Sylvia or, The May Queen. A Lyrical Drama. By George Darley |
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| I. | ACT I. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| II. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| III. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| IV. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
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| III. |
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| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | Sylvia |  |
ACT I.
Scene I.
Fit haunt for a poetic dream:
A cot fast by the water-edge,
A bower, and a rustic bridge;
The grass as green as dewy Spring
Had just beswept it with his wing,
Or the moist splendour of the Morn,
Did every glistening blade adorn:
As soft the breeze, as hush the air,
As Beauty's self were sleeping there.
Enter Romanzo on the heights,
Who sings the song our Author writes.
Soft flowery banks, sweet pillows for unrest!
O silent glen of freshly-rolling fountains,
If there be peace on Earth, 'tis in thy breast!
Here be thy home, here be thy resting-place.
I've often heard the road to Paradise
Lay through the gates of Death: it is not so—
This is Elysium, yet I have not died!
Or Death has come so softly, that I never
Heard even his footfall: he has taken me
When I was sleeping on some bank of roses,
And only said—Sleep on! O beauteous scene!
Beyond what Hope, or fairy-footed Fancy,
Ever could lead me to! The sunny hills
Lightening their brows appear to smile at me
So lost in sweet astonishment. Even I
Could smile, who have not smiled since I could feel.
The melancholy God loves me no more;
My spirit bursts forth in song (Joy's eloquence),
And like yon tremulous nursling of the àir,
Perch'd on and piping from a silver cloud,
I cannot choose but pour my strain of praise
To this most beautiful glen.
Awake the sweet Echo that lies on thy hill;
Let her say what I say of thy beauty twice over,
And still as I praise let her mimic me still.
My voice is unworthy to praise thee alone:
Let all thy sweet birds tell to all thy sweet flowers
The tale that I teach them in words of their own.
If Spirit or Nymph be grown vocal again,
Let her tune her sweet voice to the roll of thy current,
And mock me with murmuring—Beautiful Glen!
Ha! what was that?—was it a voice indeed,
Or but the repetition of my words
Made by some hollow cave?—Never before
Came syllables from Echo's faltering tongue
So exquisitely clear!—Haply, I dream,
And this is all illusion: soft! I'll prove it— [Sings]
“Beautiful Glen!”
[The Voice repeats—“Beautiful Glen!”
Wondrous!—this is no voice
Of earth, yet speaks to mortal apprehension!
Tell me, who art thou that dost sing so sweetly?
[The Voice sings]
Sing, and I shall answer meetly.
Romanzo.
Who art thou that sing'st so sweetly,
Echo, Echo, is it thou?
(Voice.)
Now I'm ask'd the question meetly,
I will answer meetly now.
Romanzo
Who art thou?
(Voice.)
Perhaps what thou art!
Romanzo.
I'm a rover!
(Voice.)
So am I!
Romanzo.
Art thou mortal?
(Voice.)
Not as thou art!
Romanzo.
Art thou spirit?
(Voice.)
Come and try!
Romanzo.
Now I've ask'd the question meetly,
Answer me as meetly now.
(Voice.)
I have answer'd thee discreetly,
More I cannot answer now.
Romanzo.
Shall I believe in this?—Ears, can I trust your evidence? I have likened ye oft to those wild sea-shells which are full of most delicate music born in their own hollows: was this but the fantastical creation of yours? No! it was plain as light; and if unreal, then is yon marble dome but
Enter Agatha.
Agatha.
Your will, signior?
Romanzo.
Pardon, good dame! I have need of that for my rudeness, ere I can expect any other favour. Pardon, I beseech you, for my intrusion.
It needs none, signior! The traveller is welcome to my poor cottage, though but few enter it.
Romanzo.
Strange! for I think its beauty might allure the steps of a courtier. Do many people inhabit this valley?
Agatha.
Two only, signior; myself and daughter.
Romanzo.
Oh!—then it was she I heard just now sing so divinely?
Agatha.
My daughter, signior? no; she is now far away on the hills, gathering wild-flowers or simples.
