A Translation Of The Nightingale Out Of Strada Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: AABBCCDEFFGGHHIIJJKK LLLLMMLLLLJJNNJJLLLL JJJJOOMMLLMMLLJJPPLL NNLLLLHHJJHHLLBBJJHH| Now the declining sun 'gan downwards bend | A |
| From higher heavens and from his locks did send | A |
| A milder flame when near to Tiber's flow | B |
| A lutinist allay'd his careful woe | B |
| With sounding charms and in a greeny seat | C |
| Of shady oake took shelter from the heat | C |
| A Nightingale oreheard him that did use | D |
| To sojourn in the neighbour groves the muse | E |
| That fill'd the place the Syren of the wood | F |
| Poore harmless Syren stealing neare she stood | F |
| Close lurking in the leaves attentively | G |
| Recording that unwonted melody | G |
| Shee cons it to herselfe and every strayne | H |
| His finger playes her throat return'd again | H |
| The lutinist perceives an answeare sent | I |
| From th' imitating bird and was content | I |
| To shewe her play more fully then in hast | J |
| He tries his lute and giving her a tast | J |
| Of the ensuing quarrel nimbly beats | K |
| On all his strings as nimbly she repeats | K |
| And wildely ranging ore a thousand keys | L |
| Sends a shrill warning of her after layes | L |
| With rolling hand the Lutinist then plies | L |
| His trembling threads sometimes in scornful wise | L |
| He brushes down the strings and keemes them all | M |
| With one even stroke then takes them severall | M |
| And culles them ore again His sparkling joynts | L |
| With busy descant mincing on the points | L |
| Reach back with busy touch that done hee stayes | L |
| The bird replies and art with art repayes | L |
| Sometimes as one unexpert or in doubt | J |
| How she might wield her voice shee draweth out | J |
| Her tone at large and doth at first prepare | N |
| A solemne strayne not weav'd with sounding ayre | N |
| But with an equall pitch and constant throate | J |
| Makes clear the passage of her gliding noate | J |
| Then crosse division diversly shee playes | L |
| And loudly chanting out her quickest layes | L |
| Poises the sounds and with a quivering voice | L |
| Falls back again he wondering how so choise | L |
| So various harmony should issue out | J |
| From such a little throate doth go about | J |
| Some harder lessons and with wondrous art | J |
| Changing the strings doth upp the treble dart | J |
| And downwards smites the base with painefull stroke | O |
| Hee beats and as the trumpet doth provoke | O |
| Sluggards to fight even so his wanton skill | M |
| With mingled discords joynes the hoarse and shrill | M |
| The Bird this also tunes and while she cutts | L |
| Sharp notes with melting voice and mingled putts | L |
| Measures of middle sound then suddenly | M |
| Shee thunders deepe and juggs it inwardly | M |
| With gentle murmurs cleare and dull shee sings | L |
| By course as when the martial warning rings | L |
| Beleev't the minstrel blusht with angry mood | J |
| Inflam'd quoth hee thou chauntresse of the wood | J |
| Either from thee Ile beare the prize away | P |
| Or vanquisht break my lute without delay | P |
| Inimitable accents then hee straynes | L |
| His hand flyes ore the strings in one hee chaynes | L |
| Four different numbers chasing here and there | N |
| And all the strings belabour'd everywhere | N |
| Both flatt and sharpe hee strikes and stately grows | L |
| To prouder straynes and backwards as he goes | L |
| Doubly divides and closing upp his layes | L |
| Like a full quire a shouting consort playes | L |
| Then pausing stood in expectation | H |
| If his corrival now dares answeare on | H |
| But shee when practice long her throate had whett | J |
| Induring not to yield at once doth sett | J |
| Her spiritt all of worke and all in vayne | H |
| For while shee labours to express againe | H |
| With nature's simple touch such diverse keyes | L |
| With slender pipes such lofty noates as these | L |
| Orematcht with high designes orematcht with woe | B |
| Just at the last encounter of her foe | B |
| Shee faintes shee dies falls on his instrument | J |
| That conquer'd her a fitting monument | J |
| So far even little soules are driven on | H |
| Struck with a vertuous emulation | H |
William Strode
(1)
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A Translation Of The Nightingale Out Of Strada is a poem by William Strode. This page includes the poem text, poet information, related topics, comments, and similar poems.
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