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A DESCRIPTION OF MUSIC.
A DESCRIPTION OF MUSIC.
POETS. Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere. Right hard it was for wight which did it hear To read what manner music that mote be ; For all that pleasing is to living ear
Was there consorted in one harmony -
The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade,
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call ; The gentle warbling wind low answered to all.
OTHERS ADMIRE IN THEE A POET'S FIRE. OTHERS admire in thee a poet's fire, So sweetly temper’d to a classic lyre ; Others, how deepest thought and wise design Put on harmonious beauty in each line; Others, how thy sweet urn of sacred glee Lights earthly things with heavenly charity; Others, how every turn and winding scene Leads to a temple in the blue serene; One would to thy meek willow's lesson turn, One melodies of mountain streamlet learn; One loves thy red November's calm decay, One the bright lengthening of thine April day.
One with thee enters in the bome divine
hath gleam'd, Through thee from Heaven these beams on me
have stream'd. Therefore, when others talk, yet own I still Far deeper thoughts than theirs my bosom fill.
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
And many an oak that grew thereby. Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs,
That issued from that lonely pile. “ Leicester !" she cried, “is this thy love
That thou so oft bast sworn to me,
Immur’d in shameful privity ?
Thy once beloved bride to see;
I fear, stern earl, 's the same to thee. Not so the usage I receiv'd
When happy in my father's hall : No faithless husband then me griev'd,
No chilling fears did me appal. I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay ; And like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.
129 If that my beauty is but small,
Amongst court ladies all despis'dWhy didst thou rend it from that hall
Where, scornful earl, it well was priz’d?
How fair I was you oft would say;
Then left the blossom to decay.
The rose is pale—the lily's dead; But he that once their charms so priz'd
Is, sure, the cause those charms are fled. For, know, when sick’ning grief doth prey,
And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay —
What flow'ret can endure the storm ? At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare;
Are not so glowing, not so fair :
Where roses and where lilies vie,
Must sicken when those gauds are by? 'Mong rural beauties I was one;
Among the fields wild flowers are fair : Some country swain might me have won,
And thought my beauty passing rare.