Romanzo.
What then, do you keep a mockingbird?
Agatha.
The echo, signior, is loud in this place: you are now standing on the plat we call “Echo's ground;” say echo! and it will be thrice answered.
Romanzo.
Ay, but can your echo maintain a conversation?—for here was one, I assure you.
Agatha.
Nay, signior, I cannot account for it; your senses must have been deceived.
Romanzo.
Perhaps so.
[Aside.]
But it is a
mystery I will rather die than leave unravelled.
[Aloud.]
Prithee, dame, if a wanderer may
presume on your good-nature, will you afford me a
night's lodging in your pretty birdcage?
Agatha.
Willingly, signior, if its poor accommodations may content you.
Poor!—while this vine forms the gable of your tenement, and hangs at your window, you have meat, drink, and shelter together. Thanks, gentle hostess!
Agatha.
Pray walk in.
[Exeunt into the cottage.Scene II.
As gay, as gorgeous, and as grand;
Millions of bright star-lustres hung
The glittering leaves and boughs among;
High-battled, domy palaces,
Seen crystal through the glimmering trees,
With spires and glancing minarets,
Just darting from their icy seats:
Pavilions, diamond-storied towers,
Dull'd by the aromatic bowers;
Transparent peaks and pinnacles,
Like streams shot upward from their wells,
Or cave-dropt, Parian icicles.
Wind through the trunks their grassy trains;
Millions of chaplets curl unweft
From boughs, beseeching to be reft,
And wreathe the brows that Beauty loves.
Millions of blossoms, fruits, and gems,
Bend with rich weight the massy stems;
Millions of restless dizzy things,
With ruby tufts, and rainbow wings,
Speckle the eye-refreshing shades,
Burn through the air, or swim the glades:
As if the tremulous leaves were tongues,
Millions of voices, sounds, and songs,
Breathe from the aching trees that sigh,
Near sick of their own melody.
The pow'rs of Fairyland are here,
And by a word as potent blown
To sightless air, when they are gone,
This scene of beauty now displays
Both flank and front in sheets of blaze:
Spirits in an ascending quire
Touch with soft palm the golden wire:
While some on wing, some on the ground,
In mazy circles whirl around;
Kissing and smiling, as they pass,
Like sweet winds o'er the summer grass:
Nephon and Osme chief are seen,
In heavenly blue, and earthly green,
The one and other: both unite
With trim Floretta veil'd in white;
Mimic the music with their feet.
After their dance is done, the chorus
Hints something new descends before us.
CHORUS OF SPIRITS.
Gently!—gently!—down!—down!From the starry courts on high,
Gently step adown, down
The ladder of the sky.
For such airy feet!—
Spirits, blow your trumpets rough,
So as they be sweet!
Yet a lowly welcome breathe,
Like so many flowerets bending
Zephyr's breezy foot beneath!
Morgana.
No more, my Spirits!—I have come from whence
Peace, with white sceptre wafting to and fro,
Smoothes the wide bosom of the Elysian world.
Would't were as calm on Earth! But there are some
Ararach, wizard vile! who sold himself
To Eblis, for a brief sway o'er the fiends,
Would set up his dark canopy, and make
Our half o' the vale, by force or fraud, his own.
We must take care he do not.—Where's that ouphe?
That feather-footed, light-heel'd, little Mercury?
That fairy-messenger? whom we saw now
Horsed on a dragon-fly wing round the fields?
Come out, sir!—Where is Nephon?
Nephon.
Here am I! here am I!
Softer than a lover's sigh,Swifter than the moonbeam, I
Dance before thee duteously.
Morgana.
Light gentleman, say whither hast thou been?
Nephon.
Over the dales, and mossy meadows green.
Morgana.
Doing the deed I told thee?
Nephon.
Else would I fear thou 'st scold me!
Morgana.
Led'st thou the Rover downward to the glen?
Nephon.
Down, down to the glen,
Through forest and fen;
O'er rock, and o'er rill,
I flatter'd him still;
To lure him along;
Like a bird hopping onward from bramble to briar,
I led the young Wanderer nigher and nigher!
