her forward blossomes, and layes out Freely layes out her leaves: nor doe I doubt But when the world first out of chaos sprang So smil'd the dayes, and so the tenor ran Of their felicity. A Spring was there, 25 An everlasting Spring, the jolly yeare Led round in his great circle; no wind's breath As then did smell of Winter or of Death.

When Life's sweet light first shone on beasts, and when From their hard mother Earth, sprang hardy men, 30 When beasts tooke up their lodging in the Wood, Starres in their higher chambers: never cou'd The tender growth of things endure the sence Of such a change, but that the Heav'ns indulgence Kindly supplyes sick Nature, and doth mold 35 A sweetly-temper'd meane, nor hot nor cold.

WITH A PICTURE SENT TO A FRIEND.[63]

I paint so ill, my peece had need to be 1 Painted againe by some good poesie.

I write so ill, my slender line is scarce So much as th' picture of a well-lim'd verse: Yet may the love I send be true, though I 5 Send not true picture, nor true poesie.

Both which away, I should not need to feare, My love, or feign'd or painted should appeare.

IN PRAISE OF LESSIUS'S RULE OF HEALTH.[64]

Goe now, with some dareing drugg, 1 Baite thy disease, and while they tugg, Thou, to maintaine their cruell strife Spend the deare treasure of thy life: Goe take physicke, doat upon 5 Some big-nam'd composition,-- The oraculous doctors' mistick bills, Certain hard words made into pills; And what at length shalt get by these?

Onely a costlyer disease. 10 Goe poore man, thinke what shall bee Remedie 'gainst thy remedie.

That which makes us have no need Of phisick, that's phisick indeed.

Heark hither, Reader: would'st thou see 15 Nature her own physician be?

Would'st see a man all his own wealth, His own musick, his own health?

A man, whose sober soul can tell How to wear her garments well? 20 Her garments, that upon her sit, (As garments should do) close and fit?

A well-clothed soul, that's not opprest Nor choked with what she should be drest?

Whose soul's sheath'd in a crystall shrine, 25 Through which all her bright features s.h.i.+ne?

As when a piece of wanton lawn, A thin aerial vail is drawn, O're Beauty's face; seeming to hide, More sweetly shows the blus.h.i.+ng bride: 30 A soul, whose intellectuall beams No mists do mask, no lazie steams?

A happie soul, that all the way To Heav'n, hath a Summer's day?

Would'st see a man whose well-warm'd bloud 35 Bathes him in a genuine floud?