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XV. PSALMS CXXXXVII. IV.

How shall we sing a song of the Lord in a strange land?

Urge me no more: This Ayry mirth belongs
To better times: These times are not for songs:
The sprightly Twang of the melodious Lute
Agrees not with my voice: and both unsuit
My untun'd fortunes: The affected measure
Of straines that are constrain'd, affoord no pleasure;
Musick's the Child of mirth: where griefs assaile
The troubled soule, both voice and fingers faile;
Let such as ravill out their lavish dayes
In honourable Ryot; that can raise
Dejected hearts, and conjure up a Sprite
Of madnesse by the Magick of delight;
Let those of Cupids Hospitall that lie
Impatient Patients to a smiling eye,
That cannot rest, untill vaine hope beguile
Their flatter'd Torments with a wanton smile;
Let such redeeme their peace, and salve the wrongs
Of froward Fortune with their frolick Songs:
My grief, my grief's too great for smiling eyes
To cure, or Counter-charmes to exercise;
The Ravens dismall Croakes; the midnight howles
Of empty Wolves, mixt with the screech of Owles;
The nine sad knowles of a dull Passing Bell,
With the loud language of a nighty knell,
And horrid out-cries of revenged Crimes,
Joyn'd in a Medley's Musick for these Times;
These are no Times to touch the merry string
Of Orpheus; No, these are no times to sing:
Can hide-bound Prisners, that have spent their soules
And famish'd Bodies in the noysome holes
Oh hell-black dungeons, apt their rougher throats,
Growne hoarse with begging Almes, to warble notes?
Can the sad Pilgrim, that has lost his way
In the vast desarts; there, condemn'd a Prey
To the wild Subject, or his Salvage King,
Rouze up his palsey-smitten spir'ts, and sing?
Can I a Pilgrim, and a Prisner too,
(Alas) where I am neither knowne, nor know
Ought but my Torments, an unransom'd stranger
In this strange Climat, in a land of danger,
O, can my voice be pleasant, or my hand,
Thus made a Prisner to a forreigne land?
How can my musick relish in your eares,
That cannot speake for sobs, nor sing for teares?
Ah, if my voice could, Orpheus-like, unspell
My poore Euridice, my soule, from hell
Of earths miscontru'd Heav'n, O then my brest
Should warble Ayres, whose Rapsodies should feast
The eares of Seraphims, and entertaine
Heav'ns highest Deity with their lofty straine,
A straine well drencht in the true Thespian Well:
Till then; earths Semiquaver, mirth, farewell.

S. AUGUST. Med. Cap. 33.

O infinitely happy are those heavenly virtues which are able to praise thee in holinese and purity, with excesssive sweetnesse and inutterable exultation! From thence they praise thee, from whence they rejoyce, for what they praise thee: But wee prest downe with this burthen of flesh, farre remov'd from thy countenance in this pilgrimage, and blowne up with worldly vanities, cannot worthily praise thee: We praise thee by faith; not face to face; but those Angelicall Spirits praise thee face to face, and not by faith.

EPIGRAM 15.

[Did I refuse to sing? Said I these times]

Did I refuse to sing? Said I these times
Were not for Songs? nor musick for thee Climes?
It was my Errour: Are not Groanes and teares
Harmonious Raptures in th'Almighties eares?