Morgana.
None of your idle songs!—speak to me plain.
Nephon.
I laid a knotted riband in his path,
Which he took up; kiss'd—'t was so fine!—and put it
Into his breast: Ting! ting! said I, from out
A bush half down the dale: he gazed. Ting! ting!
Said I again. On came he, wondering wide,
And stumbling oft, ha! ha!—but ne'er the less,
He followed sweet ting! ting! down the hill-side,
E'en to the bottom: where I mock'd, and left him.
Morgana.
I'll bring thee a sweet cup of dew for this,
Cold from the moon.
Nephon.
Meantime I'll drain a flower
Fill'd with bright tears from young Aurora's eye.
Morgana.
Skip not away, sir!—List what thou must do.
False Ararach doth love the gentle maid
Who shepherds in this vale: nay, he would have her
Sit on his iron throne, and rule with him.
She has oft wept, and call'd Heaven pitiless,
So that I've laugh'd to see her needless pain.
I've search'd the wilderness of Earth all o'er
To find her a fit bridegroom: this is he
Whom thou hast guided hither.
Nephon.
A trim youth!
Morgana.
Be it thy business to search out the wiles,
Prevent the malice, curb the violence,
With which the spiteful monarch will assail him.
Ev'n now he scents some new-come virtue here,
And plots its quick destruction. Swift, away!
Thou 'lt see me nich'd within a hovering cloud,
Pointing thee what to do. When thou would'st know
How to direct thyself, look up to Heaven,
And light will fall upon thee. Swift, away!
Nephon.
Away! away! away!
Away will I skip it!
Away will I trip it!
Flowers, take care of your heads as I go!
Who has a bright bonnet
I'll surely step on it,
And leave a light print of my minikin toe!
Away! away! away!
[Vanishes.
Morgana.
I've seen a man made out of elder pith
Even where he seems most toyish.—Virgin spirit!
Come hither, fair Floretta!
Floretta.
As the murmuring bird-bee comes,
Circling with his joyous hums
Red-lipt rose, or lily sweet,—
Thus play I about thy feet!
Morgana.
Thou art the Queen of Flowers, and lov'st to tend
Thy beauteous subjects. Thou dost spread thy wing
Between the driving rain-drop and the rose,
Shelt'ring it at thy cost. I've seen thee stand
Drowning amid the fields to save a daisy,
And with warm kisses keep its sweet life in.
The shrinking violet thou dost cheer; and raise
The cowslip's drooping head: and once did'st cherish
In thy fond breast a snowdrop, dead with cold,
Ev'n till thy cheek grew paler than its own.
Floretta.
Ay, but it never smiled again! Ah me!
Morgana.
Go now, since beauty is so much thy care,
And guard the human lily of this vale.
Follow thy mad-cap brother, and restrain
His ardour with thy gentleness.
Ere thou say Be gone! I'm gone:
'Tis more slowly said than done!
[Vanishes.
Morgana.
Osmé, thou fragrant spirit! where art thou?
Osme.
Rocking upon a restless marigold,
And in its saffron, leafy feathers roll'd;
But with a bound I'm with you here—behold!
Morgana.
Hast thou been sipping what the wild bee hides
Deep in his waxen cave,—thou smell'st so sweet?
Osme. No:
I would never rob the minstrel-thing
That lulls me oft to sleep with murmuring,
And as I slumber, fans me with his wing.
Morgana.
My gentle elve!—Come thou, come thou with me:
I've an apt business for thy strength. Sit here,
On my light car, and be the charioteer;
Guide thou my trembling birds of Paradise,
That prune themselves from this dull earth to rise,
And cry with painful joy to float amid the skies.—
Ascend ye other Spirits all with me!
CHORUS.
Leaving misty Earth below,
With their varied colours blending
Hues to shame the water-bow.
Many an upward airy mile!
To the realms of glory wending,
Fare thee well, dim Earth, awhile!
Scene III.
