Air
Spirit and Soul of all, which art let in
To ev'ry Breast , and like a Soul, unseen ,
Enter'st without disturbance, noise, or strife.
The smallest Passages of Sense , and Life ;
Which, open to thy soft Access as free,
As the least Pores of Heaven , or Earth , or Sea :
Working, ith' World without , as ours within ,
A State of Life , untroubled and serene .
Such equal Measures , as the Pulse does beat,
The Breath , in quick Returns of Air does meet.
What Motion, Nature , or resembling Art
Does give, by thy Conveyance they impart;
Whilst with an easie and a gentle Gale
Thou fill'st each spreading Wing , and flying Sail ,
That soft and smooth like thee, they cut their way
Through the blue upper, and the lower Sea .
Through those white waving Clouds , that ebb and flow
Like the resembling Waves , that roul below
Thou spreadst; extended where the Sight does fail,
As wide as Ships can fly, or Birds can sail .
These in thy Race , thou leavest far behind,
Though Wings , they seem to borrow from the Wind ;
And both the navigable Skie , and Sea ,
Yield of themselves, to make their passage free.
When Arrows , in their pointed flight do tear,
And Bullets , with their round Wounds gore the Air;
Before it opens , but to have them gone,
And closes soon behind, to push them on.
To strokes of Sounds , it does consent to yield ,
As it were tickled , and with pleasure fill'd;
And loth to lose them, when their flight they take,
It keeps them long, and fled, recalls them back.
How is't, that they are lifted up on high?
Or being lifted up, how is't, they fly?
Which Wings are they, that Sounds transport? Which (they,
That wandring Odours , from afar convey?
What Hand can steer them in their Course so right,
And wandring in so many paths , unite?
How can they at such Distance meet? and there ,
At the same instant be, that they are here ?
By what Art is it, that the same Sounds strike
The Ears of many Hearers , all alike,
And pierce the Sense so quick, when scatter'd wide
And far disperst, they many wayes divide?
What secret Pipes , and Cavities unknown,
Transmit them so distinctly, one by one?
Where are those lost, which start aside, and stray,
Since nought can intercept them in their way?
How seems the Horn , to snatch the Air so short,
And so the News , of each Success report,
And all the Bus'ness , of the Chace declare,
As remote Hunters in the Pleasure share?
In what wild Notes , does War approach the Ear,
When Trumpets , bring a distant-Battel near,
And Sounds , seem so to skirmish in their flight,
As they in Air , began th' approaching Fight .
Some, perishing for want of stronger Breath ,
In gentle Whispers lost, and silent Death .
Others, expiring in their last rebounds
Kill'd by the Thunder , of more potent sounds .
Some, vanishing into a softer Sigh ,
As some, with the short Gasps of Eccho 's die.
These, in deep Groans , or piercing Shreeks are fled,
While those drop down, which stronger force does dead .
What various Changes , in one Trumpet meet?
As Sounds increasing, did new Sounds beget.
So thick they issue, and succeed so fast,
As each, did strive to overtake the last.
With double speed, each hasting to repair
The Breaches , which the former made in Air .
Each Breath , which does that single Throat inspire,
Swells pregnant, with the Consort of a Quire .
And as in Notes , so thus in Voices , none
Is found, or like another , or our own .
Whence is't, of many Speeches which we hear,
Each strikes a diff'ring Stroke , upon the Ear .
Or which way are these Changes wrought, that frame
Voices distinct, the Breath unvoic'd the same,
Since Air , which varies in so many Keyes ,
Is of it self, nor Treble, Mean , nor Base .
Does not the Speech these several Stamps partake,
Passing through Organs , of a diff'ring make?
What Breath in Fifes , mocks the Winds whistling noise ,
Pour'd in a Horn , turns to a hoarser Voice ,
Is shrill in Trumpets , and what high they raise,
In Bag-pipes , dwindles to a feeble Base .
Nay, ev'n in the same Organ , some Pipes go,
As high at once, as some run flat and low .
If such Variety , we can pursue,
In Voice , and Sound , where ev'ry Breath is new .
What is there in the Motion of each Sphere ,
Set to that Musick , which we cannot hear?
That heard, regardless we, should all neglect
The toils of Life , and listen with Respect.
All Noise , and Tumult here below, would cease,
And all return, to an harmonious Peace .
