Sylvia or, The May Queen. A Lyrical Drama. By George Darley |
 |
|
 | I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
Scene IV.
|
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | Sylvia |  |
Scene IV.
The dreary halls of the enchanter
Lengthen in antre after antre:
Between the yawning jambs of which
Strong-ribb'd portcullisses do stretch.
Enormous Powers, on either hand,
Some of the old Titanian band,
With misty eyes and downcast looks
Stand dozing in their hollow nooks,
Club-shapen oaks beneath their arms,
To guard the House of Ill from harms:
The dun lords of the feline race
From side to side pass and repass;
And brinded forms with cruel eyes
Glistening at one another's cries,
Scourge their own sides for ire; a brood
Kept fierce for war by lack of food
And red repast of luscious blood.
Ten griffins, torturing-round their stings,
Coil their mail'd lengths in crackling rings,
That ever as their nostrils blow
Sulphury flames, illumined grow,
As if their steely faces shone
With passions, instrant come and gone.
Lengthen in antre after antre:
Between the yawning jambs of which
Strong-ribb'd portcullisses do stretch.
Enormous Powers, on either hand,
Some of the old Titanian band,
62
Stand dozing in their hollow nooks,
Club-shapen oaks beneath their arms,
To guard the House of Ill from harms:
The dun lords of the feline race
From side to side pass and repass;
And brinded forms with cruel eyes
Glistening at one another's cries,
Scourge their own sides for ire; a brood
Kept fierce for war by lack of food
And red repast of luscious blood.
Ten griffins, torturing-round their stings,
Coil their mail'd lengths in crackling rings,
That ever as their nostrils blow
Sulphury flames, illumined grow,
As if their steely faces shone
With passions, instrant come and gone.
See'st thou a funeral canopy
Hang in the black air dismally
Its flaggy curtains?—there doth moan
In easeless sleep the Evil-One:
And there, his painful cockatrice,
Lulls him with close incessant hiss,
If lull he may; for Terror still
Keeps him awake against his will.
Hang in the black air dismally
Its flaggy curtains?—there doth moan
In easeless sleep the Evil-One:
And there, his painful cockatrice,
Lulls him with close incessant hiss,
If lull he may; for Terror still
Keeps him awake against his will.
Up starts the regal mockery!—now
Flashes the blue spite of his brow,
And now he thrills the batty walls
Of his dull palace, as he calls.
Enter Fiends.
Flashes the blue spite of his brow,
63
Of his dull palace, as he calls.
Ararach.
No word?—no sign?—no messenger?
Fiends.
None, lord!
Ararach.
O ye shall freeze, ye slugs! in lakes of ice,
For this!—ye shall! What! none?—For ages, ay,
Till roaring conflagration seize the world,
Ye shall stand oozing blood from either eye,
With bitter pain!—
Fiends.
Hark! the resounding floors!
Thunders the echoing porch, and clang the barry doors!
Enter Grumiel and Momiel, with Andrea prisoner.
Ararach.
What's he? You staring fool! Speak, ye torpedos!
Where have ye slept your time?
Grumiel.
Master, we bring
Thy victim-rival, the spruce lord—
Ararach.
That charlatan?—
Ho!—bear these dormice instant to the torture!
Let them be lash'd to strips inch-broad! let both
Trudge blistering o'er a fiery-sanded plain,
While ye on wing do scourge them!
Grumiel.
Howl! howl! howl!
64
Ha! ha!—I care not what I suffer, while
I see him get the lashes!—Ha! ha! ha!—
Thou 'lt find a springy Oasis in the desert,
Eh, thou discoverer? or a North Pole
To cool thy feet?
Grumiel.
I'll grind thy head for this,
If ever we get free!
[Exeunt Grumiel and Momiel with the torturers.
Ararach.
Who art thou, idiot?
Andrea.
I know no more of my parents, your worship, than a foundling tied to a knocker. When I was alive, if I can collect my scattered faculties, I might, please your worship, have been (without pride be it spoken!) the only hope of a tailor: but indeed I have not the boldness to maintain it; for within these few minutes, I have, with pure fear and exaggeration, forgotten all my geography.—O will these teeth wear themselves round, like a parcel of jackstones?—Shall I ever crack a filberd again?— Chatter! chatter! chatter!
Ararach.
What have they brought me here?—A half-brain'd loon!
A mimmering driveller!—Shove him without!
He's not worth torments. Stay: thou shalt not go
Without our mark upon thee.—Hence, stupidity!
[Striking him with his wand.
Trot on a cloven-heel away, and satyr-like
65
Into a Panic size!—Go! scare the wilds,
Thou bungle of a man!—Hoot him away!
Andrea.
I do most verdantly beseech our Lady, to grant your worship long life and propriety!
[Exit running.
Ararach.
I'll send these tortured slaves trooping again
Upon mine errand: 'twas that yellow fiend
Perplex'd his brother. But I'll promise him
Pains that will make his spirit sob to hear them,
If he do so again. I have no choice;
They are my best of servants. Call those fiends!
The scene closes.
| Sylvia | |