Sylvia or, The May Queen. A Lyrical Drama. By George Darley |
 |
|
 | I. |
| II. |
| I. |
Scene I.
|
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | Sylvia |  |
Scene I.
Quiet, secure, well-built, and pleasant;
Its eaves are moist and green with age,
Its windows wattled like a cage:
From out the tell-tale chimney curl
Blue wreaths of smoke with easy whirl;
A huge domestic elder tree
Shades the dear cot maternally;
While the sweet woodbine on its walls
Sits weaving her fine coronals,
Dropping betimes a careless gem
From some loose-twisted diadem,
And looking down as she would stoop
To pick her fallen jewels up.
In front a narrow garden blows,
With formal flowers set out in rows,
With gravel'd walks, smooth as the sands
Laid down by Triton's webbed hands;
Neater, I ween, though not much ampler,
Than wee miss works upon her sampler,
Amid the mountain grandeur there;
For some, bred in the wilderness,
By contrast love wild Nature less
Than those who gasp within the town
To range the hill, and roam the down,
Loving wild loveliness alone.
Shuts out a liquid murmurer,
(But you may catch his sullen roar
More loud when opes the thorough-door,
And see him far a-field betray
With shining scales his serpent way.)
Ev'n in that Isle by Vesper fann'd,
Which all the world call “Snug-man's Land,”
The land of heartfelt, homely bliss,
There's not a snugger cot than this.
One side leans oldly 'gainst the hill,
And t' other props a crony mill
That aye keeps clacking, clacking still;
As if it never would have done
Its tale to its companion.
And Stephanie, a village belle)
Are seated at an oaken table
That scarce to bear the weight is able
A flagon of portentous size
Stands, like the urn of ancient Po,
From whence his sea-bound surges go,
Bellying, the table-foot beside;
From which a wrinkle-smoothing tide
Pours the burnt traveller you see
Into his cup right frequently.
It is a quaint and humorous wight;
His eye proclaims him; Andrea hight.
More of his character I could
Discover, certes, if I would;
But pray let your own eyes and ears
Serve as your own interpreters.
O my unfortunate master! O my kind—O!—
Stephania.
Another bowl of cream!
Andrea.
Thank, gentle signorina!—if it were
deep enough to drown me, miserable that I am! it
would be only the more deeply welcome!—O sweet
and excellent
[drinks]
master!
Roselle.
Look what a tempting bunch of grapes! do pluck one.
Andrea.
Are they good for a hoarseness?
Roselle.
Better than a box of lozenges, I warrant them.
Say you so?—Then I will consent to devour a sprig or two, for I am hoarse with lamentation and bawling.—O comely youth! O taper young gentleman! O kind, noble, chaste, sweet-spoken, vagabond master!—shall I ever behold—
Stephania.
Such a cheese as the moon was never made of! I pressed it with my own two hands. 'Tis the purest fine goat's-milk cheese—pray, signior, have a slice of it.
Andrea.
It will strengthen me for whooping and calling; else, I would not touch it for diamonds! It will make me ma-a like a he-goat on a rock-top when he misses the beard of his charmer.
Roselle.
Indeed now, you must try our apricots and walnuts. Here is another loaf hot from the oven.
Stephania.
Do not spare the pasty; its fellow is in the larder. Help yourself to another cup of wine: the flagon is beside you.
Andrea.
Alas!—I cannot.
Stephania.
Pray be entreated.
Andrea.
I am inexorable!—No! I will abstain —mortify—I will make a desperate vow—Hear me, thou adorable flagon! If ever I drink a single cup of thy contents, while my dear master—
Roselle.
Nay, it is too late; you have had some half-dozen already.
The very reason I can take no more!
Stephania.
Wherefore, dear signior?
Andrea.
Simply because there is no more to take: the wine has evacuated its tenement; the flagon is empty.
Stephania.
Run, dear sister! Go: fetch out our mother's flasket of cordial. You can guess where it lies. It is better than a hogshead of ordinary wine.—Here it is.
Roselle.
(Filling out a goblet.)
Now, bachelor!
Andrea.
(Taking the goblet.)
