NOW westward Sol had spent the richest beams 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 distinguished 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 reared In controverting warbles evenly shared, With her sweet sell 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 bass In surly groans disdains the treble’s grace; The high-perched treble chirps at this, and chides Until his finger—moderator—hides And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all, Hoarse, shrill, at once: as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th’ harvest of death’s field, and woo Men’s hearts into their hands; this lesson, too, She gives him back, her supple breast thrills out Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetness, hovers o’er her skill, And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill, The pliant series of her slippery song; Then starts she suddenly into a throng Of short thick sobs, whose thund’ring volleys float