Classic Poem

Translated from the Latin of Strada.

The Sun was, now, declining to the Sea,
And, from his Orb, diffus'd a milder Ray,
When, near to Tyber , in a shady Wood ,
With well-tun'd Lute , a skilful Minstrell stood;
Both Wood , and Lute their proper Aids did lend,
To cool the Season , and his Cares unbend.

This, at a Distance, Phiolomela heard,
And, jealous, from the neighbouring I hicks repair'd.
The sweet Inhabitants of lonely Glades!
The Mistress Muse , and Siren of the Shades!
Perch'd on a Bow, which o'er the Master hung,
She list'ning sat, and, as he play'd, she sung,
Each Strain she catch'd, and sent the improved Note
Back to his Fingers , from her warbling Throat .

Quickly the Man perceiv'd the Rival Bird,
Awak'd his Lute, and for the War prepar'd;
With nimble Fingers o'er the Strings he ran,
And the sweet Prelude to the Fight began.

She took the Hint , and from her emulous Tongue
A thousand pointed Notes, at Random, flung;
The pleasant Skirmish to the future Song.

The Minstrell , then, his scornful Lute provok'd,
And trembling Strings the first Engagement spoke.
Now careless Vollies from his Fingers go,
As if he scorn'd the little silvan Foe
Sometimes his Hand, with nimble Wandrings, strays,
And gives the Measure to the various Lays;
Then gravely pauseth, and, without Rebound ,
Spins out a long invariable Sound ;
Then quick again, the brisk ALEGROES rise,
From this , to that , from that , to this , he flies.
Then, suddain , stops — — .

— — , — Here She resumes her Part ,
Each Note returns, and answers Art , with Art ,
Then streight (as if unskill'd, or else in doubt.
Willing to Sing, but fearing to be out)
She seems to hover, and suspend her Skill,
And gives no Motion to the wid'n'd Bill;
The Tune , with equal Tenor , glides along,
And takes no Volums from the roling Tongue ,
But sweetly slow , she modulates her Throat ,
And skims the Surface of an uncurl'd Note.
Then, quick , she starts into the swift VIVACE ,
Cuts ev'ry Measure with a skilful Grace ;
Her Voice she raiseth, musically Shrill,
And gives the Quaver with her warbling Bill .
Then, silent, sits — .

He stood astonish'd, and a while forgot
His silent Lute, to' admire how such a Note
Could flow, in Consort, from so small a Throat.

Again , his sounding Instrument he took,
And, with a bolder Hand , his Lesson struck:
To ev'ry String an artful Sweetness lends,
And Flats and Sharps , reciprocally blends;
The high strung Trebles fend their Strains aloft,
Then sink again, melodiously soft.
At last the BASE, Majestically flow,
Does, to the Chorus , with stern Numbers go;
The lab'ring Arm, then, works the groaning Lyre ,
And graver Accents drown the tatling Wyre
Then, ev'ry where, a buisy Hand he flings,
And jumbles all the Musick of the Strings,
Gives them the Clangor of the Martial Jar,
When the loud Trumpets sound th' Alarm to War .

This too she did — and, on her liquid Tongue ,
Melted each Note , and mollify'd the Song :
Now, mounting, She, to a higher Pitch , aspires,
Vies with the Soarpness of the smaller Wyres .
Then, from aloft, by sweet Descents she calls,
Her soaring Voice and Eccho's, as she falls;
The sinking Measure almost seems to die,
And draws Attension into Extasy .

Then, feign'dly hoars, she' attacks the harsher Base;
Deep gutt'ral Murmurs from her Bosom pass,
And mock the Roughness of the Martial Brass ;
Then boldly shrill , the louder Notes are swell'd,
As if she give the Signal to the Field .

The Master blush'd, and swoln with Shame and Pride;
Thou little, vain, pretending Bird , he, cry'd,
I'll either strike thy' ambitious Tatlings mute,
Or yield the Honours of my broken Lute .

Then o'er the Cords , with angry Hand he bounds,
And urgeth all the' inimitable Sounds :
From String to String the dancing Notes he sends,
Then, quick as Fancy, altogether blends;
The Soft , the Harsh , the Quick , the Flat , the Sweet ,
In the grand Symphony together meet;
And, from one Instrument's resounding Wyre,
He inimick'd all the Consorts of a Choir .

This done, he stands, expecting what Reply
The Rival offer'd to his Harmony.
She (loath to yield) tho' with contending Hoarse ,
Breathing for Conquest , rally'd all her Force ;
Call'd all her Lungs into her panting Throat ,
And heav'd — and sob'd — and labour'd for a Note ,
Alas in vain! for whil'st she strove to run
Thro' all the Mazes of the wildering Tune ,
Lost in the Chace, her genuine Voice declin'd
The bold Pursuit, and, fainting, lagg'd behind;
Yet still she strove — But from her gasping Bill
Imperfect Notes , and broken Accents fell.
That sweetest Magazine of Tunes , her Breast,
With Shame confounded, and with Anger press'd,
Yielding to Sorrows , and th' unequal Strife ,
Breath'd out its last , and with its last , her Life :
She fell — And, as she fell — still murmur'd out
Melodious Groans , and sunk upon the Late :
There, stretch'd at Length, the little Carcass lay,
But a kind Sigh had bore her Soul away.

Fit, that the lifeless Animal should have
(Who liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a Grave.

So! does Ambition ev'ry where abound!
When the wild Passion is, in such small Bosoms, found.