 | Sylvia |  |
Scene I.
Psyche's aye-blooming bachelor!
Thou in whose curls fell strength abides,
Whose baby hand the lion guides,
I think, with all thy other claims,
Thou'st a sweet choice in very names!
Oft have I dwelt upon thine own;
Love!—'tis a most Æolian tone!
So soft, the lips will scarcely meet,
Almost afraid to fashion it;
And mark our deepest votaries,—they
Sigh it most silently away!
Was never seen an artless Maid
But smiled to say, or hear it said,
Ev'n though her heart can scarcely tell,
What's in the sound she loves so well:
Was never seen a generous Youth
But vow'd—'twas a sweet word in sooth!
A simple syllable, 'tis true,
Yet born in Heaven like balm and dew;
No child of miserable Earth!
It dropt from the harmonic spheres,
A manna-sound to starving ears.
Sounds it not queenly as it blows?
And Lily!—this is even yet
More inly fine and delicate!—
Thy murmuring bosom-bird, the Dove,
Chimes not its name to thine, O Love?
And could the wit of wisest man
Find a much statelier name than Swan?—
How many an eye beams slily coy;
How many a heart trembles with joy;
How many a cheek doth sudden glow;
How many a bosom heaves its snow;
How many a lip, raised in delight,
Just shows the pearl, a line of white;
How many a sigh is breath'd, when none
May hear the heart's confession;
How many a throb, Hyblœan Love!
Wakes, at these words—the Myrtle Grove?
Ay, the pale, wedded, widow'd dame,
Pensive recalls the long-lost name;
A hectic,—one faint wave,—no more!—
Passes her marble beauty o'er;
Remembering—Ah! what recks it now?
Of this same love-loving tree;
Veil'd in its dim recess, and warm,
A Youth still gazes on a form
That stands a-tiptoe, plucking there
Boughs, and green leaves, and blossoms fair:
Wreathing them round her veined wrist,
By none but such entwiner kist,
Our Sylvia binds, with many a gem
And costly spray, her diadem.
[Singing as she binds]
And of bees amid the flowers,
Wild-birds their companions calling,
Summer winds, and summer-showers!
They always go together.
Romanzo.
[Aside]
Even in rhyme!
Sylvia.
And why is that lily so pale?—
And she—a maid left to wail!
I've heard my mother sing.—O me! how soon
This tall Sweet-William faded!—Ay! 'tis the way!
And lost in pleasure slowly roam,
While their deep joy the valley fills,—
Ev'n these will leave their mountain-home:
So may it, love! with others be,
But I will never wend from thee!
The blossom quits the stem as fast,
The rose-enamoured bird will stray
And leave his eglantine at last;
So may it, love! with others be,
But I will never wend from thee!
So beautiful a chaplet.
Romanzo.
It might wreathe
A brow most godlike!
Sylvia.
Ay, and shall do so!
Else I would strew the weeds under my feet,
And break mine heart with weeping!
And the sweetest young cowslips that grew in the dale,
The bud from the flower, and the leaf from the tree,
To bind a rich garland, young shepherd! for thee.
And how pretty forget-me-not peeps by its side;
How the high-crested pink in brave plumage doth fall,
And look how the lily looks sweeter than all!
Upon whom this rich garland I mean to bestow;
For thou seem'st with a voice full of fragrance to sigh—
“Should I wreath that young Shepherd, how happy were I!”
Round thy temples so pure this rich garland of mine;
O thou look'st such a prince!—from this day, from this hour,
I will call thee nought else but the Lord of my Bower!
Romanzo.
Would I were so, indeed!—Look! I have knelt
That I may feel thy soft hands in my hair,
Like winds in autumn leaves. Around thy form
I'll close my suppliant arms, and like a shrine,
Press it to smile on my devotedness!
(Behind)
'Tis as I feared! O these soft myrtle bowers!—
Sylvia.
Now, it is trim as may be. I would keep
Thee ever kneeling thus; and still would find
Some flower awry to settle: but yon cushat
'Gins her lone widow-note at evening hour;
That is my warning home!
Agatha.
Still! still my daughter!
Sylvia.
Amid the valleys far away,
A mother-bird sits on a tree,
And weeps unto her long-astray—
“O come my little bird to me!”
So “long-astray”
Must now away
Unto its parent tree!
Romanzo.
As light the day,
Or love the May,
Sweet!—I will follow thee!
Agatha.
They are both innocent: Love's taper burns
Brightest in purest bosoms.—Yet I'll task him;
It is a mother's right.—So! I have met ye!
What a wild pair of ramblers ye have been!—
The whole, whole morn away!
Nay, we were going
Straight to the cottage; and the birds' way too,—
The shortest we could see.
Agatha.
Let go my neck,
[To Sylvia.
Thou fondler!—murmuring about my lips
With thy bee kisses. What should I care for thee,
A bird that leav'st thy summer-cage, whene'er
The wicket opens?
Sylvia.
Ay, but comes again
To feed upon its mistress' hand, and hide
Its softness in her bosom.
Agatha.
There's no chiding thee!—
Hie home; my limbs are weary. It is time
Our guest should taste refreshment: to prepare it
Has been my morning's work, while you were roaming.
Go: all is spread; but still, I think, it wants
Your garnishing: go, deck it with fresh flowers,
As you are wont when we sit all alone.
Sylvia.
Then do not ye stay long! I'll have it deckt
Ere ye could pluck the blossoms.
[Exit.
Agatha.
Sir, your crown
Becomes you bravely!
Romanzo.
O it has taken all
Its beauty from the wreather!—her sweet touch
Has lent it a new perfume, and a lustre
I will be king no longer.
[Takes off his crown.
Agatha.
O, sir! sir!
