Christobal de Villarroel
Upon the tree of victory is hung
The harp of David, not Apollo's lyre.
Pole unto pole hath heard the great desire
Of three sad strings, and dolorously strung.
His harp being tuned to mourning, to be wrung
From seven stricken voices, lo! the quire
Is one: till listening Sea and Air and Fire
And Earth are shuddering for the which is sung.
The lamentable note hath reached to heaven.
Where none hath seen a tear, or heard a sob,
Now signs of grief are sevenfold on seven.
A virgin marked the song's quick grief and throb;
(The same which is the Mother of solace)
And with her tears she bathed her holy face.
The harp of David, not Apollo's lyre.
Pole unto pole hath heard the great desire
Of three sad strings, and dolorously strung.
His harp being tuned to mourning, to be wrung
From seven stricken voices, lo! the quire
Is one: till listening Sea and Air and Fire
And Earth are shuddering for the which is sung.
The lamentable note hath reached to heaven.
Where none hath seen a tear, or heard a sob,
Now signs of grief are sevenfold on seven.
A virgin marked the song's quick grief and throb;
(The same which is the Mother of solace)
And with her tears she bathed her holy face.
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