Idyls and Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

King.
Davenant, methinks the task I laid on thee
Was of the hardest. Ofttimes, as they say,
The skilful-handed jeweler of the South,
Genoa, or Venice, gives more precious hours—
More lamp-illumined nights of costly toil
To enchase and set the gem, than Nature spent
In her quick alchemy, the stone to frame
Which he so beautifies.

Davenant.
My gracious lord,
If the king's words be lightning, should the hand
Be stunn'd, that executes them? Where the will
Is prompt, the act delays not.

King
(to the Queen).
Gentle fair,
'Tis for your sake, yours above all, my soul
Was set, that this fair masque, the brightest flower
Of our great Fletcher's sweetness—which, when first
It blossom'd forth, the rude misprizing age
Cast from them, lightly valued—should be play'd;
If it be so your pleasure.

Queen.
Ah, my lord—
Pardonnez moi—je crains.

King.
Nay, Henriette:—
Nay, love:—I know thy woman's ear outruns
Thy modest coy avowal: thou that lisp'st
Soft English, and so lisping, giv'st the words
A thousand times more than their native sweetness:—
I know that 'twill delight thee:
I read soft expectation in thine eye,
Thy hand gives soft consent. Is all prepared?

Daven.
The players, my lord, are ready: but we wait
Till Inigo and Vandyke—that mighty pair
Join'd in high service, shall have set the scene
In fit proportion garnish'd, framed, and blazon'd,
Due to the gaze of England's Majesty.

King.
Thrice gracious that fair sight, when sister Arts
Entwined and link'd in one high purpose stand,
Upon their royal pedestal united!
Hail, sister-Graces!—Painting, Song, and Thou
Divinest Poesy—Were my will, good lords,
The measure of my actions, I would win
These goddesses to leave their sunny South,
And plant a firm foot in my native realm,
This sea-set jewel. By your aid, my friends,
Wentworth and Laud—this island now hath rest:
Another three years' calm—(such power hath God
Lodged in his servant)—and the factious weeds
Of fanatic rebellion, rooted up,
Fair soil will leave, wherein to set the flowers
Of meek-eyed Piety, with her gentle train
Of hand-maid Arts attendant.

Laud.
Be it so!
The wishes of th' anointed King are laws,
When Heaven smiles gracious.

Wentworth.
Is't not strange, my lord,
'Tis very strange, methinks, that there should live
Those, in whom Nature contradicts herself.
I know of some—my Lord of London knows—
By the rank humours of th' infected age
Blown up: in heart full Brownist, Puritan,
Or by what titles faction gilds itself
Self-christen'd:—men, to whose malignant heats
This fair well-order'd polity of things,—

Religion, Law, subjected to the will
Of an anointed King—thence gathering strength
And higher beauty—children, round the throne
Of their loved Parent—seems a jangled tune,
A blot of all corruption:—yet whose souls
Are touch'd with high poetic exstasy,
To praise the things they love not.

King.
I have heard so:
Yet scarce, e'en so, believe it. Are such gifts
Wasted on such?

Went.
Apollo, gracious Sire,
Claims them his vassals: bids them dance attendance:
Then, like another Orpheus, checks the strain,
And through their blood lets loose th' ungentle nature
Song-tranced one hour.

Daven.
There is a shepherd dwells
Down by the moor, whose life hath ever shown
More sullen discontent than Saturn's brow
When he sits frowning on the births of men:—
—So sings our Fletcher. Late in Wales, my lords,
I lay at Ludlow Castle: there received
With courtesy and greeting.

Went.
Aye 'tis so
Where Bridgewater commands.

Daven.

His maiden daughter,
Lady Alice,—yet a child—of beauty framed
To tempt a poet's numbers—and o'ertask them,
With some impulsive girlish fancy seized,
Cried out, one eve, as in a bay'd recess,
O'erfretted with ribb'd sculpture-wreaths, she stood,
And flung her arms out as to guard the spot—
—While all her kindred smiled to see her, set
Like some fair picture in its golden frame—
‘O would some bard were here, at whose command
I might enact a Faithful Shepherdess!’
—With that a youth, whose voice that evening tried
Had charm'd the listening audience: a bright youth
His hair more beauteous than those hanging locks
Of young Apollo—spake: ‘And be it so,
Fair lady:—by your leave, due time allow'd,
Myself will deck the scene, and frame a song
For maiden virtue fit, wherein thy voice
May chaunt the praise of spotless chastity,

And draw applause from listening Jove himself,
And that immortal court.’

The noble lord,
Her father, smiled assent; then turning, said:
‘Davenant, methinks, if an old man may speak
A few faint words of social prophecy,
In that bright youth—young Milton—note him well—
A budding greatness lies, that shall enrich
E'en this great realm of England's poesy.’
—And, sooth, my lords, such modest-seeming worth,
With graceful self-reliance not ungifted,
Hath rarely pass'd before me. Yet, I fear,
You'd hold the rose was canker'd in the bud.

King.
What says our honour'd Prelate?

Laud.
Gracious King,
I know this youth for one, whose factious lips
Cried, ‘Liberty!’ ere yet his beard was ripe:
Against his order'd lords and governors
Rebellious. And it grieves me, when I see
Fair studious learning, which above his years
He woos assiduous, as report assures,
To froward ends enslaved.

King.
I marvel most
(For studious youth, though rash, to wiser counsel
Oft lends attentive ear) that when the light,—
The second light of this our English stage—
Has given this fair creation to the day,
This Faithful Shepherdess—another's feet
Within his hallow'd ground should dare to tread.

Daven.
Love guides, and we tread safely.—This same youth,
A faithful shepherd on Parnassus' hill,
Your royal leave obtain'd, will stand this night
A happy auditor of Fletcher's story.

King.
The wish is granted, Davenant.—We stand ready.

[Exeunt.
King
(alone).

All things are set and order'd. Oh! that all
In this my realm, were set and order'd so,
In fair proportion and due comeliness!—
—Ruler of Rulers! O that to Thy will
Submissive, I, Thy servant, on the stage

Of this Thy kingdom, might enact my part
A faithful shepherd to th' entrusted flock!
That Faith and Love might lead obedience up,
And teeming Plenty, following on her steps,
Renew th' obscuréd smiles of once-bright England!
—That Thou wouldst flash th' effulgence of Thy beams,
T' uncloud the veiléd face of radiant Truth:
That what I am, my flock might recognise:
And I might know, what before Thee, I am.

(Music within.)

Even is here—soft, silver, happy Even;
Darkness is falling.
Gentle dews raining from propitious heaven:
Sleep soul-enthralling.
But in the golden halls
Lamps gleam from tapestry'd walls,
Daytide recalling.
Royal Light of England's glory
Enter and hear us:
List to our story.
Lo! where the Shepherdess
Sits in her wailing, moans in her sharp distress:
Hung with a coronal,
Pensive, funereal:—
—Enter, and hear us.

(Curtain rises.)