The poet, the fool and the faeries

Time: Approaching the close of the Tenth Century, B. C., the day when through permission of the wood god, Pan, at the end of every hundred years, the Dryads are released from their tree boles.

A syrinx is heard. Then a murmur, indistinct at first, but gradually growing louder and clearer, like a great wind in the forest. All at once, shapes, silvery green and golden brown, are made visible, flowing like light from the hoary trunks of the trees.

First Dryad

Again the cycle rounds its years!
Again, o'erhead and all around
The night that clasped my beauty clears—
My limbs are free, my heart unbound.

Second Dryad

O beauty, mothered of the green
And gold that haunt the sacred wood,
Take heart once more and run between
The silence and the solitude.

A Third Dryad
(far off)

Come, where the moss spreads carpets cool:
The fern hangs fold on emerald fold!
Come, where the hyssop banks the pool
With heaven; poppies nod their gold.

A Fourth Dryad
(approaching)

Bend down, O boughs! and blow, O leaves!
And, winds, come take us by the hair!
Come, dance with us, where nothing grieves,
And with our wild hearts laugh at care!

First Dryad

As in a pool a pebble drops,
The clouds let down a little breeze,
And round the forest's circled tops
A ripple runs like breaking seas.

Second Dryad

Oh, let it lead us, guide us, to
Our heart's desire beyond the sun,—
The Dreams, Faun-like, who still pursue
Our love, and ever round us run.

The Dreams, the Fauns, whom no man sees,
Only our eyes that watch behind
The bark, and through investing trees
Behold what haunts the wildwood's mind. ...

Third Dryad
(far away)

Hark, how the cascade calls us there!
Wild-tossing locks of foam and moss—
Come, let us trail with hers our hair,
And trip her Naiad limbs across!

Fourth Dryad

Now arm in arm, around and round,
In wildflower cirques of pearl and blue,
Dance down the wind, without a sound,
And wake the new buds, breaking through.

Then, face to heaven, light as air,
Where every leaf winks wet its eye
Of dew, that starred Dawn's chilly hair,
Come flit in glimmering beauty by.

The forms of the Dryads, who have been circling and murmuring together to the chanting of the four voices, suddenly arrest their movements, and lean listening intently to a sound that seems to rise up from underground.
Fifth Dryad

But, oh, what calls! what cry intrudes?
Whose voice is that? what sound of moan?

Voice from Underground

It is the deep roots of the woods
Crying for freedom like your own.

Fifth Dryad

Where is god Pan?

Many Dryads
(near and far away)

O Pan! Pan! Pan!

Voices from Underground

Make free our forms, whose twisted hold
Has grasped through many a century's span
The mighty forest, dark and old.

Many Voices
(windily, far and near)

Pan! Pan! god Pan!

Fifth Dryad
(beseechingly)

Oh, set these free!
Unloose from them the knotted dark!
From coiling shapes that none can see,
Like us, who crouch behind the bark!

A syrinx is heard, bird-like, approaching through the trees. Then a voice, seemingly that of Pan, speaks.

But all your praying is in vain!
Again on you the ancient doom
Falls, and your beauty once again
Must grow into a living tomb.

The bird-like syrinx is heard again, pensively, plaintively, gradually dying away in the distance. The glimmering forms of the Dryads remain frozen, as it were, beside the trunks of their respective trees. Unutterably sad the voice that first announced triumphantly their freedom now pierces the silence of the listening forest.
First Dryad

Around my form again I feel
The solid darkness close and creep!—
Farewell! farewell! till Pan unseal
The night again wherein we sleep.

As they are slowly withdrawn into the enveloping trunks of the trees, many voices are heard, lyrically; finally blending more and more whisperingly with the movements of the branches and the leaves, until, more and more indistinct, the leafy sound, rising and falling at regular intervals, is hardly distinguishable from the wind in the woods.
A Voice

If you hearken and heed in the forest,
When the wind blows soft above,
You may hear, in the bending branches,
Our wild hearts beat with love,
And our airy bodies move.

Echo

With lights of green and gold,
And fragrance manifold,
They mark the moss and mold.

Another Voice

As we glimmer and glide and glimmer,
Dim-limbed of the wind and sun,
In the woods an old enchantment,
Like a drowsy dream, is spun,
A dream that's never done.

Echo

And tender as the blue
Of wildflowers wet with dew
Their soft eyes gaze at you.

A Far-Off Voice

And, oh, when the fountains call us
Through veils of the foam and moss,
How we dance to the cascade's music,
And trail like mist across,
With rainbowed hair atoss!

Echo

How sweet, where waters flow,
And fern and wildflower grow,
To watch them come and go!