If you, who are a stranger, can speak thus,
How should another, who has seen this flower
Bud, bloom, and hallow its wild parent-home
With smiles no garden knows!—Forgive me, Youth,
That I speak thus of her: forgive me, too,
This foolish, beating, mother's heart of mine,
That fain would question him who has reveal'd
So much, and yet no more.
Romanzo.
I have no secret!
None!—What you ask, I'll answer.—Or, perchance,
You'll hear my life's short story? I am a bachelor;
The lord of some few acres; whom the love
Of scenes by Nature's wandering pencil drawn,
Has led among these solitudes: with this,
My death, were I to die as I am speaking,
Were all, I ween, that friend or foe could grave
Justly upon my tomb.
Agatha.
'Tis frankly spoken:
And I should mourn to think that Youth had grown
So cunning in the world since I have left it,
To wear a brow so clear as yours, the while
One spot was on the heart.
Romanzo.
I do confess,
If you would have more witness of my truth
From Padua, where I studied, and am known,
With but one servant. He, poor knave, I lost
In the deep gorges of these purple hills
But yesterday. If we may chance on him,
He will confirm the story you have heard,
And then you must believe.
Agatha.
I do already:
But still—We mothers!—O, we are such cowards!
Romanzo.
Put me to trial: I'll submit myself
To a whole year's probation: I will do
Any thing you can ask, if so I may
Win my sweet mistress.—
Agatha.
Well—well—well— Re-enter Sylvia in terror.
My child!
What ails my love? my daughter?
Sylvia.
Oh! I have seen
So wild and strange a creature!
Romanzo.
What! a wolf?
Sylvia.
No, some uncouth resemblance of a man,
But not like thee. As I approach'd the cottage,
From a green nook outstarted this rough thing,
And brush'd me swiftly by. I could not move,
Or cry, with sudden terror; but stood there
Fixt like a tree, how long I do not know,
As bore me hither.
Romanzo.
Let it be man or beast
I'll scourge it from this vale!
[Tears down a branch, and exit.
Sylvia.
O ye kind powers!
Save him, Morgana! save him!
[Exit after Romanzo.
Agatha.
Sylvia!—rash girl!—
[Exit after her.
The Scene changes to the front of the Cottage, where a table is laid with refreshments.
Enter Andrea.
Andrea.
Tin! sin! whee! ree!—Whether I have been sun-stricken or no, I cannot tell; but my head sings like a boiling kettle. I think—and yet I think I don't think. I remember—and still I forget what I remember. Now would I give a natural philosopher, Prato the Grig, or Julia Scissars of Rome, a very handsome douser if he would absolve me whether my feet stand under me, or I stand under my feet.—Stay: what was I at the time of the Deluge?—Oh! a mandrake, swimming about merrily, and was drowned like the Dutch-skipper with my hands in my breeches-pockets. After that I had the convoy of a whole fleet of sea-calves, with which we peopled the famous Island of Bulls. I
Admirable!—tastes a little racy or so; it must have
had the run of a fruitery.
[Drinking off a bowl of
milk.]
Nothing like your creaming Champagne,
after all!—Comfort thyself, poor Gandrea! it is
now exactly the best part of a fortnight since thou
didst swallow a single granary of nutriment. Thou
canst not always, man! live upon air, like a
camelleopard.—Sir, you are welcome to Tartary!
Enter Romanzo. Sylvia and Agatha following.
Romanzo.
Who—what art thou that dar'st—By all that's strange,
I scarce could know him. Sirrah! where have you been,
That you are thus transform'd?
Andrea.
Indeed I have been spending an hour or two with my old friend, clerk of the kitchen to Ancient Nicolas; so I hope am good company for any one of the cloth, under a Jesuit or Holy Inquisitor.
Sylvia.
It talks strange reason!
Agatha.
Servant!—O we are lost!
What may the master be, if such the man?
Pray Heaven he be no demon in disguise!
Romanzo.
Hast thou left off thy reverence with thy shape?
Why dost thou not rise up and bow to me?
Who am I, knave?
Andrea.
You?—The man from the moon, I think, by your crazy appearance. What a magnifico you are! Where's your fur-cloak and your poodle?—You, indeed!—Orson might have been your great-aunt by the mother's side, for all I know of the matter.—Do the people in this quarter dangle such canes at the wrist as that you are switching your boots with?—Oh! lack-a-day! lack-a-daisy! now I remember you!—Let me hear you grumble.
Romanzo.
Well! art thou still a stranger to this frown?
Verily I do entertain some oblivious recollection that I may have seen such a frizziognomy before: Or is it one from a dream of ugly faces?—Stop: Odso, now I have it! You are the bravo that robbed my unfortunate master, threw him into a milldam hard by, and made me hold my nostril over a cauldron of deadly nightshade, till I am grown as dizzy as a beetle. The same! I'll swear it before this Madonna herself!—And these are his very garments, of which, with sacratitious hands, you have stripped and deluded his body. O thief! burglarer! fortune-hunter! kidnapper!
Agatha.
What do I hear?
Sylvia.
There is no truth in him: Believe not that rude thing!
Andrea.
I'll take it on my life he is a capital fellow!—a murderer! a committer of fo-paws, and every other crime that deserves a halter!—He cannot deny it!
Romanzo.
Slave! liar! devil!
My rage unnerves me!
Andrea.
Will you abscond?—or must I have you laid by the heels for a common taxgatherer?
Romanzo.
Down to the dust, to which I'll crumble thee!
Andrea.
O, fool! fool! fool!—You have demolished at one blow a feast that might have tempted St. Anthony himself!—That pitcher will never
[Exit pursued by Romanzo.
The Scene closes.
| Sylvia | |