A POEM ON THE Italian Woman Lately come into ENGLAND; Who Sings at the MUSIC-HOUSE in YORK-BVILDINGS.  

What elevating Notes are these I hear!  
A Voice! or is't the Music of the Sphere?  
A Charm unusual the rapt Thought does bind;  
Thought ever till this Moment unconfined;  
Yet happier now in the Restraint is found:  
So wisely knows this Charmer how to wound.   

Sleep All ye Instruments, the trembling Lute,  
The cheerful Oboe, and soft-sounding Flute:  
The Trumpet too and Viol. now be still,  
Tho' both so well betray their Master's Skill,  
That This can speak, and That's no longer shrill,   

Something Sublimer now, and more refined  
Than these, strikes the glad Sense, and wings the Mind;  
Pleasures unknown before it does impart,  
That warm the Spirits and dissolve the Heart.  
methinks the Air's Perfumed, while all around  
The little Atoms fly to catch the sound.  
Sure the charmed Soul anticipates her Bliss,  
For ne'er was heard below a Strain like this.  
'Tis then the Language of some pitying Saint,  
Who with the Joys of Heaven does Earth acquaint.  
(How blest are we! Alive to taste of Heaven,  
Which is not before Death to others given!)   

The ravished World lends an Attentive Ear,  
Would never speak, so it might always hear.  
Not softest Whispers interrupt their Bliss;  
All talk is out of tune and time but This.  
Applause itself's suspended; for 'twould wrong  
The listening Ear, and dies upon the Tongue:  
And that minutest Noise may have no part,  
Time is not beaten with the Hand but Heart.  
Thus without mixture to the Sense it flies;  
And every Note's a stab before it dies.   

See, see th' Effect 't has wrought, how All appear  
So much like that (alas) which once they were,  
All Tender, Innocent, Serene, and Mild  
As sleeping Seas, or the rocked happy Child.   

How gentle are the Thoughts which it inspires?  
What inward Bleedings, languishing Desires?  
The cruel Nymph who never yet did give  
Her dying Swain one Look to bid him live;  
All softened now by the prevailing Sound,  
She sighs, and pants, insensibly grows kind,  
And meeting his fond Eye, she looks it blind.   

But hold: A gentle Pause; the Sacred Hymn  
Is done; and see where stands the sweet-tongued SERAPHIN.   

How well is all our Expectation paid.  
This is that dear enchanting Latian Maid  
We all so wished for, Mistress to control  
Our Discord, and new-tune the Soul.   

Welcome, thrice welcome, pretty Chanticleer,  
That dost so sweetly usher in the Year:  
Thou methought all the while I heard Thee sing,  
It was not Winter with us, but the Spring.   

Here, PHOENIX, build thy Nest; but ever live,  
For we'll not trust thy Ashes to revive.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for Randal Tailor in Stationers-Yard. 1693.