Presents its flowery front again:
Opening its gem-bestudded door
Is seen the Youth we saw before;
He finds his Hostess on the green,
Who at her purring wheel hath been,
Since Phosphor raised his ocean-cry,
As nimbly he sprang up the sky,
His towering walk to 'gin betimes,
Lest Titan catch him as he climbs.
Ev'n now a pretty moral sketch:
The widow, with a serious look,
Conning her distaff as a book;
Her eyes on earthly duties bent,
Her mind on higher things intent:
The youngster worships all he sees
As he were well content with these:
Her's the pale smile of resignation;
His Grief is old, his Joy is new,
Her Joy is dead,—and Sorrow too!
May underneath the rose-tree lie.
It is true! it is true!—This scene is too bright for an illusion!—Joy! extasy! I tread the earth! I hear the song of birds, and the fall of waters!—No! my senses could not so far deceive me!—O how I feared, on waking, to find all that had passed, a dream!—Sun, I thank thee, for dispelling with thy glorious light the mists of doubt and apprehension!—Nay, here is living testimony! —Good morrow, hostess!—Why, Fortune herself does not turn the wheel faster!
Agatha.
I wish she were obliged to turn it as steadily.
Romanzo.
Would that she had your beechen wheel, and you her golden one, even for a single round!
Agatha.
She would be a fool to make the exchange; and I, perhaps, no better.—May she be as kind to you, signior, as you wish her!
Romanzo.
Thanks, my good dame!—What! are
Agatha.
You and the sun, I suppose, signior.
Romanzo.
Ah! I doubt whether the god has not the greater share of the compliment.—But, hostess! kind hostess, what angel-voice was that I heard this morning? It thrilled my very heartstrings with pleasure!
Agatha.
Are you quite sure it was an angel you heard, signior?
Romanzo.
Truly, I would think it!
Agatha.
Else, I should have said it was no more divine a being than my daughter.
Romanzo.
O for the love you bear her, say not so!—If she be such a cherub, Earth cannot pretend to keep her!—Yet, by our Lady, we have need of a saint or two here, for there is no lack of sinners.
Agatha.
O, sir, you must not talk so wildly. My daughter rises when the lark is but shaking the dew off his breast; she is almost as light to mount the hills as he the heavens; and it is nearly as hard to get the one as the other to speak without singing.
Romanzo.
Whither has she gone?
Agatha.
Do you see that little bird I spoke of. hitching himself, as it were, up the sky?
Romanzo.
Yes, as if he were scaling an invisible ladder. What of him?
You might as well climb the stepless air and catch that voice, that singing speck in the clouds—for he is now no more,—as overtake my Sylvia. But they will both, wild-ones as they are, sink at once into their nests when their duty calls them.
Romanzo.
Well, I must be patient.—From your speech, good lady, I surmise—pardon me—that you have not always lived in this secluded valley.
Agatha.
Not always, sir, as you say. My fortunes were once higher, though my wishes never. Had my husband been but left to me, I had not regretted the loss of worldly treasures. He, however, died, in the field of glory, as they call it,—and that was also the death of my happiness. In the fatal plain of Aost—
Romanzo.
Ha! it is something to have fallen with Bayard!
Agatha.
Little to the widow:—Hark!—
[Song without]
O sweet to rove
The wilds we love,
Soft glade, smooth valley, and mountain steep—
Agatha.
She comes! my bird—
Romanzo.
The voice! the lovely voice!—Show thyself, chantress! lest I go mad with expectation!
Agatha.
Pray, signior, retire into the arbour:
[Sylvia appears on the bridge.]
Agatha.
Come hither, truant! and let age play the child in thy bosom.—Where hast thou been, wanderer! tell me?
Sylvia.
O sweet to rove
The wilds we love,
Soft glade, smooth valley, and mountain steep;
Ere birds begin
Their morning din,
Bright sun abed, and bright flowers asleep.
Agatha.
Come to my arms!
Romanzo.
(Within the arbour.)
Is it a sylph or wood-nymph that glitters before me?
Sylvia.
(Approaching.)
