A new collection of Original poems Never Printed in any miscellany. By the Author of Sir Walter Raleigh [i.e. George Sewell] |
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The FORCE of MUSICK, a Fragment after the Manner of SPENSER.
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 | A new collection of Original poems |  |
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The FORCE of MUSICK, a Fragment after the Manner of SPENSER.
There story'd on the Walls were to behold,
The Miracles by Musick done of old.
The Founders too of ev'ry diff'rent Part,
That gives Perfection to the sacred Art:
Who shap'd the bending Bow, or stretch'd the String,
Or taught in Notes the Concave Wood to ring,
Who form'd the Pipe direct, or try'd to turn
The Spiral Trumpet, or the Snake-like Horn.
The Miracles by Musick done of old.
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That gives Perfection to the sacred Art:
Who shap'd the bending Bow, or stretch'd the String,
Or taught in Notes the Concave Wood to ring,
Who form'd the Pipe direct, or try'd to turn
The Spiral Trumpet, or the Snake-like Horn.
There stood that
Engine fam'd in ancient Lays,
On which, as the judicious Artist plays,
The bubbling Waters in melodious Chime,
Run just Divisions through the Scale of Time.
The tuneful Element in Measure floats,
And falls, and rises in harmonious Notes.
On which, as the judicious Artist plays,
The bubbling Waters in melodious Chime,
Run just Divisions through the Scale of Time.
The tuneful Element in Measure floats,
And falls, and rises in harmonious Notes.
Nor wanted there the First, whose Skill renown'd,
To high, and low, and mean, distinguish'd Sound,
With half-clos'd Eyes, and Neck-reclin'd he stood,
As list'ning to himself in museful Mood;
Before lay Rolls with Notes unfinish'd wrote,
Ripe for the Hand to catch the rising Thought.
To high, and low, and mean, distinguish'd Sound,
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As list'ning to himself in museful Mood;
Before lay Rolls with Notes unfinish'd wrote,
Ripe for the Hand to catch the rising Thought.
A distant Quarter of the Fabric held,
Old fabl'd Artists that in Song excell'd.
There on cold Hæmus Top young Orpheus stood,
And from the Mountain call'd the list'ning Wood;
The barren Heath with sudden Groves array'd,
Smiles beautiful, and wonders at its Shade.
Again the Lyre his flying Fingers sweep,
And curling Winds upon the Ocean sleep,
O'er the rough Stream he casts a pleasing Look,
And holds in sweet Suspence the huddling Brook.
Old fabl'd Artists that in Song excell'd.
There on cold Hæmus Top young Orpheus stood,
And from the Mountain call'd the list'ning Wood;
The barren Heath with sudden Groves array'd,
Smiles beautiful, and wonders at its Shade.
Again the Lyre his flying Fingers sweep,
And curling Winds upon the Ocean sleep,
O'er the rough Stream he casts a pleasing Look,
And holds in sweet Suspence the huddling Brook.
But different Scenes his gloomy Journey show
To the deep Regions of infernal Woe:
The chorded Instrument he wakes, and sings
With Voice divine, responsive to the Strings.
To the deep Regions of infernal Woe:
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With Voice divine, responsive to the Strings.
Then heart-sick Agony uprear'd her Head,
And Care sat smiling on his Iron Bed;
Convulsive Pain, that wont with restless Woe,
To writh her tortur'd Body to and fro,
The Smart remitted which she felt before,
Lean'd on her Hand, and listen'd to his Lore.
As sharp Revenge his Iron Weapon swung,
He heard; the Blow in Air suspended hung.
Pale Fear, that ever doubtful of Surprize,
Unweary'd roll'd the Quickness of her Eyes,
Shudd'ring, and starting oft from Place to Place,
Stood still, and fix'd her sight on Orpheus' Face.
Despairing Love, (for Love this World invades)
Self-slain, the saddest Object of the Shade,
Was figur'd straying on a lonely Plain,
And bending seem to meet the wafted Strain,
He look'd, as waking from bewilder'd Thought,
And in his Arms the fleeting Æther caught.
And Care sat smiling on his Iron Bed;
Convulsive Pain, that wont with restless Woe,
To writh her tortur'd Body to and fro,
The Smart remitted which she felt before,
Lean'd on her Hand, and listen'd to his Lore.
As sharp Revenge his Iron Weapon swung,
He heard; the Blow in Air suspended hung.
Pale Fear, that ever doubtful of Surprize,
Unweary'd roll'd the Quickness of her Eyes,
Shudd'ring, and starting oft from Place to Place,
Stood still, and fix'd her sight on Orpheus' Face.
Despairing Love, (for Love this World invades)
Self-slain, the saddest Object of the Shade,
Was figur'd straying on a lonely Plain,
And bending seem to meet the wafted Strain,
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And in his Arms the fleeting Æther caught.
| A new collection of Original poems | |