Anne Finch droppin’ lyrics like a Countess, y’all . . .

Fair tree! for thy delightful shade

‘Tis just that some return be made;

Sure some return is due from me

To thy cool shadows, and to thee.

When thou to birds dost shelter give,

Thou music dost from them receive;

If travellers beneath thee stay

Till storms have worn themselves away,

That time in praising thee they spend

And thy protecting pow’r commend.

The shepherd here, from scorching freed,

Tunes to thy dancing leaves his reed;

Whilst his lov’d nymph, in thanks, bestows

Her flow’ry chaplets on thy boughs.

Shall I then only silent be,

And no return be made by me?

No; let this wish upon thee wait,

And still to flourish be thy fate.

To future ages may’st thou stand

Untouch’d by the rash workman’s hand,

Till that large stock of sap is spent,

Which gives thy summer’s ornament;

Till the fierce winds, that vainly strive

To shock thy greatness whilst alive,

Shall on thy lifeless hour attend,

Prevent the axe, and grace thy end;

Their scatter’d strength together call

And to the clouds proclaim thy fall;

Who then their ev’ning dews may spare

When thou no longer art their care,

But shalt, like ancient heroes, burn,

And some bright hearth be made thy urn.

Because she was :

Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea
1661–1720

Prithee Friend that Hedge behold

May14

Prithee Friend that Hedge behold
When all we rhiming Fools grow old
Who in vain Florish Life have spent
Amidst it stands a rivall’d Tree,
Now representing sixty three
And like it you and I shall be.
The bare vine round about it clings
With mischievous, intangling Strings
The night Shade with a dismal Flow’r
Culrs o’er it, like a Lady’s Tower
Or Honesty with feather’d Down
Like grizled Hair deforms its Crown
Luxuriant plants that o’er it spread
Not medicinal for Heart or Head
Whch serve but to amuse the Sight
Are like the nothings that we write
Yet still ’tis thought that Tree’s well plac’d
With beauteous Eglantine imbrac’d
But see how false Appearance proves
If he that Honeysuckle Loves
Which climbs by him to reach the Thorns
The rival Thorn his Age derides
And gnaws like jealousy his Sides.
Then let us cease, my Friend, to sing
When ever youth is on the Wing
Unless we solidly indite
Some good Infusing while we write
Lest with our Follies hung around
We like that Tree & Hedge be found
Grotesque & trivial, shun’d by all
And soon forgotten when we fall.

Anne Finch (1661-1720)

Voice of Grace

May13

(This live performance from 1966 sounds better on audiophones)

Grace really is slick: articulate and intelligent.
Listen to her wisdom. Pray for her salvation.

INTERVIEWS

00:00 Sally Go ‘Round The Roses 06:35 Didn’t Think So 10:00 Grimly Forming 13:57 Somebody To Love 18:20 Father Bruce 21:57 Outlaw Blues 24:26 Often As I May 28:10 Arbitration 32:12 White Rabbit 38:24 That’s How It Is 43:00 Darkly Smiling 45:35 Nature Boy 48:50 You Can’t Cry 55:30 Daydream Nightmare 1:00:06 Everybody Knows 1:02:42 Born To Be Burned 1:05:57 Father

Say Lovely Nymph, where dost thou dwell?
Where is that Secret Silvan Seat,
That Melancholy, Sweet retreat,
From whence, thou dost these notes repel?
And moving Syllables repeat?
Oh! Lovely Nymph, our Joyes to swell,
Thy hollow, leafy Mansion tell.
Or, if thou only Charm’st the Ear,
And never wilt to sight appear,
But dost alone in voice, excel,
Still with it, fix us here.

Where Cynthia, lends her gentle light,
Whilst the appeas’d, expanded air
A passage for thee, does prepare,
And Strephon’s tunefull voice, invite,
Thine, a soft part with him to bear.
Oh! pleasure, when thou’dst take a flight
Beyond thy common mortal height,
When to thy Sphere above thou’dst press,
And men like angels, thou would’st bless
Thy season be, like this fair night,
And Harmony thy dress.