Still in the brooks
And sees her beauty begin to wane:
Down in the dell
Her silver shell
Seems hung from Heav'n by a sightless chain.
Prepare themselves
To climb the beams of the slanting moon,
In bells to hide,
And press their pillows of scent at noon.
That bow the stems
Of flowers, in meadow or secret glen;
To ope their breasts,
And trim their crests,
And spread their beautiful looks again.
Agatha.
No longer! no longer!—
Sylvia.
O sweet! O sweet!
And sweeter yet,
My crown of roses, my pearls of dew,
To come! to come!
Once more to home,
With flow'rs, and kisses as sweet, for you!
Romanzo.
(Bursting from the arbour.)
Angels are brighter than I dreamt them!
Sylvia.
Ha!—Morgana defend me!
Agatha.
Fear not, my daughter. Thou knowest there is no evil spirit can enter this half of the glen. Look not so strange at him.
Sylvia.
Evil!—O, if that creature be evil, I
Agatha.
This is my daughter, sir; daughter,
this is our guest.
[Aside.]
Youth salutes youth as
rose doth rose—they blush at each other, and sigh.
—I must be prudent here; these new acquaintances
will be near ones, though they keep the matter so
silent.
Sylvia.
Some bee hath got into my bosom: out, stranger!
Romanzo.
Lady?
Agatha.
I will bestir me now: you shall taste
our fruits and cream.
[Lays a table.]
Grapes here—
bread there—honey—Both! both through the heart!
—Two birds upon one bough with the same arrow!
—Cupid is a rare sportsman!—So; ay—A leaf to
garnish these strawberries—Love at first sight is an
old adage, but I never thought till now it was a
true one.—I must know more of this stranger.
Romanzo.
O fairest!
Sylvia.
O rarest!
Both.
Creature of no mortal birth!
Romanzo.
If thou 'rt woman,
Sylvia.
If thou'rt human,
Both.
Heaven is sure outdone on earth!
Pearly brow, and golden hair,
Lips that seem to scent the air,
Eyes as bright, and sweet, and blue,
As violets fill'd with orbs of dew.
O fairest!
Sylvia.
O rarest! &c.
Sylvia.
Godlike form, and gracious mien,
As he once a king had been!
Glory's star is on his brow,
He is King of Shepherds now!
O rarest!
Romanzo.
O fairest! &c.
Agatha.
Come! come!—you are playing the birds' parts, and they will play yours at this fruittable, if you thus leave it them.—Come!
[They sit down to table.Scene closes.
Scene IV.
Fen-pamper'd clouds that blot the skies,
And from their sooty bosoms pour
A blue and pestilential shower.
Ruder than Cyclops' mountain-home,
Or that the blood-born giants piled
When Earth was with their steps defiled.
Lightning has scorch'd and blasted all
Within this dark cavernous hall;
Through every cranny screams a blast
As it would cleave the rocks at last;
Loud-rapping hail spins where it strikes,
And rains run off the roof in dykes;
And crackling flame, and feathery sleet,
Hiss in dire contest as they meet;
Tempests are heard to yell around,
And inward thunders lift the ground.
Which Horror scarce would sit upon:
Yet on this throne doth sit a thing
In apish state, misnamed a king;
A ghastlier Death, a skeleton,
Not of a man, but a baboon.
His robe a pall, his crown a skull
With teeth for gems, and grinning full;
His rod of power in his hand
A serpent writhing round a wand:
With this he tames the gnashing fiends,
Soul-purchased to assist his ends;
If not with fangs, with eyes as fierce,
Each other—While behind they seek
Their sly revenge and hate to wreak.
Meant for a smile) his speech begin.
Silence, curst demons!—Listen to me, or
I'll strike ye dumb as logs!—Breathe no more flames
In one another's faces, but pen up
Each one his fiery utterance while I speak!—
Silence, I say!—and cower before me, slaves!—
I must and will have all this Valley mine!
Demons.
You must and shall!
Ararach.
Silence, and down!—Hear me!—
We've sworn indeed—but what are oaths to us?