Do you see this vessel? Do you mark its capacity and dimensions? Well:—I have rained the full of this from either flood-gate, threescore of times at a modest computation, since I lost my unfortunate master yesterday morning. Can you wonder if my lachrymatories be in want of a replenishment?
(Drinks.)Stephania.
Alas! true-hearted youth!
Roselle.
Forlorn creature!
Andrea.
I have drunk nothing but salt water from the brine-pits of mine eyes, since my master mislaid himself among these villanous mountains. And that, you know, were sufficient to make me as dry as a turnspit in the dog-days; or the cook of a ship's company on pickled allowance, in the latitude of the line, at noontide, when the sun looks like a
Stephania and Roselle.
True! true!
Andrea.
I have spouted as much water through my head as the lion on an aqueduct, or a whale in a fit of sneezing. Verily, I never wept so much for any two of my grandmothers, though the last left me heir to all she had in the world, videlicet: her blessing. Have you no sad verses to suit the occasion? no miserable rhymes? no ballad about love and murder, or elegy on the death of a favourite lap-dog? Pray consult your albums.
[Sings]O Sorrow was ever a thirsty soul,
As Margery did discover;
For every tear she drank a bowl,
That her eyes might still run over! [Drinks.]
The melancholics always give me the poetics: therefore, O sweet hostesses! pity my hapless situation.
Stephania.
In what respect beside being a melancholy poet?
Andrea.
O, I have lost the most amiable, provoking, excellent, incorrigible whistlecap of a master, that ever poor fellow had since the days of
Roselle.
What shall we do with him? he is again in a fit of the boetics.
Stephania.
Prithee, friend Andrea della Pimpinella di Ribobolo, do not frighten the squirrels.
Andrea.
I must give vent to my passion; I must relieve my oppressed heart with an effusion of some sort or other.
(Drinks.)Stephania.
Only that the cup has a bottom, you might think it was a spyglass.
Roselle.
He is going to balance it on his nose; stay a little.
Andrea.
Would this bottle were pewter that I might squeeze it!—Slidikins! where did that other
You need not draw away the table, though.—Why, hostesses!—where are you going?—Sinking! sinking!—Mercy upon me! do they live in a well?
Stephania and Roselle.
O strange!
Andrea.
Have I been singing with Mermaidens? —Down! down!—Still?—Hew! by Saint George and the Dragon, they are on a mining expedition!— Out upon ye, speculators!—Alas!—O!—Uds my life! is their father a pump-sinker?
Stephania.
Wonderful! wonderful!
Roselle.
Hush, sister! I have heard of these moon-calves. He is one, I am sure, by his roaring.
Stephania.
And his great mouth. Whither is he going?
Roselle.
Only to catch larks for his supper. Or maybe his dam bleats for him: did you not hear him cry out the moon! the moon! this moment?
Andrea.
Now could I weep pitcherfuls!
Stephania.
I thought he was a flighty sort of a gentleman. But lo! where he rises!—Take care of your hat, sir!
Roselle.
Hold on by a tree-top!
Andrea.
Hold on by a fiddlestick!—Catch you
Stephania and Roselle.
O friend Andrea, what can you have done that you should deserve to go to Heaven in such a hurry?
Andrea.
Take to your marrowbones;—kneel— pray—confess—out with all your iniquities!—Weep, children! roar! sing!—Have ye no pater, or ave, or credo?—What do the fools gape at?—Begin!— Beat your breasts! maul your petticoats! take down the pride of your tuckers!—O miserable women!—Tear your hands! wring your hair!—Will ye not?—Did you ever see such a couple of unconverted Magdalens?
Stephania and Roselle.
Alas! alas! he is growing as small as a tom-tit!
Andrea.
Son of my father! they look like two white mice at the door of a trap!—Farewell, hostesses!—good-bye!—O sad! O marvellous!— they are not the size of their noses!—Phew! I begin to smell brimstone and pitchforks!
Stephania and Roselle.
Let us pray for his safety.
Andrea.
They are at it! they are at it!—Now is there some hope of their perdition from utter
Stephania.
Poor Andrea!
Roselle
Poor signior Di Gobble-o!
| Sylvia | |