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197
The MUSICIAN.
Upon the Death of Mr. W. D. excellent in Musick, Servant at Belvoir.
1677.
Of those five Senses that our Nature grace,
Seeing, and Hearing, have the noblest place.
By th' Eares, the Soul its chiefest bliss obtains;
And showes by th' Eyes those blessings that it gains.
Those others to the Body more belong,
And th' heav'nly Guest oft by excesses wrong.
Whose grossly humours we can serve at home,
But must to Belvoir for the purer come.
What choice Object can indear the Sight?
Above the Earth as much in worth, as height.
A second Eden shining all about;
Glorious within, and beautiful without!
Seeing, and Hearing, have the noblest place.
By th' Eares, the Soul its chiefest bliss obtains;
And showes by th' Eyes those blessings that it gains.
Those others to the Body more belong,
And th' heav'nly Guest oft by excesses wrong.
Whose grossly humours we can serve at home,
But must to Belvoir for the purer come.
What choice Object can indear the Sight?
Above the Earth as much in worth, as height.
A second Eden shining all about;
Glorious within, and beautiful without!
Then for to please the Ears (those Doors o'th' Mind)
Where could we rarer choice of treatments find?
What wonders have I from his Musick known?
Passions to raise in all breasts but his own.
His Viol more than Magick Spells could do,
Both raise our Tempests, and then calm 'em too,
Each Finger was a Tongue, and could impart
Persuasive force, above Rhetorick art.
The Stubborn Passions he might well command,
When every Heart was in his pow'ful hand.
Here a soft charming Air for Mast'ry tries,
With Venus breath, and mov'd more than her Sighs.
There from her Bow darts forth a piercing strain,
Wounds more than Cupid, and yet brings no pain.
When he his speaking Violin laid by,
And would his Flagelt or Cornet try;
The wanton Air he'd in chaste measures bind,
To gentle sounds tuning th' unruly Wind.
Strada's fam'd Lutænist his art might fail,
And dye for shame before this Nightingale.
Whose peaceful Soul did for its change prepare,
And vanisht calmly in a well-tun'd Air.
But all mischances here are so ingrost;
Not th' Artist only, but the Art is lost.
Thus their sad fate the Græcians did lament;
Their Orpheus, and his Harp together went.
Where could we rarer choice of treatments find?
What wonders have I from his Musick known?
Passions to raise in all breasts but his own.
His Viol more than Magick Spells could do,
Both raise our Tempests, and then calm 'em too,
Each Finger was a Tongue, and could impart
Persuasive force, above Rhetorick art.
The Stubborn Passions he might well command,
When every Heart was in his pow'ful hand.
Here a soft charming Air for Mast'ry tries,
With Venus breath, and mov'd more than her Sighs.
There from her Bow darts forth a piercing strain,
Wounds more than Cupid, and yet brings no pain.
198
And would his Flagelt or Cornet try;
The wanton Air he'd in chaste measures bind,
To gentle sounds tuning th' unruly Wind.
Strada's fam'd Lutænist his art might fail,
And dye for shame before this Nightingale.
Whose peaceful Soul did for its change prepare,
And vanisht calmly in a well-tun'd Air.
But all mischances here are so ingrost;
Not th' Artist only, but the Art is lost.
Thus their sad fate the Græcians did lament;
Their Orpheus, and his Harp together went.
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