Each note, each flowing accent of the song,
She sooth'd, and sweeten'd with her softer tongue,
Gently refin'd each imitated strain,

And paid him with his harmony again.
The shepherd wonder'd at the just replies,
At first mistaken for the vocal breeze:
But when he found his little rival near
Imbibing music both at eye and ear,
With a sublimer touch he swept the lute,
A summons to the musical dispute.
The summons she receiv'd, resolv'd to try;
And, daring, warbled out a bold reply.
Now sweetest thoughts the gentle swain inspire;
And with a dying softness tune the lyre;
Echoes the vernal music of the woods,
Warble the murmurs of the falling floods.
Thus sweet he sings, but sweetly sings in vain,
For Philomela breathes a softer strain;
With easier art she modulates each note,
More nat❜ral music melting in her throat.
Much he admir'd the magic of her tongue,
But more to find his lute and art outdone.
And now to loftier airs he tunes the strings,
And now to loftier airs his echo sings;

Though loud as thunder, though as swift as thought,

She reach'd the swelling, caught the flying note;
In trembling treble, now in solemn bass,
She shew'd how nature could his art surpass.
Amaz'd, at length with rage the shepherd
burn'd,

His admiration into anger turned;
Inflam'd, with emulating pride he stood,
And thus defy'd the charmer of the wood:
And wilt thou still my music imitate?
Then see thy folly, and thy task is great :
For know, more powerful lays remain unsung,
Lays far superior to thy mimic tongue.

If not, this lute, this vanquished lute, I swear,
Shall never more delight the ravish'd ear;
But broke in scatter'd fragments strew the plain,
And mourn the glories which it could not gain.
He said; and, as he said, his soul on fire,
With a disdainful air he struck the lyre.
Quick to the touch the tides of music flow,
Swell into strength, or melt away in woe :
Now raise the thrilling trumpet's clanging jar,
And imitated thunders rouse the war:

M

Now soft'ning sounds, and sadly-pleasing strains,
Breathe out the lover's joys, and lover's pains.
He sung; and ceas'd her rival notes to hear,
As his dy'd list'ning in the ambient air.
But now, too late, her noble folly found,
Sad Philomela stood subdu'd by sound:
Though vanquish'd, yet, with gen'rous ardour
fill'd,

Ignobly still she scorn'd to quit the field;
But, slowly faint, her pensive accents flow,

Weaken'd with grief, and overcharg'd with

woe.

Again she tunes her voice, again she sings,
Strains ev'ry nerve, and quivers on her wings;
In vain, her sinking spirits fade away,
And, in a tuneful agony, decay:

Dying she fell, and, as the strains expire,
Breath'd out her soul, in anguish, on the lyre:
Dissolv'd in transport, she resign'd her breath,
And gain'd a living conquest by her death.

Pope.