Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird; Into loose ecstasies, that she is plac'd Above herself, music's enthusiast. Shame now and anger mix'd a double strain In the musician's face; yet once again, Mistress, I come; now reach a strain, my lute, Above her mock, or be forever mute. But tune a song of victory to me; As to thyseif, sing thine own obsequy; So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings, Of his own breath: which, married to his lyre, Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self look higher. Feels music's pulse in all her arteries, Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone: Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild airs In music's ravish'd soul he dares not tell, Of all the strings, still breathing the best life His fingers' fairest revolution, In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall) This done, he lists what she would say to this, Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one (That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave! This exquisite story has had another relator in Ford, the dramatist, and according to a great authority, a finer one.* The passage is very beautiful, certainly, especially in the outset about Greece; and if the story is to be taken * Charles Lamb; who says, in one of the notes to his "Specimens of English Dramatic Poets,' ," "This story, which is originally to be met with in 'Strada's Prolusions,' has been paraphrased in rhyme by Crashaw, Ambrose as a sentiment, it must be allowed to surpass the other; but as an account of the Duel itself, it is assuredly as different as playing is from no playing. Sentiment, however, completes everything, and we hope our readers will enjoy with us the concluding from Ford :— Menaphon. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales To glorify their Tempe, bred in me Desire of visiting that paradise. To Thessaly I came, and living private, Without acquaintance of more sweet companions Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, I day by day frequented silent groves A methus. I cannot yet conceive what you infer Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge, and for ev'ry several strain The well-shap'd youth could touch, she sung her down; Upon his quaking instrument, than she, Phillips, and others; but none of these versions can at all compare for harmony and grace with this blank verse of Ford's; it is as fine as anything in Beaumont and Fletcher; and almost equals the strife it celebrates." — ED. You term them rightly, For they were rivals, and their mistress harmony. Into a pretty anger, that a bird Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes, Had busied many hours to perfect practice: So many voluntaries, and so quick, Meeting in one full centre of delight. Amet. Men. Now for the bird. The bird, ordain'd to be Music's first martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds: which, when her warbling throat Fail'd in, for grief down dropp'd she on his lute And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness, To see the conqueror upon her hearse, To weep a funeral elegy of tears, That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me Amet. I believe thee. Men. He look'd upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wip'd his eyes, then sigh'd and cried, "Alas, poor creature! I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it; Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end: " and in that sorrow, As he was dashing it against a tree, THE MURDERED PUMP. A STORY OF A WINTER'S NIGHT. HE hero of the following sketch is a real person, and the main points in it, the pump and the refuge in the cellar, are recorded as facts. The latter took place in the house of Sir John Trevor, the Master of the Rolls, a kinsman of Mr. Lloyd's, who was a proud and irritable Welshman. TIME. The Beginning of the Last Century. SCENE. A Fog in Holborn towards Daum. Enter Two Middle-aged Gentlemen, of the names of LANE and LLOYD, coming towards an old Pump Lane. You're so quarrelsome, when you drink. Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) No, I ain't. Lane. Always contradicting everybody. Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) No, I ain't. Lane. So eager to say No, merely because other people say Yes. Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) No, I ain't. Lane. Why, you do it this Lloyd. No, I don't. very instant. Lane. You can't say Yes, if you would. Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) Yes, I can. Lane. No, you can't. Your very Yes is a No. You merely say it to contradict. Lloyd. No, I don't. Lane. Pooh, nonsense! And then you must draw your sword, forsooth, and add fury to folly. You'll get some tremendous lesson some day, and you really need it. I should like to give it you. Lloyd. (Violently.) Take care, George Lane. (LLOYD stumbles.) Lane. Take you care, of the gutter. I shan't pick you up. I shall leave you to cool yourself. Lloyd. (Hiccuping.) No, you won't. Lane. Oh, what, you remember my carrying you home last Thursday, do you? And this is your gratitude. |