The Penguin Book of English Song
Page 17
*
[They went then, till they came to the Delectable Mountains, which Mountains belong to the Lord of that Hill of which we have spoken before; so they went up to the Mountains, to behold the Gardens, and Orchards, the Vineyards, and Fountains of water, where also they drank, and washed themselves, and did freely eat of the Vineyards. Now there was on the tops of these Mountains, Shepherds feeding their flocks, and they stood by the high-way side. The Pilgrims therefore went to them, and leaning upon their staves, (as is common with weary Pilgrims, when they stand to talk with any by the way), they asked,] Whose Delectable Mountains are these? and whose be the sheep that feed upon them?
SHEP. These Mountains are Immanuels Land, and they are within sight of his City; and the sheep also are his, and he laid down his life for them.
CHR. Is this the way to the Cœlestial City?
SHEP. You are just in your way.
CHR. How far is it thither?
SHEP. Too far for any but those that shall get thither indeed.
CHR. Is the way safe or dangerous?
SHEP. Safe for those for whom it is to be safe; but transgressors shall fall therein.
CHR. Is there in this place any relief for Pilgrims that are weary and faint in the way?
SHEP. The Lord of these Mountains hath given us a charge, Not to be forgetful to entertain strangers: Therefore the good of the place is before you.
JOHN DRYDEN
(1631–1700)
The difference between genuine poetry and the poetry of Dryden, Pope, and all their school, is briefly this: their poetry is conceived and composed in their wits, genuine poetry is conceived and composed in the soul. The difference between the two kinds of poetry is immense. They differ profoundly in their modes of evolution. The poetic language of our eighteenth century in general is the language of men composing without their eye on the object, as Wordsworth excellently said of Dryden; the language merely recalling the object, as the common language of prose does, and then dressing it out with a certain smartness and brilliancy for the fancy and understanding. This is called ‘splendid diction’. The evolution of the poetry of our eighteenth century is likewise intellectual; it proceeds by ratiocination, antithesis, ingenious turns and conceits. This poetry is often eloquent, and always, in the hands of such masters as Dryden and Pope, clever; but it does not take us much below the surface of things, it does not give us the emotion of seeing things in their truth and beauty. The language of genuine poetry, on the other hand, is the language of one composing with his eye on the object; its evolution is that of a thing which has been plunged in the poet’s soul until it comes forth naturally and necessarily. This sort of evolution is infinitely simpler than the other, and infinitely more satisfying; the same thing is true of the genuinely poetic language likewise. But they are both of them infinitely harder of attainment; they come only from those who, as Emerson says, ‘live from a great depth of being.’
MATTHEW ARNOLD: ‘Thomas Gray’, Essays in Criticism: Second Series (1888)
Educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge, Dryden was appointed Poet Laureate and Historiographer Royal in 1668 and 1670, posts that – having converted to Catholicism in 1686 during the reign of the Catholic James II – he lost on the accession of William and Mary in 1689. He remained loyal to his Catholic faith, which meant that when the Protestant William ascended the throne in 1689, he was compelled to keep writing in order to earn a living. He was a shareholder for ten years, from 1654 to 1664, of the Theatre Royal, and always showed a keen interest in drama and music. He was appointed Poet Laureate in recognition of such poems as Annus Mirabilis (1666) and achievements in the theatre, for which he wrote successful comedies and heroic tragedies. In 1684 he started work on his semi-opera King Arthur, the prologue of which he expanded into a full-length opera called Albion and Albanius, which was set by Louis Grabu in 1685 and flopped. After the success of Purcell’s The Prophetess, or The History of Dioclesian (1690) to a libretto by Thomas Betterton or possibly John Dryden, Dryden became aware of Purcell’s potential as an operatic composer. He asked him to provide music for his play Amphitryon (Purcell obliged with two songs, one duet and some instrumental music); but it was Purcell’s music to Dryden’s revised King Arthur that met with the greatest success. Dryden also wrote the dedication of Purcell’s The Prophetess, or The History of Dioclesian, in which he shows how deeply he had thought about opera and setting words to music – see the Introduction.
