Music’s Duel
NOW westward Sol had spent the richest beamsOf noon’s high glory, when, hard by the streamsOf Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,Under protection of an oak, there satA sweet lute’s master: in whose gentle airsHe lost the day’s heat, and his own hot cares.Close in the covert of the leaves there stoodA 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 entertainThe music’s soft report, and mould the sameIn her own murmurs, that whatever moodHis 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 comeInforms it, in a sweet præludiumOf closer strains; and ere the war beginHe slightly skirmishes on every string,Charged with a flying touch; and straightway sheCarves out her dainty voice as readilyInto a thousand sweet distinguished tones;And reckons up in soft divisionsQuick volumes of wild notes, to let him knowBy that shrill taste she could do something too.His nimble hand’s instinct then taught each stringA cap’ring cheerfulness; and made them singTo their own dance; now negligently rashHe throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dashBlends all together, then distinctly tripsFrom this to that, then, quick returning, skipsAnd snatches this again, and pauses there.She measures every measure, everywhereMeets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt—Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out—Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun noteThrough the sleek passage of her open throat:A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point itWith tender accents, and severely joint itBy short diminutives, that, being rearedIn controverting warbles evenly shared,With her sweet sell she wrangles; he, amazedThat from so small a channel should be raisedThe torrent of a voice whose melodyCould melt into such sweet variety,Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art,The tattling strings—each breathing in his part—Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling bassIn surly groans disdains the treble’s grace;The high-perched treble chirps at this, and chidesUntil his finger—moderator—hidesAnd closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all,Hoarse, shrill, at once: as when the trumpets callHot Mars to th’ harvest of death’s field, and wooMen’s hearts into their hands; this lesson, too,She gives him back, her supple breast thrills outSharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubtOf 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 throngOf short thick sobs, whose thund’ring volleys floatAnd roll themselves over her lubric throatIn panting murmurs, ’stilled out of her breast,That ever-bubbling spring, the sugared nestOf her delicious soul, that there does lieBathing in streams of liquid melody,—Music’s best seed-plot; when in ripened earsA golden-headed harvest fairly rearsHis honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath,Which there reciprocally laboureth.In that sweet soil it seems a holy quireFounded to th’ name of great Apollo’s lyre;Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notesOf sweet-lipped angel-imps, that swill their throatsIn cream of morning Helicon; and thenPrefer soft anthems to the ears of men,To woo them from their beds, still murmuringThat men can sleep while they their matins sing;—Most divine service! whose so early layPrevents the eyelids of the blushing day.There might you hear her kindle her soft voiceIn 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,Winged with their own wild echos, pratt’ling fly.She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tideOf streaming sweetness, which in state doth rideOn the waved back of every swelling strain,Rising and falling in a pompous train;And while she thus discharges a shrill pealOf flashing airs, she qualifies their zealWith the cool epode of a graver note;Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throatWould reach the brazen voice of war’s hoarse bird;Her little soul is ravished; and so pouredInto loose ecstasies, that she is placedAbove herself—music’s enthusiast!Shame now and anger mixed a double stainIn 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 quivering coyness tastes the strings:The sweet-lipped sisters, musically frighted,Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted:Trembling as when Apollo’s golden hairsAre fanned and frizzled in the wanton airsOf 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 intoA sea of Helicon; his hand does goThose parts of sweetness which with nectar drop,Softer than that which pants in Hebe’s cup:The humorous strings expound his learned touchBy various glosses; now they seem to grutchAnd murmur in a buzzing din, then gingleIn shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single;Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke,Gives life to some new grace: thus doth he invokeSweetness 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 airWith flash of high-born fancies; here and thereDancing in lofty measures, and anonCreeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares;Because those precious mysteries that dwellIn music’s ravished soul he dare not tell,But whisper to the world: thus do they vary,Each string his note, as if they meant to carryTheir master’s blest soul, snatched out at his earsBy a strong ecstasy, through all the spheresOf music’s heaven; and seat it there on highIn th’ empyræum of pure harmony.At length—after so long, so loud a strifeOf all the strings, still breathing the best lifeOf blest variety, attending onHis fingers’ fairest revolution,In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall—A full-mouthed diapason swallows all.This done, he lists what she would say to this;And she, although her breath’s late exerciseHad dealt too roughly with her tender throat,Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note.Alas, in vain! for while, sweet soul, she triesTo measure all those wild diversitiesOf chatt’ring strings, by the small size of onePoor 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. O, fit to have—That lived so sweetly—dead, so sweet a grave!