To ev'ry Breast , and like a Soul, unseen ,
Enter'st without disturbance, noise, or strife.
The smallest Passages of Sense , and Life ;
Which, open to thy soft Access as free,
As the least Pores of Heaven , or Earth , or Sea :
Working, ith' World without , as ours within ,
A State of Life , untroubled and serene .
Such equal Measures , as the Pulse does beat,
The Breath , in quick Returns of Air does meet.
What Motion, Nature , or resembling Art
Does give, by thy Conveyance they impart;
Whilst with an easie and a gentle Gale
Thou fill'st each spreading Wing , and flying Sail ,
That soft and smooth like thee, they cut their way
Through the blue upper, and the lower Sea .
Through those white waving Clouds , that ebb and flow
Like the resembling Waves , that roul below
Thou spreadst; extended where the Sight does fail,
As wide as Ships can fly, or Birds can sail .
These in thy Race , thou leavest far behind,
Though Wings , they seem to borrow from the Wind ;
And both the navigable Skie , and Sea ,
Yield of themselves, to make their passage free.
When Arrows , in their pointed flight do tear,
And Bullets , with their round Wounds gore the Air;
Before it opens , but to have them gone,
And closes soon behind, to push them on.
To strokes of Sounds , it does consent to yield ,
As it were tickled , and with pleasure fill'd;
And loth to lose them, when their flight they take,
It keeps them long, and fled, recalls them back.
How is't, that they are lifted up on high?
Or being lifted up, how is't, they fly?
Which Wings are they, that Sounds transport? Which (they,
That wandring Odours , from afar convey?
What Hand can steer them in their Course so right,
And wandring in so many paths , unite?
How can they at such Distance meet? and there ,
At the same instant be, that they are here ?
By what Art is it, that the same Sounds strike
The Ears of many Hearers , all alike,
And pierce the Sense so quick, when scatter'd wide
And far disperst, they many wayes divide?
What secret Pipes , and Cavities unknown,
Transmit them so distinctly, one by one?
Where are those lost, which start aside, and stray,
Since nought can intercept them in their way?
How seems the Horn , to snatch the Air so short,
And so the News , of each Success report,
And all the Bus'ness , of the Chace declare,
As remote Hunters in the Pleasure share?
In what wild Notes , does War approach the Ear,
When Trumpets , bring a distant-Battel near,
And Sounds , seem so to skirmish in their flight,
As they in Air , began th' approaching Fight .
Some, perishing for want of stronger Breath ,
In gentle Whispers lost, and silent Death .
Others, expiring in their last rebounds
Kill'd by the Thunder , of more potent sounds .
Some, vanishing into a softer Sigh ,
As some, with the short Gasps of Eccho 's die.
These, in deep Groans , or piercing Shreeks are fled,
While those drop down, which stronger force does dead .
What various Changes , in one Trumpet meet?
As Sounds increasing, did new Sounds beget.
So thick they issue, and succeed so fast,
As each, did strive to overtake the last.
With double speed, each hasting to repair
The Breaches , which the former made in Air .
Each Breath , which does that single Throat inspire,
Swells pregnant, with the Consort of a Quire .
And as in Notes , so thus in Voices , none
Is found, or like another , or our own .
Whence is't, of many Speeches which we hear,
Each strikes a diff'ring Stroke , upon the Ear .
Or which way are these Changes wrought, that frame
Voices distinct, the Breath unvoic'd the same,
Since Air , which varies in so many Keyes ,
Is of it self, nor Treble, Mean , nor Base .
Does not the Speech these several Stamps partake,
Passing through Organs , of a diff'ring make?
What Breath in Fifes , mocks the Winds whistling noise ,
Pour'd in a Horn , turns to a hoarser Voice ,
Is shrill in Trumpets , and what high they raise,
In Bag-pipes , dwindles to a feeble Base .
Nay, ev'n in the same Organ , some Pipes go,
As high at once, as some run flat and low .
If such Variety , we can pursue,
In Voice , and Sound , where ev'ry Breath is new .
What is there in the Motion of each Sphere ,
Set to that Musick , which we cannot hear?
That heard, regardless we, should all neglect
The toils of Life , and listen with Respect.
All Noise , and Tumult here below, would cease,
And all return, to an harmonious Peace .
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.