William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
A Poetic Descant upon a Private Music-MeetingEdward Benlowes (1603?1676)
M
This morn together: let’s rehearse
Last evening’s sweets; and run one heat in full-speed verse.
Thy ranging tropes, that they may sound
Nothing but what our Paradise did then surround.
Near crystal casements’ Eastern sphere;
Who like to Venus sparkled, yet more chaste than fair.
She seem’d a constellation;
Her front ’bove lily-white, cheek ’bove rose-red, full blown.
Too eagerly on Beauty’s blaze;
There’s none like thine, dear Muse! theirs are but meteor-rays.
Which hold their presence more recruits
Their broken hopes, than viols, pedals, organs, lutes.
Their instruments in tune have set,
And now begin to ransack Music’s cabinet.
Patron of Sweetness! Soul of Joys!
How were we ravish’d with thy viol’s warbling voice!
They forced the fibres of our heart
To dance: thy bow’s swift lightning made the tears to start.
And tortured’st the base, until
His roaring diapasons did the whole room fill.
If ’twixt the cedar and the thorn
There’s ought harmonious, ’twas from this sweet fir-tree born.
Of rolling melody; she rides
On surges down to th’ deep; and, when she lifts, up glides.
More precious than his Danaë’s show’r;
From pedal-drops to organ-deluge swell’d the stour.
Turn’d to brisk Almans) with what sprite
His treble shrill’d forth marches, which he strain’d to the height!
Rallied his troops of strings, as one,
Which volleys gave i’ th’ chase of swift division.
By his renown’d musician’s skill,
Which could disarm, and arm the conqueror at will.
Whose violin seem’d the chymic-stone,
For every melting touch was pure projection.
I gaze: charm’d all to eye and ear;
Both which, with objects too intense, even martyr’d were.
My wav’ring soul, maz’d what to do,
Or to quit eyes for ears, or ears for eyes forego.
Time swore he never was with lays
More sweetly spent; nor Beauty ever beam’d such rays.
And sure it was no time to pray;
The Deities themselves then being all at play.
Nor fairs, nor airs are pond’rous; skies
Do scorn to shrink, though pil’d with stars and harmonies.
Combin’d in one Celestial Quire,
To charm the enthusiastic soul with enthean fire:
A castril brain with eagle-muse:
When Saints would highest soar they Music’s pinions use.
And re-inspire our lumpish clay:
Muse! Thou transcend’st; thou without instruments canst play.
Blandulis Longum Vale Cantilenis.