Oaths are to bind, where there's some touch of honour,
Though not enough. It were a crime against
The majesty of Sin, for us to keep
An oath; and honour is dishonourable
Amongst the fiends, whose glory is in shame.
We'll break the truce, I say!
Demons.
We will! we'll break it!
Silence!—'Tis true, I and that witch Morgana
Have battled long about this place: we halved it
At our last contest, when her ivory spear
Wounded my basilisk, and made him bite me
Here in the wrist, or I had crush'd the minion.
Demons.
Vengeance!—war!—war!
Ararach.
Down with that trump!—not so!—
We must be cunning, for yon queen is wise.
I'll first secure the mountain-girl I love;
Sylvia, the shepherdess: who else may fly,
Scared by the din of arms: perhaps be scorch'd
Or kill'd amid the fray.—Spirits and Horrors!
All.
Ay! ay! ay!
Ararach.
Which of you loves a mischievous adyenture?
All.
I, my lord!—I!—I!—I!
Ararach.
That will hurt men,
Please me, and gain great praise?—Who speaks?
All.
All! all!
Ararach.
But there's some danger in it: you must face
Morgana and her imps. What! does that fright ye?
Cowards!—Will none leap forward?
Grumiel comes forward.
Ha! brave Grumiel!
(Coming forward.)
Master, I'll do the mischief; let me, pray thee!
Were it to kill a baby in its play,
Ravin a leaguer'd city's corn, or drain
The traveller's only well i' the sanded wilds,
That his dry heart shall crumble; yea, the beauty
Laid warmly in her bridegroom's treasuring arms,
Shall turn a corpse-cheek to his morning kisses
If thou wilt have it so.—Let me, I pray thee!
Ararach.
Good! good!—Go both of ye!—Thou, my bold slave!
And thou, my sly one!—aid him with thy strength,
And he will prompt thy dulness.
Grumiel.
Hang him, poltroon!
Must I divide my glory with a knave
Who winks at a drawn blade?—a foul-mouth'd cur,
That bites the heel and runs!
Momiel.
Master, yon fool
Hath no more brains than a cauliflower: pray
Let him not go with me!—An alehouse board
Sets him to spell: he cannot count his fingers
Without a table-book.
Grumiel.
Curse ye, vile babbler!—hound!—
Mouse-hearted wretch!—
Momiel.
How wittily he calls names,
Like an ostler's paraquito!
Ye will prate,
Both of ye in my presence, will ye?—Take thou that—
And thou another? [Strikes them.]
Ay, stand there and writhe,
But whine not, ev'n for pain. Ye'll say, forsooth,
What ye would have!—Listen to my commands,
And do them to the tittle, ye were best!—
Go forth, but stealthily: we'll try at first
What may be done by craft. I'd rather gain
One treacherous point, than win a battle-field.
Go forth, I say; and use all smooth deceit
To wile the Maid into our bounds: or, if
She is too coy, and fearful, being warn'd
Of our intents by some sly ouphe, then hear
What ye shall do. A youth has lately wander'd
Into this bourne, whom by my art I know
The witch hath for this Nymph selected spouse.
Him shall ye seize; for he is all unversed
In these wild paths, and is a hotbrain, too,
That loves a deed of peril for its name.
If we could grip him, the elf-queen would scarce
Make up the loss; at least her present aim
Would be thus baffled, and our road left clear.
Ye know your business: off! and do it wisely!
Grumiel, be thou the master; and thou, sirrah!
Counsel him to thy best.
[Aside.]
Oh ay, I'll lead him!—
I'll be his Jack with the Lantern!
Grumiel.
Follow me,
Thou muttering slave!
Ararach.
If you do take the youth,
Brain him not: do you hear me?—We will keep him
Alive in torture here: perchance the Nymph
(Whom they will give love-potions) may be tempted
Thus to approach our realm, and lose herself
Ere she find him. That were a triumph worth
Laying ten plots for. Vanish!
Demons.
Way for the king!
[They vanish separately.
| Sylvia | |