During the forty years between the return of Charles II in 1660 until his own death in 1700, Dryden was, with the possible exception of Milton, the most important literary figure in England. He completed Alexander’s Feast, or The Power of Musique in the autumn of 1697, and it was immediately set to music (now lost) by Jeremiah Clarke and performed on 22 November. Dryden wrote to his publisher, Tonson, ‘that my Ode is esteemed the best of all my poetry, by all the Town: I thought so myself when I writ it.’ Dryden’s ode differs from the Pindaric ode, in that each stanza is varied in shape and rhythm to accord with its particular subject. He is buried in Westminster Abbey.
HENRY PURCELL: from King Arthur (1691)
Song of Venus
I
Fairest Isle, all Isles Excelling,
Seat of Pleasures, and of Loves;
Venus here will chuse her Dwelling,
And forsake her Cyprian Groves.
II
Cupid, from his Fav’rite Nation,
Care and Envy will Remove;
Jealousy, that poysons Passion,
And Despair that dies for Love.
III
Gentle Murmurs, sweet Complaining,
Sighs that blow the Fire of Love;
Soft Repulses, kind Disdaining,
Shall be all the Pains you prove.
IV
Ev’ry Swain shall pay his Duty,
Grateful ev’ry Nymph shall prove;
And as these Excel in Beauty,
Those shall be Renown’d for Love.
HENRY PURCELL: from Œdipus (John Dryden and Nathaniel Lee)1
Musick for a while (?1692)
Musick for a while
Shall all your cares beguile:
Wondring how your pains were eas’d: –
And disdaining to be pleas’d; –
Till Alecto2 free the dead
From the eternal bands;
Till the snakes drop from her head,
And whip from out her hands.
HENRY PURCELL: from The Indian Queen (c.1695)1
I attempt from love’s sickness to fly
I attempt from Loves Sickness to fly in vaine
Since I am my Self my own feaver and Pain.
No more now fond heart with Pride no more swell;
Thou canst not raise forces enough to rebell.
For Love has more Powr & less mercy than fate
To make vs Seek ruin and Love those that hate.
JOHN BLOW
On the death of Mr. Purcell (1696)
I
Mark how the Lark and Linnet sing,
With rival Notes
They strain their warbling Throats
To welcome in the Spring.
But in the close of Night,
When Philomel begins her Heav’nly lay,
They cease their mutual spight,
Drink in her Musick with delight,
And list’ning and silent, and silent and list’ning, and list’ning and silent obey.
II
So ceas’d the rival Crew, when Purcell came,
They Sung no more, or only Sung his Fame.
Struck dumb, they all admir’d
The godlike man,
Alas, too soon retir’d,1
As He too late began.
We beg not Hell, our Orpheus to restore;
Had He been there,
Their Sovereigns3 fear
Had sent Him back before.
The pow’r of Harmony too well they know,
He long e�
��er this had Tun’d their jarring Sphere,
And left no Hell below.
III
The Heav’nly Quire, who heard his Notes from high,
Let down the Scale of Musick from the Sky:
They handed him along,
And all the way He taught, and all the way they Sung.
Ye Brethren of the Lyre, and tunefull Voice,
Lament his lott: but at your own rejoyce.
Now live secure, and linger out your days,
The Gods are pleas’d alone with Purcell’s Layes,
Nor know to mend their Choice.
JOHN BLOW
Rondelay
[Chloe found Amyntas lying] (1700)1
I
Chloe found Amyntas lying,
All in Tears, upon the Plain;
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Kiss me, Dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain.
II
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful Swain
Kiss me, Dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain!
III
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful Swain.
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him that he lov’d in vain:
Kiss me, Dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain!
IV
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he lov’d in vain:
But repenting, and complying,
When he kiss’d, she kiss’d again:
Kiss’d him up, before his dying;
Kiss’d him up, and eas’d his pain.
GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
Alexander’s Feast; or THE POWER OF MUSIQUE. AN ODE, In HONOUR of St. CECILIA’s Day: 1697
[Alexander’s Feast] (1736)
I
’Twas at the Royal Feast, for Persia won,
By Philip’s1 Warlike Son:
Aloft in awful State
The God-like Heroe sate
On his Imperial Throne;
His valiant Peers2 were plac’d around;
Their Brows with Roses and with Myrtles bound.
(So should Desert in Arms3 be Crown’d:)
The lovely Thais4 by his side,
Sate like a blooming Eastern Bride
In Flow’r of Youth and Beauty’s Pride.
