The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison

'Twas when the Sun diffus'd a milder Ray,
And length'ning Shades confess'd the shortning Day:
To Tyber's Banks repair'd an am'rous Swain,
The Love, and Envy, of the neighb'ring Plain;
To cool his Heat, he sought the breezy Grove,
To cool his Heat, but more, the Heat of Love;
To sooth his Cares, on a soft Lute he play'd,
But the soft Lute reviv'd the lovely Maid:
Conspiring Elms their Umbrage shed around,
Wav'd with Applause, and listen'd to the Sound:
When Philomela, gentle Bird of Love,
Poor, pretty, harmless Syren of the Grove!

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Enchanted, heard the Shepherd as he play'd,
And stole attentive to the tuneful Shade,
Perch'd o'er his Head, the Charmer seem'd to grow,
And to the Lyre, in Shadows danc'd below;
With scornful Eye elate, inclin'd to hear,
And lent her Soul to listen in her Ear;
As his swift Fingers tremble o'er the Lute,
Softly she sings responsive to the Note;
Each Air, each flowing Accent of the Song,
She soothes, and sweetens, with her softer Tongue;
Gently refines each imitated Strain
And with his Musick charms the ravish'd Swain:
The ravish'd Swain admir'd the just Replies,
At first mistaken for the echoing Breeze;
But when he found his little Rival near
Imbibing Musick both at Eye and Ear;
Sublimer Notes improv'd each lab'ring Air,
The daring Prelude to the tuneful War:

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O'erjoy'd, the Charmer heard the bold defy,
And warbling, answer'd, with a brisk Reply.

Now tend'rest Thoughts the gentle Swain inspire,
And with a dying Softness tune the Lyre,
Echoe the Musick of the vernal Woods,
Warble the Murmurs of the falling Floods.
Thus sweet he plays, but sweet he plays in vain,
For Philomela sings a sweeter Strain;
With easier Art she modulates each Note,
More nat'ral Musick melting in her Throat.

Much he admir'd the Magick of her Tongue,
But more to see his Lute, and Art out-done;
And now, to loftier Airs, he tunes the Strings,
And now, to loftier Airs, his Echoe sings;
Tho' loud as Thunder, tho' as swift as Thought,
She reach'd the swelling, caught the flying Note;

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In trembling Treble now in deeper Base,
She show'd how Nature could his Art surpass.

Amaz'd, at length, with Rage the Shepherd burn'd,
His Admiration into Anger turn'd;
Enflam'd with emulating Pride, he stood,
And thus defy'd the Charmer of the Wood.

And wilt thou still my Musick imitate?
Then see thy Folly, and thy Task is great—
For know more pow'rful Lays remain unsung,
Lays! far superiour to that mimick Tongue—
If not, this Lute, this vanquish'd Lute, I swear,
Shall never more delight the ravish'd Ear;
But, broke in scatter'd Fragments strew the Plain,
And mourn the Glory, which it could not gain—

He said, and as he said, his Soul on Fire,
With a disdainful Air, he swept the Lyre;

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Quick to the Touch, the Tides of Musick flow;
Swell into Strength, or melt away in Woe;
Now, raise the shrilling Trumpets clanging Jar,
Now, rouze the raging Thunders of the War;
Now, soft'ning Sounds, and sadly-pleasing Strains,
Breathe out the Lover's Joys, and Lover's Pains.

He sung, and ceas'd his Rival's Notes to hear,
As his dy'd list'ning in the ambient Air.

But now, too late! her noble Folly found,
Sad Philomela stood subdu'd by Sound.
Tho' vanquish'd, yet, with gen'rous Ardour fill'd,
Ignobly still she scorn'd to quit the Field;
Each emulated Air, each labour'd Note,
Trills on her Tongue, and trembles thro' her Throat,
But slowly faint her pensive Accents flow,
Weaken'd with Grief, and over-charg'd with Woe:

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Again, she tunes her Voice, again she sings,
Strains every Nerve, and quivers on her Wings;
In vain! her sinking Spirits fade away,
And in a tuneful Agony decay;
Dying, she fell, and as the Strains expire,
Breath'd out her Soul in Anguish on the Lyre;
Dissolv'd in Transport, there, resign'd her Breath,
And gain'd a living Conquest by her Death.

University of Virginia Library

THE Nightingale and Shepherd, Imitated from Strada.