Of all the strings, still breathing the best life Of blest variety, attending on His fingers fairest revolution In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall) 155 A full-mouth'd diapason swallowes all. This done, he lists what she would say to this, And she, (although her breath's late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throate,) Yet summons all her sweet powers for a noate. 160 Alas! in vaine! for while (sweet soule!) she tryes To measure all those wild diversities Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one Poore simple voyce, rais'd in a naturall tone; She failes, and failing grieves, and grieving dyes. 165 She dyes: and leaves her life the Victor's prise, Falling upon his lute: O, fit to have (That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave! NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. In our Essay we give the original Latin of this very remarkable poem, that the student may see how CRASHAW has ennobled and transfigured STRADA. Still further to show how much we owe to our Poet, I print here (_a_) An anonymous translation, which I discovered at the British Museum in Additional MSS. 19.268; never before printed. (_b_) Sir FRANCIS WORTLEY'S translation from his 'Characters and Elegies' (1646). In the former I have been obliged to leave one or two words unfilled-in as illegible in the MS. (_a_) _The Musicke Warre between ye Fidler and the Nightingale._ Nowe had greate Sol ye middle orbe forsooke When as a fidler by a slidinge brooke With shadie bowers was guarded from ye aire And on his fidle plaid away his care. A nightingale hid in the leaues there stood The muse and harmeles Syren of the wood; Shee snatcht ye soundes and with an echo prates: What his hand playde her voice reiterates. Perceavinge how ye listninge bird did sit Ye fidler faine would make some sport with it, And neately stroke ye lute; then she began And through those notes ran glib division; Then with quicke hand he strikes ye tremblinge strings, Now with a skilfull negligence he flings His carelesse armes, then softly playes his part: Then shee begins and answers art with art, And now as if vncertaine how to singe Lengthens her notes and choisest art doth bringe, And interminglinge softer notes with shrill Daintily quavers through her trembling bill. Ye fidler wonders such melodious notes Shold haue proceedinges from soe slender throats; Tryes her againe, then loudly spoke ye.... Sometimes graue were ye tones, sometimes.... Then high, then lowe againe, yn sweetly iarrs Just like a trumpet callinge men to warrs. Thus did ye dainty Philomela doe And with hoarse voice sange an alarme too. The fidler blusht, and al in ragg [_i.e._ rage] he went About to breake his conquerèd instrument, But yet suspectinge lest ambitious shee