Happy, happy, happy Pair!
None but the Brave,
None but the Brave
None but the Brave deserves the Fair.
CHORUS
Happy, happy, happy Pair!
None but the Brave,
None but the Brave,
None but the Brave deserves the Fair.
II
Timotheus5 plac’d on high
Amid the tuneful Quire,
With flying Fingers touch’d the Lyre:
The trembling Notes ascend the Sky,
And Heav’nly Joys inspire.
The Song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful Seats above,
(Such is the Pow’r of mighty Love.)
A Dragon’s fiery Form bely’d the God:
Sublime on Radiant Spires He rode,
When He to fair Olympia6 press’d:
And while He sought her snowy Breast:
Then, round her slender Waist he curl’d,
And stamp’d an Image of himself, a Sov’raign of the World.
The list’ning Crowd admire7 the lofty Sound,
A present Deity8, they shout around:
A present Deity, the vaulted Roofs rebound.
With ravish’d Ears
The Monarch hears,
Assumes the God,9
Affects to nod,
And seems10 to shake the Spheres.
CHORUS
With ravish’d Ears
The Monarch hears,
Assumes the God,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the Spheres.
III
The praise of Bacchus11 then the sweet Musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever Fair, and ever Young:
The jolly God in Triumph comes;
Sound the Trumpets; beat the Drums:
Flush’d with a purple Grace
He shews his honest12 Face:
Now give the Hautboys13 breath; He comes, He comes.
Bacchus ever Fair and Young
Drinking Joys did first ordain:14
Bacchus Blessings are a treasure;
Drinking is the Soldiers Pleasure;
Rich the Treasure;
Sweet the Pleasure;
Sweet is Pleasure after Pain.
CHORUS
Bacchus Blessings are a Treasure;
Drinking is the Soldiers Pleasure;
Rich the Treasure;
Sweet the Pleasure;
Sweet is Pleasure after Pain.
IV
Sooth’d with the Sound the King grew vain;
Fought all his Battails o’er again;15
And thrice He routed all his Foes; and thrice He slew the slain.
The Master16 saw the Madness rise;
His17 glowing Cheeks, his ardent Eyes;
And while He Heav’n and Earth defy’d,
Chang’d his Hand18, and check’d his Pride.
He chose a Mournful Muse,
Soft Pity to infuse;
He sung Darius19 Great and Good,
By too severe a Fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high Estate,
And weltring in his Blood:
Deserted20 at his utmost Need
By those his former Bounty fed:
On the bare Earth expos’d He lies,
With not a Friend to close his Eyes.
With down-cast Looks the joyless Victor sate,
Revolving21 in his alter’d Soul
The various Turns of Chance below;
And, now and then, a Sigh he stole;
And Tears began to flow.
CHORUS
Revolving in his alter’d Soul
The various Turns of Chance below;
And, now and then, a Sigh he stole;
And Tears began to flow.
V
The Mighty Master22 smil’d to see
That Love was in the next Degree:
’Twas but a Kindred-Sound to move,23
For Pity melts the Mind to Love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian Measures,
Soon he sooth’d his Soul to Pleasures.
War, he sung, is Toil and Trouble;
Honour but an empty Bubble.
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying,
If the World be worth thy Winning,
Think, O think, it worth Enjoying.
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the Good the Gods provide thee.
The Many24 rend the Skies, with loud applause;
So Love was Crown’d, but Musique won the Cause.
The Prince25, unable to conceal his Pain26,
Gaz’d on the Fair27
Who caus’d his Care,
And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d,
Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again:
At length, with Love and Wine at once oppress’d,
The vanquish’d Victor sunk upon her Breast.
CHORUS
The Prince, unable to conceal his Pain,
Gaz’d on the Fair
Who caus’d his Care,
And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d,
Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again:
At length, with Love and Wine at once oppress’d,
The vanquish’d Victor sunk upon her Breast.
VI
A lowder yet, and yet a lowder Strain.
Break his Bands of Sleep asunder,
And rouze him, like a rattling Peal of Thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid Sound
Has rais’d up his Head;
As awak’d from the Dead,
And amaz’d, he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies28 arise!
See the Snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their Hair,
And the Sparkles that flash from their Eyes!
Behold a ghastly Band,