XV.

PSALM CXXXVii. 4.

How shall we sing the song of the Lord in a strange

U

land ?

RGE me no more: this airy mirth belongs To better times: these times are not for songs. The sprightly twang of the melodious lute Agrees not with my voice: and both unsuit My untun'd* fortunes: the affected measure Of stains, that are constrain'd, afford no pleasure. Music's the child of mirth; where griefs assail The troubled soul, both voice and fingers fail: Let such as revel out their lavish days In honourable riot; that can raise Dejected hearts, and conjure up a sp'rit Of madness by the magic of delight; Let those of Cupid's hospital, that lie Impatient patients to a smiling eye, That cannot rest, until vain hope beguile Their flatter'd torment with a wanton smile : Let such redeem their peace, and salve the wrongs Of froward fortune with their frolic songs : My grief, my grief's too great for smiling eyes To cure, or counter-charms to exorcise. The raven's dismal croaks, the midnight howls Of empty wolves mix'd with the screech of owls, The nine sad knolls of a dull passing bell, With the loud language of a nightly knell,

* Untun'd fortunes; i. e. sorrowful circumstances.

And

And horrid outcries of revenged crimes,
Join'd in a medley's music for these times;
These are no times to touch the merry string
Of Orpheus; no, these are no times to sing.
Can hide-bound pris'ners, that have spent their souls
And famish'd bodies in the noisome holes

*

Of hell-black dungeons, apt their rougher throats,
Grown hoarse with begging alms, to warble notes ?
Can the sad pilgrim, that hath lost his way
In the vast desert; there condemn'd a prey
To the wild subject, or his savage king;
Rouse up his palsy-smitten sp'rits, and sing?
Can I, a pilgrim, and a pris'ner too,
Alas! where I am neither known, nor know
Aught but my torments, an unransom'd stranger
In this strange climate, in a land of danger?
O can my voice be pleasant, or my hand,
Thus made a pris'ner to a foreign land?
How can my music relish in your ears,
That cannot speak for sobs, nor sing for tears?
Ah! if my voice could, Orpheus-like, unspel
My poor Eurydice, my soul, from hell

Of earth's misconstru'd heav'n, O then my breast
Should warble airs, whose rhapsodies should feast
The ears of seraphims, and entertain

Heav'n's highest Deity with their lofty strain;
A strain well-drench'd in the true Thespian well:
Till then, earth's semiquaver,† wealth, farewell.

Apt; i. e. adapt, or fit.

+ Semiquaver; a time in music.

S. AUGUST. Med. Cap. xxxiii.

O infinitely happy are those heavenly virtues, which are able to praise thee in holiness and purity with excessive sweetness, and unutterable exaltation! From thence they praise thee, from whence they rejoice, because they continually see for what they rejoice, for what they praise thee: but we, press'd down with this burden of flesh, far removed from thy countenance in this pilgrimage, and blown up with worldly vanities, cannot worthily praise thee: we praise thee by faith, not face to face; but those angelical spirits praise thee face to face, and not by faith.

EPIG. 15.

Did I refuse to sing? Said I, these times
Were not for songs; nor music for these climes ?
It was my error: are not groans and tears
Harmonious raptures in th' Almighty's ears?

THE

THE

FIFTH BOOK.

I.

CANTICLES v. 8.

I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, that you tell him that I am sick of love.

1.

OU holy virgins, that so oft surround

You

The city's sapphire walls; whose snowy feet Measure the pearly paths of sacred ground,

And trace the new Jerus'lem's jasper street; Ah! you whose care-forsaken hearts are crown'd With your best wishes; that enjoy the sweet Of all your hopes; if e'er you chance to spy My absent love, O tell him that I lie Deep-wounded with the flames that furnac'd from his eye.

2.

I charge you, virgins, as you hope to hear
The heav'nly music of your Lover's voice;
I charge you, by the solemn faith you bear
To plighted vows, and to that loyal choice
Of your affections, or, if aught more dear
You hold; by Hymen, by your marriage joys;

I charge you, tell him, that a flaming dart,
Shot from his eye, hath pierc'd my bleeding heart,
And I am sick of love, and languish in my smart.

Tell

3.

Tell him, O tell him, how my panting breast

Is scorch'd with flames, and how my soul is pin'd ; Tell him, O tell him, how I lie opprest

With the full torment of a troubled mind; O tell him, tell him, that he loves in jest, But I in earnest; tell him he's unkind: But if a discontented frown appears Upon his angry brow, accost his ears With soft and fewer words, and act the rest in tears.

4,

O tell him, that his cruelties deprive

My soul of peace, while peace in vain she seeks; Tell him, those damask roses that did strive

With white, both fade upon my sallow cheeks; Tell him, no token doth proclaim I live,

But tears, and sighs, and sobs, and sudden shrieks; Thus if your piercing words should chance to bore His heark'ning ear, and move a sigh, give o'er To speak; and tell him, tell him, that I could no more.

5.

If your elegious breath should hap' to rouse
A happy tear, close harb'ring in his eye,
Then urge his plighted faith, the sacred vows,
Which neither I can break, nor he deny ;
Bewail the torment of his loyal spouse,
That for his sake would make a sport to die :
O blessed virgins, how my passion tires
Beneath the burden of her fond desires !
Heav'n never shot such flames, earth never felt such fires!

Elegious; i. e. plaintive, or complaining.

S. AU