Pia Desideria or, Divine Addresses, In Three Books. Illustrated with XLVII. Copper-Plates. Written in Latin by Herm. Hugo. Englished by Edm. Arwaker ... The Fourth Edition, Corrected |
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| VI. |
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| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
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| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
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| VI. |
| VII. |
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| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. | XV. |
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 | Pia Desideria |  |
151
XV.
How shall we sing the Lords Song in a strange Land?
Psal. cxxxvii. 4.
Oh! why, my Friends, am I desir'd to Sing?
How can I raise a Note, or touch a String?
Musick requires a Soul to Mirth inclin'd,
And sympathizes with the troubled Mind.
How can I raise a Note, or touch a String?
Musick requires a Soul to Mirth inclin'd,
And sympathizes with the troubled Mind.
But you reply, Such Seasons most require
The kind Diversion of the warbling Lyre;
When Grief wou'd strike you Dumb, 'tis time to Sing,
Then strain the Voice, and strike the trembling String;
Lest then the Mind o'erwhelm'd in Sorrow lie,
Too much intent on its own Misery.
The kind Diversion of the warbling Lyre;
When Grief wou'd strike you Dumb, 'tis time to Sing,
Then strain the Voice, and strike the trembling String;
Lest then the Mind o'erwhelm'd in Sorrow lie,
Too much intent on its own Misery.
You urge, this Remedy will Grief asswage,
And with Examples prove what you alledge.
You say, This tunes the weary Sailors Note,
While o're Long Seas their nimble Vessels Float:
You say, This makes the artful Shepherd play,
Whose tuneful Pipes the tedious Hours betray,
And that the Trav'llers Journey easi'st proves,
When to the Musick of his Voice he moves.
And Soldiers when with Night or Labour tir'd
By Singing, with new Vigour are inspir'd.
I'll not Perversly blame this Art in them,
Nor th'inoffensive Policy condemn;
But know my Tongue, long practis'd in Complaint,
Is skill'd in Grief, in Lamentations quaint.
Scarce my lost Skill cou'd I to Practice bring,
And Musick seem'd a strange unusual Thing;
And as one blinded long scarce brooks the Light,
So pleasing Ayres my uncouth Tongue affright.
When I my slighted Numbers wou'd retrieve,
And make the speaking Chords appear to live;
When I wou'd raise the murmuring Viol Voice,
Or make the Lute in brisker Sounds rejoyce;
When on my Pipe attempt a shriller Note,
Or join my Harp in Consort with my Throat:
My Voice (alas!) in floods of Tears is drown'd,
And boistrous Sighs disperse the fainting sound.
Again to Sing, again to Play I try'd;
Again my Voice, again my Hand deny'd:
Slow and Unactive by Disuse so long,
Their Art's forgot both by my Hand and Tongue:
And now with these Allays I try too late
To mollifie my hard, my rigid Fate.
Grant I excell'd in Musick, and in Song,
And warbled swift Division with my Tongue;
Cou'd I with Israel's sweetest Singer vie,
Or touch the Harp with more Success than He:
Will Musick or Complaint best suit my Woe,
Who never had more cause to Weep, than Now?
But Sorrow has my tuneful Harp unstrung,
And Grief's become habitual to my Tongue:
Nor do the Place or Time such Mirth allow;
But grant they did, my Sorrows answer no.
For wou'd you have an exil'd Stranger Sing
His Country Songs under a Foreign King?
Forbear; my Fate and this loath'd Place conspire
To Silence me, and hinder your Desire.
Tears drown my Eyes, exhausted by my Wrongs,
Then, ah! how am I fit for jocund Songs?
Harsh Fortune's wounded Captive kindly spare!
My Voice has lost its pleasing Accents here.
Sorrow disorders and distorts my Face,
I cannot give my Songs their former Grace.
Shou'd I begin to Sing or Play, 'twou'd be
Some doleful Emblem of my Misery.
My Thoughts are all on my lost State intent,
And close Companions of my Banishment.
Then why am I desir'd to Play or Sing,
Now Grief has broke my Voice, and slackned ev'ry String?
Oh! my lov'd Country, when I think on Thee,
My Lute, my Voice, my Mind, all lose their Harmony:
But if to Thee I happily return,
Then they shall all Rejoyce, as much as now they Mourn.
And with Examples prove what you alledge.
You say, This tunes the weary Sailors Note,
While o're Long Seas their nimble Vessels Float:
You say, This makes the artful Shepherd play,
Whose tuneful Pipes the tedious Hours betray,
152
When to the Musick of his Voice he moves.
And Soldiers when with Night or Labour tir'd
By Singing, with new Vigour are inspir'd.
I'll not Perversly blame this Art in them,
Nor th'inoffensive Policy condemn;
But know my Tongue, long practis'd in Complaint,
Is skill'd in Grief, in Lamentations quaint.
Scarce my lost Skill cou'd I to Practice bring,
And Musick seem'd a strange unusual Thing;
And as one blinded long scarce brooks the Light,
So pleasing Ayres my uncouth Tongue affright.
When I my slighted Numbers wou'd retrieve,
And make the speaking Chords appear to live;
When I wou'd raise the murmuring Viol Voice,
Or make the Lute in brisker Sounds rejoyce;
When on my Pipe attempt a shriller Note,
Or join my Harp in Consort with my Throat:
My Voice (alas!) in floods of Tears is drown'd,
And boistrous Sighs disperse the fainting sound.
Again to Sing, again to Play I try'd;
Again my Voice, again my Hand deny'd:
Slow and Unactive by Disuse so long,
Their Art's forgot both by my Hand and Tongue:
And now with these Allays I try too late
To mollifie my hard, my rigid Fate.
153
And warbled swift Division with my Tongue;
Cou'd I with Israel's sweetest Singer vie,
Or touch the Harp with more Success than He:
Will Musick or Complaint best suit my Woe,
Who never had more cause to Weep, than Now?
But Sorrow has my tuneful Harp unstrung,
And Grief's become habitual to my Tongue:
Nor do the Place or Time such Mirth allow;
But grant they did, my Sorrows answer no.
For wou'd you have an exil'd Stranger Sing
His Country Songs under a Foreign King?
Forbear; my Fate and this loath'd Place conspire
To Silence me, and hinder your Desire.
Tears drown my Eyes, exhausted by my Wrongs,
Then, ah! how am I fit for jocund Songs?
Harsh Fortune's wounded Captive kindly spare!
My Voice has lost its pleasing Accents here.
Sorrow disorders and distorts my Face,
I cannot give my Songs their former Grace.
Shou'd I begin to Sing or Play, 'twou'd be
Some doleful Emblem of my Misery.
My Thoughts are all on my lost State intent,
And close Companions of my Banishment.
Then why am I desir'd to Play or Sing,
Now Grief has broke my Voice, and slackned ev'ry String?
154
My Lute, my Voice, my Mind, all lose their Harmony:
But if to Thee I happily return,
Then they shall all Rejoyce, as much as now they Mourn.
155
O that I could say such Things as the Hymn-singing Choire of Angels! How willingly would I pour forth my Self in thy Praises!
Aug. Medit. cap. 35.
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