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Her mighty Conquest. What could Colin more?
A little Harp, of Maple Ware, he bore:
The Harp it self was Old, but Newly strung,
Which usual he a-cross his Shoulders hung.
Now take, delightful Bird, my last Farewel,
He said; and learn from hence, thou dost excel
No trivial Artist. And at last he wound
The murm'ring Strings, and order'd ev'ry Sound.
Then earnest to his Instrument he bends,
And both his Hands upon the Strings extends.
The Strings obey his Touch, and various move,
The lower, answ'ring still to those above.
His restless Fingers traverse to and fro,
And in Pursuit of Harmony they go;
Now, lightly skimming, o'er the Strings they pass,
Like Winds, that gently brush the plying Grass,
And melting Airs arise at their Command:
And now, laborious, with a weighty Hand
He sinks into the Cords with solemn Pace,
And gives the swelling Tones a Manly Grace:
Then, intricate he blends agreeing Sounds,
While Musick thro' the trembling Harp abounds.
The double Sounds the Nightingale perplex,
And pos'd, she does her troubled Spirit vex.
She warbles diffident, 'twixt Hope and Fear,
And hits imperfect Accents, here and there.
Then Colin play'd again, and playing Sung.
She, with the fatal Love of Glory stung,
Hears all in Pain: her Heart begins to swell;
In piteous Notes she sighs, in Notes which tell
Her bitter Anguish. He, still singing, plies
His limber Joints: Her Sorrows higher rise.
How shall she bear a Conqu'ror, who before
No equal, thro' the Grove, in Musick bore?
She droops, she hangs her flagging Wings, she moans,
And fetches from her Breast melodious groans.
Oppress'd with Grief at last, too great to quell,
Down Breathless on the guilty Harp she fell.
A little Harp, of Maple Ware, he bore:
The Harp it self was Old, but Newly strung,
Which usual he a-cross his Shoulders hung.
Now take, delightful Bird, my last Farewel,
He said; and learn from hence, thou dost excel
No trivial Artist. And at last he wound
The murm'ring Strings, and order'd ev'ry Sound.
Then earnest to his Instrument he bends,
And both his Hands upon the Strings extends.
The Strings obey his Touch, and various move,
The lower, answ'ring still to those above.
His restless Fingers traverse to and fro,
And in Pursuit of Harmony they go;
Now, lightly skimming, o'er the Strings they pass,
Like Winds, that gently brush the plying Grass,
And melting Airs arise at their Command:
And now, laborious, with a weighty Hand
He sinks into the Cords with solemn Pace,
And gives the swelling Tones a Manly Grace:
Then, intricate he blends agreeing Sounds,
While Musick thro' the trembling Harp abounds.
The double Sounds the Nightingale perplex,
And pos'd, she does her troubled Spirit vex.
She warbles diffident, 'twixt Hope and Fear,
And hits imperfect Accents, here and there.
Then Colin play'd again, and playing Sung.
She, with the fatal Love of Glory stung,
Hears all in Pain: her Heart begins to swell;
In piteous Notes she sighs, in Notes which tell
Her bitter Anguish. He, still singing, plies
His limber Joints: Her Sorrows higher rise.
How shall she bear a Conqu'ror, who before
No equal, thro' the Grove, in Musick bore?
She droops, she hangs her flagging Wings, she moans,
And fetches from her Breast melodious groans.
Oppress'd with Grief at last, too great to quell,
Down Breathless on the guilty Harp she fell.
Then
