The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld/Volume 1/The Origin of Song-writing
For other versions of this work, see The Origin of Song-writing.
THE ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING [1]
Illic indocto primum se exercuit arcu;Hei mihi quam doctas nunc habet ille manus!Tibul.
When Cupid, wanton boy! was young,His wings unfledged, and rude his tongue,He loitered in Arcadian bowers,And hid his bow in wreaths of flowers;Or pierced some fond unguarded heartWith now and then a random dart:But heroes scorned the idle boy,And love was but a shepherd's toy. When Venus, vexed to see her childAmid the forests thus run wild,Would point him out some nobler game,—Gods, and godlike men to tame.She seized the boy's reluctant hand,And led him to the virgin band,Where the sister Muses roundSwell the deep majestic sound;And in- solemn strains unite,Breathing chaste, severe delight;Songs of chiefs and heroes old,In unsubmitting virtue bold:Of even valour's temperate heat,And toils, to stubborn patience sweet;Of nodding plumes and burnished arms,And glory's bright terrific charms.
The potent sounds like lightning dartResistless through the glowing heart; Of power to lift the fixed soulHigh o'er Fortune's proud controul;Kindling deep, prophetic musing;Love of beauteous death infusing;Scorn, and unconquerable hateOf tyrant pride's unhallowed state.The boy abashed, and half afraid,Beheld each chaste immortal maid:Pallas spread her Egis there;Mars stood by with threatening air;And stern Diana's icy lookWith sudden chill his bosom struck.
"Daughters of Jove, receive the child,"The queen of beauty said, and smiled;—Her rosy breath perfumed the air,And scattered sweet contagion there;Relenting Nature learned to languish,And sickened with delightful anguish:— "Receive him, artless yet and young;Refine his air, and smooth his tongue:Conduct him through your favourite bowers,Enriched with fair perennial flowers,To solemn shades and springs that lieRemote from each unhallowed eye;Teach him to spell those mystic namesThat kindle bright immortal flames;And guide his young unpractised feetTo reach coy Learning's lofty seat."
Ah, luckless hour! mistaken maids,When Cupid sought the Muse's shades!Of their sweetest notes beguiled,By the sly insidious child;Now of power his darts are foundTwice ten thousand times to wound.Now no more the slackened stringsBreathe of high immortal things, But Cupid tunes the Muse's lyreTo languid notes of soft desire.In every clime, in every tongue,'Tis love inspires the poet's song.Hence Sappho's soft infectious page;Monimia's woe; Othello's rage;Abandoned Dido's fruitless prayer;And Eloisa's long despair;The garland, blest with many a vow,For haughty Sacharissa's brow;And, washed with tears, the mournful verseThat Petrarch laid on Laura's herse.
But more than all the sister quire,Music confessed the pleasing fire.Here sovereign Cupid reigned alone;Music and song were all his own.Sweet, as in old Arcadian plains,The British pipe has caught the strains: And where the Tweed's pure current glides,Or Liffy rolls her limpid tides;Or Thames his oozy waters leadsThrough rural bowers or yellow meads,—With many an old romantic taleHas cheered the lone sequestered vale;With many a sweet and tender layDeceived the tiresome summer day.
'Tis yours to cull with happy artEach meaning verse that speaks the heart;And fair arrayed, in order meet,To lay the wreath at Beauty's feet.