By thee the one doth changing nature through Her endless labyrinths pursue,

And th' other chases woman, while she goes

More ways and turns than hunted Nature knows.

CRASHAW.

Fortune, alas! above the world's law wars: Hope kicks the curled heads of conspiring stars : Her keel cuts not the waves where our winds stir, And Fate's whole lottery is one blank to her. Her shafts and she fly far above,

And forage in the fields of light and love.

Sweet Hope! kind cheat! fair fallacy! by thee
We are not where or what we be,

But what and where we would: thus art thou
Our absent presence, and our future now.

CRASHAW.

Faith's sister! nurse of fair desire! Fear's antidote! a wise, a well-stay'd fire Temper'd 'twixt cold despair and torrid joy: Queen regent in young love's minority! Though the vex'd chymic vainly chases His fugitive gold through all her faces, And love's more fierce, more fruitless fires assay One face more fugitive than they,

True Hope's a glorious huntress, and her chase,The God of nature in the field of grace!

THE

DELIGHTS OF THE MUSES;

OR, OTHER POEMS

WRITTEN ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS,

BY RICHARD CRASHAW.

MART. DIC MIHI QUID MELIUS DESIDIOSUS AGAS.

THE DELIGHTS OF THE MUSES.

MUSIC'S DUEL.

OW westward Sol had spent the richest beams

N

Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the

streams

Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,
Under protection of an oak, there sat
A sweet lute's master: in whose gentle airs
He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares.

Close in the covert of the leaves there stood
A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood:-
The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,
Their muse, their Syren, harmless Syren she,—
There stood she list'ning, and did entertain
The music's soft report, and mould the same
In her own murmurs, that whatever mood
His curious fingers lent, her voice made good.
The man perceived his rival, and her art;
Disposed to give the light-foot lady sport,
Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come
Informs it, in a sweet præludium

Of closer strains; and ere the war begin

He slightly skirmishes on every string,

Charged with a flying touch; and straightway she
Carves out her dainty voice as readily
Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones;
And reckons up in soft divisions

Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know

By that shrill taste she could do something too.
His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string
A cap'ring cheerfulness; and made them sing
To their own dance; now negligently rash

He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash
Blends all together, then distinctly trips
From this to that, then, quick returning, skips
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures every measure, everywhere
Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt-
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out-
Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note
Through the sleek passage of her open throat:
A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point it
With tender accents, and severely joint it
By short diminutives, that, being rear'd
In controverting warbles evenly shared,
With her sweet self she wrangles; he, amazed
That from so small a channel should be raised

The torrent of a voice, whose melody

Could melt into such sweet variety,

Strains higher yet, that tickled with rare art

The tattling strings-each breathing in his part

Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling base