Sylvia or, The May Queen. A Lyrical Drama. By George Darley |
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Scene V.
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 | Sylvia |  |
Scene V.
Fair Lady, or sweet Sir, who look,
Perchance, into this wayward book,
Lay by your scenic eyes a moment;
It is not for a raree-show meant.
I've now some higher work to do
Than stipple graphic scenes for you.
Suffice to say, that smoother glade
Kept greener by a deeper shade,
Never by antler'd form was trod;
Never was strown by that white crowd
Which nips with pettish haste the grass;
Never was lain upon by lass
In harvest-time, when Love is tipsy,
And steals to coverts like a gipsy,
There to unmask his ruby face
In unreproved luxuriousness.
'Tis true, in brief, of this sweet place,
What the tann'd Moon-bearer did feign
Of one rich spot in his own Spain:
The part just o'er it in the skies
Is the true seat of Paradise .
Perchance, into this wayward book,
Lay by your scenic eyes a moment;
It is not for a raree-show meant.
I've now some higher work to do
Than stipple graphic scenes for you.
Suffice to say, that smoother glade
Kept greener by a deeper shade,
135
Never was strown by that white crowd
Which nips with pettish haste the grass;
Never was lain upon by lass
In harvest-time, when Love is tipsy,
And steals to coverts like a gipsy,
There to unmask his ruby face
In unreproved luxuriousness.
'Tis true, in brief, of this sweet place,
What the tann'd Moon-bearer did feign
Of one rich spot in his own Spain:
The part just o'er it in the skies
Is the true seat of Paradise .
Have you not oft, in the still wind,
Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind,
That rose one moment, and then fell
Swooning away like a far knell?
Listen!—that wave of perfume broke
Into sea-music, as I spoke,
Fainter than that which seems to roar
On the moon's silver-sanded shore,
When through the silence of the night
Is heard the ebb and flow of light.
O shut the eye, and ope the ear!
Do you not hear, or think you hear,
A wide hush o'er the woodland pass
Like distant waving fields of grass?—
Voices!—ho! ho!—a band is coming,
Loud as ten thousand bees a-humming,
Or ranks of little merry men
Tromboning deeply from the glen,
And now as if they changed, and rung
Their citterns small, and riband-slung,
Over their gallant shoulders hung!—
A chant! a chant! that swoons and swells
Like soft winds jangling meadow-bells;
Now brave, as when in Flora's bower
Gay Zephyr blows a trumpet-flower;
Now thrilling fine, and sharp, and clear,
Like Dian's moonbeam dulcimer;
But mixt with whoops, and infant-laughter,
Shouts following one another after,
As on a hearty holyday
When Youth is flush, and full of May;
Small shouts, indeed, as wild bees knew
Both how to hum, and hollo too.
What! is the living meadow sown
With dragon-teeth, as long agone?
Or is an army on the plains
Of this sweet clime, to fight with cranes?
Helmet and hauberk, pike and lance,
Gorget and glaive through the long grass glance;
Red-men, and blue-men, and buff-men, small,
Loud-mouth'd captains, and ensigns tall,
Grenadiers, lightbobs, inch-people all,
They come! they come! with martial blore
Clearing a terrible path before;
Ruffle the high-peak'd flags i' the wind,
Mourn the long-answering trumpets behind,
Telling how deep the close files are—
Make way for the stalwarth sons of war!
Hurrah! the bluff-cheek'd bugle band,
Each with a loud reed in his hand!
Hurrah! the pattering company,
Each with a drum-bell at his knee!
Hurrah! the sash-capt cymbal swingers!
Hurrah! the klingle-klangle ringers!
Hurrah! hurrah! the elf-knights enter,
Each with his grasshopper at a canter!
His tough spear of a wild oat made,
His good sword of a grassy blade,
His buckram suit of shining laurel,
His shield of bark, emboss'd with coral;
See how the plumy champion keeps
His proud steed clambering on his hips,
With foaming jaw pinn'd to his breast,
Blood-rolling eyes, and arched crest;
Over his and his rider's head
A broad-sheet butterfly banner spread,
Swoops round the staff in varying form,
Flouts the soft breeze, but courts the storm.
Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind,
That rose one moment, and then fell
Swooning away like a far knell?
Listen!—that wave of perfume broke
Into sea-music, as I spoke,
Fainter than that which seems to roar
On the moon's silver-sanded shore,
When through the silence of the night
Is heard the ebb and flow of light.
O shut the eye, and ope the ear!
Do you not hear, or think you hear,
136
Like distant waving fields of grass?—
Voices!—ho! ho!—a band is coming,
Loud as ten thousand bees a-humming,
Or ranks of little merry men
Tromboning deeply from the glen,
And now as if they changed, and rung
Their citterns small, and riband-slung,
Over their gallant shoulders hung!—
A chant! a chant! that swoons and swells
Like soft winds jangling meadow-bells;
Now brave, as when in Flora's bower
Gay Zephyr blows a trumpet-flower;
Now thrilling fine, and sharp, and clear,
Like Dian's moonbeam dulcimer;
But mixt with whoops, and infant-laughter,
Shouts following one another after,
As on a hearty holyday
When Youth is flush, and full of May;
Small shouts, indeed, as wild bees knew
Both how to hum, and hollo too.
What! is the living meadow sown
With dragon-teeth, as long agone?
Or is an army on the plains
Of this sweet clime, to fight with cranes?
Helmet and hauberk, pike and lance,
Gorget and glaive through the long grass glance;
137
Loud-mouth'd captains, and ensigns tall,
Grenadiers, lightbobs, inch-people all,
They come! they come! with martial blore
Clearing a terrible path before;
Ruffle the high-peak'd flags i' the wind,
Mourn the long-answering trumpets behind,
Telling how deep the close files are—
Make way for the stalwarth sons of war!
Hurrah! the bluff-cheek'd bugle band,
Each with a loud reed in his hand!
Hurrah! the pattering company,
Each with a drum-bell at his knee!
Hurrah! the sash-capt cymbal swingers!
Hurrah! the klingle-klangle ringers!
Hurrah! hurrah! the elf-knights enter,
Each with his grasshopper at a canter!
His tough spear of a wild oat made,
His good sword of a grassy blade,
His buckram suit of shining laurel,
His shield of bark, emboss'd with coral;
See how the plumy champion keeps
His proud steed clambering on his hips,
With foaming jaw pinn'd to his breast,
Blood-rolling eyes, and arched crest;
Over his and his rider's head
A broad-sheet butterfly banner spread,
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Flouts the soft breeze, but courts the storm.
Hard on the prancing heel of these
Come on the pigmy Thyades;
Mimics, and mummers, masqueraders,
Soft flutists, and sweet serenaders
Guitarring o'er the level green,
Or tapping the parch'd tambourine,
As swaying to, and swaying fro,
Over the stooping flow'rs they go,
That laugh within their greeny breasts
To feel such light feet on their crests,
And ev'n themselves a-dancing seem
Under the weight that presses them.
Come on the pigmy Thyades;
Mimics, and mummers, masqueraders,
Soft flutists, and sweet serenaders
Guitarring o'er the level green,
Or tapping the parch'd tambourine,
As swaying to, and swaying fro,
Over the stooping flow'rs they go,
That laugh within their greeny breasts
To feel such light feet on their crests,
And ev'n themselves a-dancing seem
Under the weight that presses them.
But hark! the trumpet's royal clangor
Strikes silence with a voice of anger:
Raising its broad mouth to the sun
As he would bring Apollo down,
The in-back'd, swoln, elf-winder fills
With its great roar the fairy hills;
Each woodland tuft for terror shakes,
The field-mouse in her mansion quakes,
The heart-struck wren falls through the branches,
Wide stares the earwig on his haunches;
From trees which mortals take for flowers,
Leaves of all hues fall off in showers;
So strong the blast, the voice so dread,
'Twould wake the very fairy dead!
Strikes silence with a voice of anger:
Raising its broad mouth to the sun
As he would bring Apollo down,
The in-back'd, swoln, elf-winder fills
With its great roar the fairy hills;
Each woodland tuft for terror shakes,
The field-mouse in her mansion quakes,
The heart-struck wren falls through the branches,
Wide stares the earwig on his haunches;
From trees which mortals take for flowers,
Leaves of all hues fall off in showers;
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'Twould wake the very fairy dead!
Disparted now, half to each side,
Athwart the curled moss they glide,
Then wheel and front, to edge the scene,
Leaving a spacious glade between;
With small round eyes that twinkle bright
As moon-tears on the grass of night,
They stand spectorial, anxious all,
Like guests ranged down a dancing hall
Some graceful pair, or more, to see
Winding along in melody.
Athwart the curled moss they glide,
Then wheel and front, to edge the scene,
Leaving a spacious glade between;
With small round eyes that twinkle bright
As moon-tears on the grass of night,
They stand spectorial, anxious all,
Like guests ranged down a dancing hall
Some graceful pair, or more, to see
Winding along in melody.
Nor pine their little orbs in vain,
For borne in with an oaten strain
Three petty Graces, arm-entwined,
Reel in the light curls of the wind;
Their flimsy pinions sprouted high
Lift them half-dancing as they fly;
Like a bright wheel spun on its side
The rapt three round their centre slide,
And as their circling has no end
Voice into sister voice they blend,
Weaving a labyrinthian song
Wild as the rings they trace along,
A dizzy, tipsy roundelay,—
Which I am not to sing, but they.
For borne in with an oaten strain
Three petty Graces, arm-entwined,
Reel in the light curls of the wind;
Their flimsy pinions sprouted high
Lift them half-dancing as they fly;
Like a bright wheel spun on its side
The rapt three round their centre slide,
And as their circling has no end
Voice into sister voice they blend,
Weaving a labyrinthian song
Wild as the rings they trace along,
A dizzy, tipsy roundelay,—
Which I am not to sing, but they.
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We the Sun's bright daughters be!
As our golden wings may show;
Every land, and every sea,
Echoes our sweet ho-ran ho!
Round, and round, and round we go
Singing our sweet ho-ran ho!
As our golden wings may show;
Every land, and every sea,
Echoes our sweet ho-ran ho!
Round, and round, and round we go
Singing our sweet ho-ran ho!
Over heath, and over hill,
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
At the wind's unruly will,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
At the wind's unruly will,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Through the desert valley green,
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Lonely mountain-cliffs between,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Lonely mountain-cliffs between,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Into cave, and into wood,
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Light as bubbles down the flood,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Light as bubbles down the flood,
Round, and round, and round we go.
By the many-tassel'd bowers,
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Nimming precious bosom-flowers,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Nimming precious bosom-flowers,
Round, and round, and round we go.
141
Dimpling o'er the grassy meads,
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Shaking gems from jewell'd heads,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Shaking gems from jewell'd heads,
Round, and round, and round we go.
After bee, and after gnat,
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Hunting bird, and chasing bat,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
Hunting bird, and chasing bat,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Unto North, and unto South,
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
In a trice to visit both,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
In a trice to visit both,
Round, and round, and round we go.
To the East, and to the West,
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
To the place that we love best,
Round, and round, and round we go.
Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho!
To the place that we love best,
Round, and round, and round we go.
1st Elve.
Sweet! sweet!
2d Elve.
O how finely
They do spark their feet!
3d Elve.
Divinely!
I can scarcely keep from dancing,
'Tis so wild a measure!
4th Elve.
E'en the heavy steeds are prancing
With uneasy pleasure!
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Smooth the cadence of the music,
Smooth as wind!
5th Elve.
O me!—I'm dew-sick!—
All.
Glutton! glutton! you've been drinking
Till your very eyes are winking!
4th Elve.
Put him to bed in that green tuft.
2d Elve.
He should not have a bed so soft!
1st Elve.
Let him be toss'd into a thistle!
3d Elve.
We'll tease his nose with barley-bristle!
6th Elve.
Or paint his face with that ceruse
Which our fine bella-donnas use,
The sweet conserve of maiden-blushes.
1st Elve.
Or cage him in a crib of rushes;
There let him lie in verdant jail
Till he out-mourns the nightingale.
4th Elve.
Sad thing! what shall become of thee, When thy light nature wanes to something new?—
Say'st thou, sad thing?—
5th Elve.
O let me, let me be
A gliding minnow in a stream of dew!
2d Elve.
The sot!
1st Elve.
The dolt!
6th Elve.
The epicure!
'Twere wrong to call him else, I'm sure.
'Twere wrong to call him else, I'm sure.
Each twilight-come,
At beetle-drum,
For nectar he a-hunting goes,
The twisted bine
He stoops for wine,
Or sups it fresh from off the rose.
At beetle-drum,
For nectar he a-hunting goes,
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He stoops for wine,
Or sups it fresh from off the rose.
In violet blue
He pokes for dew,
And gapes at Heaven for starry tears;
Till Phebus laughs
He crows and quaffs,
Frighting the lark with bacchant cheers.
He pokes for dew,
And gapes at Heaven for starry tears;
Till Phebus laughs
He crows and quaffs,
Frighting the lark with bacchant cheers.
From night to morn
His amber horn
He fills at every honey-fountain,
And draineth up
Each flowery cup
That brims with balm on mead or mountain.
His amber horn
He fills at every honey-fountain,
And draineth up
Each flowery cup
That brims with balm on mead or mountain.
2d Elve.
Hi! hi!
4th Elve.
Whither? whither?
2d Elve.
I must try
To get that feather
Floating near the stilly sun.
4th Elve.
Now you have it, clap it on!
What a gallant bonnet-plume,
Ruby-black with golden bloom!
2d Elve.
It must have belonged, I swear,
To some gaudy bird of air;
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With the Junonian curricle;
Or he that with rich breast, and tawny eye,
Flames at the Sminthian's chariot-wheel.
1st Elve.
But where is Nephon? who can tell?
7th Elve.
How wondrous grand he's grown of late!
8th Elve.
And walks so high! and slaps his pate
Ten times a moment, as the state
Of Fairyland depended on him,
Or tit-mice had agreed to crown him.
3d Elve.
And takes such mighty airs upon him
As I can witness: 'Twas but now
I challenged him to ride the bough,
When pursing bigly—“Silly thou!
Trouble me not,” said he, and stalk'd
As stiff as if a radish walk'd
Past me, forsooth!
1st Elve.
He has not talk'd
Of any body but himself
This mortal day.
2d Elve.
Conceited elf!
Would he were bottled on a shelf!
Osme.
Fay-ladies be not scandalous,
Ah speak not of poor Nephon thus!
3d Elve.
Then wherefore should he sneer at us?
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He grows more haughty every day
'Cause he's the queen's factotal fay,
And scorns with other elves to play.
4th Elve.
When will his Excellence appear?
Osme.
He sent a wild-dove messenger
To bid us all assemble here,
On the green glade; for he had some
Great work in hand.—
7th Elve.
The saucy gnome!
“Bid us,” forsooth!
Floretta.
I wish he'd come!
I hear on distant heaths behind
A hare-bell weeping to the wind,
Unkind Floretta! ah unkind,
To leave me thus forsaken!
Osme.
I
Will mount a crowback to the sky,
Morgana waits for me on high.
[Laughter without.]
All.
Hist! hist!
[Without.]
Ha! ha! ha!
All.
List! list!
[Without.]
Ha! ha! ha!
All.
In the noisy name of thunder
What is all this rout, I wonder?
[Without.]
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
146
Nephon.
Lady and gentlemen fays, come buy!
No pedlar has such a rich packet as I.
No pedlar has such a rich packet as I.
Who wants a gown
Of purple fold,
Embroider'd down
The seams with gold?
See here!—a Tulip richly laced
To please a royal fairy's taste!
Of purple fold,
Embroider'd down
The seams with gold?
See here!—a Tulip richly laced
To please a royal fairy's taste!
Who wants a cap
Of crimson grand?
By great good hap
I've one on hand:
Look, sir!—a Cock's-comb, flowering red,
'Tis just the thing, sir, for your head!
Of crimson grand?
By great good hap
I've one on hand:
Look, sir!—a Cock's-comb, flowering red,
'Tis just the thing, sir, for your head!
Who wants a frock
Of vestal hue?
Or snowy smock?—
Fair maid, do you?
O me!—a Ladysmock so white!
Your bosom's self is not more bright!
Of vestal hue?
Or snowy smock?—
Fair maid, do you?
O me!—a Ladysmock so white!
Your bosom's self is not more bright!
Who wants to sport
A slender limb?
I've every sort
Of hose for him:
Both scarlet, striped, and yellow ones:
This Woodbine makes such pantaloons!
A slender limb?
147
Of hose for him:
Both scarlet, striped, and yellow ones:
This Woodbine makes such pantaloons!
Who wants—(hush! hush!)
A box of paint?
'Twill give a blush,
Yet leave no taint:
This Rose with natural rouge is fill'd,
From its own dewy leaves distill'd.
A box of paint?
'Twill give a blush,
Yet leave no taint:
This Rose with natural rouge is fill'd,
From its own dewy leaves distill'd.
Then lady and gentlemen fays, come buy!
You never will meet such a merchant as I!
[A sprig of broom falls at his feet.]
You never will meet such a merchant as I!
Nephon.
Bow! wow!
Floretta.
What is this,
With spikes and thorns, but not a leaf on?
Nephon.
By my fay! I think it is
A rod for Nephon.
Whe-e-e-w!
I shall be whipt, as sure as I
Stand here—Holla! you idle Elves!
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And range yourselves,
Obedient, till I lesson you
In what you have, each one, to do.
You, sir! you, sir! you, sir! you!
Knight, and squire, and stout soldado,
To your charge, good men and true,
We commit this happy meadow.
From yon dingle to that dell,
See no hostile foot profane it;
And let minute-trumpets tell
How ye steadily maintain it.
Drums strike up, and clarions bray!
Ranks i' the rear take open order!
Left foot foremost! March away!
On by the Valley's midland border!
[Exit, with the rest of the army.
| Sylvia | |