Birds — Meditation 1

WHO that hears such various, ravishing, and exquisite melody, would imagine the bird that makes it, to be of so small and contemptible a body, and feather? her charming voice ingaged not only mine attentive ear, but my feet also, to make a nearer approach to that shady bush, in which that excellent Musician sate vailed; and the nearer I came, the sweeter the melody still seemed to be, but when I had described the bird her self, and found her to be little bigger, and no better feather'd than a sparrow, it gave my thoughts the occasion of this following application.

This Bird seems to me the lively emblem of the formal hypocrite, (1) In that she is more in found than substance, a loud and excellent voice, but a little despicable body; and it recal'd to my thoughts the story of Plutarch, who hearin[•] a Nightingale, desired to have one killed to feed upon, not questioning but she would please the pallat as well as the ear; but when the Nightingale was brought him, and he saw what a poor little creature it was, truly said he, you art vox & preterea nihil, a meer voice and nothing else: So is the hypocrite; did a man hear him something in more publick duties and discourses, O thinks he, what an excellent man is this! what a choice and rare spirit is he of? but follow him home, observe him in his private conversation and retirements, and then you will judg Plutarchs note as applicable to him as the Nightingale. (2) This Bird is observed to charm most sweetly, and set her spirit all on work, when she perceives she has ingaged attention; so does the hypocrite, who lives and feeds upon the applause and commendation of his admirers, and cares little for any of those duties which bring in no returns of praise from men; he is little pleased with a silent melody and private pleasure between God and his own soul.

Scire tuum nihil est nisi te scire hoc sciat alter.

Alas! his knowledge is not worth a pin,

If he proclaim not what he has within.

He is more for the Theatre than the Closet, and of such Christ says, Verily they have their reward. (3) Naturalists observe the Nightingale to be an ambitious Bird, that cannot endure to be out-vied by any, she will rather chuse to die than be excell'd; a notable instance whereof we have in the following pleasant Poem, translated out of Strada; concerning the Nightingale and a Lutanist.

Now the declining Sun did downward bend

From higher heavens, and from his locks did send

A milder flame, when neer to Tibers flow

A Lutanist allayed his careful wo,

With sounding charms, and in a greeny seat

Of shady Oak, took shelter from the heat

A Nightingale o'reheard him that did use

To sojourn in the neighbour Groves, the muse

That fill'd the place, the Syrene of the wood

(Poor harmless Syrene) stealing near she stood

Close lurking in the leaves attentively

Recording that unwonted melody.

She con'd it her self, and every strain

His fingers play'd, her throat return'd again.

The Latanist perceiv'd an answer sent

From th'imitating Bird, and was content

To shew her play, more fully, then in haste.

He tryes his Lute and giving her a tast

Of the ensuing quarrel, nimbly beats

On all his strings, as nimbly she repeats

And wildly ranging o're a thousand keys

Sounds a shrill warning of her after layes;

With rowling hand the Lutanist then plyes

The trembling threeds sometimes in scornful wise

He brushes down the strings and strikes them all

With one even stroke, then takes them several

And culls them o're again, his sparkling joynts

With busie descant mincing on the points

Reach back again with nimble touch, then stayes.

The Bird replies, and art with repays.

Sometimes as one unexpert, and in doubt

How she might weild her voice, she draweth out

Her tone at large, and does at first prepare

A solemn strain nor wear'd with winding air,

but with an equal pitch, and constant throat

Makes clear the passage for her gliding note;

Then cross division diversly she playes

And loudly chanting out her quickest layes

Poyses the sound, and with a quivering voice

Falls back again: he wondering so choice

So various harmony could issue out

From such a little throat, does go about

Some harder Lessons, and with wondrous art

Changing the strings does up the treble dart

And downward smite the Base, with painful stroke

He beats; and as the Trumpet does provoke

Sluggards to fight, even so his wanton skill

With mingled discord joyns the hoarse and shrill,

The Bird this also tunes, and while she cuts

Sharp notes with melting voice, and mingled puts

Measures of middle sound, then suddenly

She thunders deep and jugs it inwardly

With gentle murmur, clear and dull she sings

By course, as when the martial warning rings;

Believ't the Minstrel blusht, with angry mood

Inflam'd (quoth he) you Chantress of the wood

Either from you I'le bear the price away

Or vanquisht, break my Lute without delay.

Unimitable accents then he strains

His hand flyes on the strings, in one he chains

Far different numbers, chasing here and there

And all the strings he labours every where;

Both flat and sharp he strikes, and stately grows

To prouder strains, and backward as he goes

Doubly divides, and closing up his layes

Like a full Quire, a shivering consort playes;

Then pausing stood in expectation

Of his corrival, nor durst answer on.

But she, when practise long her throat had whet

Enduring not to yield, at once does set

Her Spirits all to work, and all in vain;

For while she labours to express again

With Natures simple voice such divers keys

With slender pipes such losty notes as these

O're matcht with high designs, o're matcht with wo,

Iust at the last encounter of her foe

She saints, she dyes, falls on his instrument.

That conquer'd her, a fitting monument.

So far even little souls are driven on

Struck with a vertuous emulation.

And even as far are hypocrites driven on by their ambition and pride, which is the spur that provokes them in their religious duties.