First Voice

But ever a sound of sorrow
Breaks in on our revery:
The sob of the roots of the forest,
That hold to heaven each tree. ...
What now shall set them free?—

Echo

Alas! if I but knew
A charm that would undo!
But lo! a prisoner too
Am I! am I!
A prisoner too, like you,
Until I die.

Their voices fade away in a long-drawn sigh, and the forest is slowly darkening when the bushes are cautiously parted and two young Fauns appear in the circle of trees, glimmering into dusk.
First Faun

They laughed at me.

Second Faun

They scoffed at me.
They cried me fool. They called me fey.

First Faun

But Pan has shut each in her tree,
And we are free to run and play.

Second Faun

How old they are!—But we are young.

First Faun

No matter! we are wise as they.
And not so close of speech and tongue.—
Now, brother, tell me: Yesterday
What happened you beside this way.

Second Faun

It was among these very woods,
When darkness closed the wild hills in,
And with a swiftness, that eludes,
The spider-life came forth to spin:
Between a mighty tree and rock,
Dim in a ray of moonlight thin,
I saw Pan sitting, wild of lock,
His huge hands resting on his chin,
Where crickets made a drowsy din.

His beard poured down a waterfall
Before him; and his moss-like hair
Rolled silence round him like a wall
Around a tower brown and bare:
His tree-like limbs, that spanned the stream,

His shoulders, like an eagle's lair,
Loomed, lichen-mottled: and the gleam
Of glowworms streamed into the air
From out the starlight of his stare.

His body bristled thick with thorns
And awns of wild-oats, like a hill;
And like the toiling of the Norns,
His strength, though quiet, was not still.
The twisted roots that were his feet,
From which the waters ran a rill,
Were made the temporary seat
Of voices wild, batrachian-shrill,
That all the darkness seemed to fill.

The fingers tangled in his beard
Were knotted like the boughs of trees;
And on them gaunt the owl appeared;
The nightingale made melodies:
And through the forest evermore
There went a droning as of bees—
The calling of Pan's heart, that poured
Protection on the least of these—
The forest-life that clasped his knees.

First Faun

'T is well. And I, too, yesterday
Was lucky. Think what I have seen!

Second Faun

What was it? Come; no more delay!

First Faun

But in what favor you have been!
In Pan's own presence: and have learned
Of Godhead's self; no go-between!
While I have watched, all undiscerned,
A young Leimoniad.

Second Faun

You mean
The one you chased here o'er the green?

First Faun

The same.—Her breasts were tipped with coral:
Her mouth and cheeks were each a rose:
Her hair was golden-green, like sorrel
That into starry blossom glows.
As some slim bough the south wind blows
She swayed beside the bramble thicket,
Light-tilted on her tiny toes,
Held in her hand a shrilling cricket.

The grace of wind; the poise of dew;
The wild alertness of a flower,
Were in her limbs that glanced and blew
Through blossoms like an April shower,
That fills a rainbow-rounded hour.
Before her danced a butterfly,
Blue as the petal of a flower,
Swayed by the import of her eye.

As some wild plant within it closes
All fragrance that its bloom reveals,
Her breathing held a sense of roses,
An attar such as rain unseals.
And with such swiftness as one feels
When breezes sweep one way the clover,
She showed the wind her twinkling heels
And tossing locks with bees a-hover.

Not mine to tell you where she went,
Or how before my eyes she faded;
How for a moment there she bent
And from its bud a bloom unbraided;
Or how the forest pool she waded,
And from its ooze the lily lifted,
Then with a glance the young bird aided,
Who from its nest in fright had drifted.

Second Faun

But, brother, say, did you not follow?

First Faun

Nay. Like a mist athwart the dawn
She gleamed an instant in the hollow,
Burned into beauty and was gone.

Second Faun

Had it been I, as I'm a Faun!
I'd caught her hair.

First Faun

Nay; none might capture
That nymph, for whom each flower put on
Joy, and each leaf looked love and rapture.

Second Faun

Look where the crocus and amaracus,
The cistus, cyclamen, and helichrys,
Wave their sweet fingers sleepily at us—

First Faun

As if they wished to fling a good-night kiss.

Second Faun

Nay! nay! to point us where some young Nymph sleeps—
But hark! who comes?—What is it runs and leaps?

The ferns and underbrush to the right of them are violently agitated and a young Satyr leaps out.
Satyr

Brothers, have you beheld her?—Passed she here?—
Far have I followed.

First Faun

No one passed this way.

Second Faun

What was she like?

Satyr

The dreamy close of day,
With starlight in her eyes, and love and fear.

First Faun

Tell us about her.—Have you done her wrong?—
And to what race of nymphs does she belong?

Satyr

As I lay on a rock to-day
And watched the sunset die away,
A wood mist took on azure form,
And gestured with a windy arm
For me to follow through the gray
Old forest to some place of charm,
A place all wild with foam and spray.

And there, within a murmuring dell,
There always seemed to lie a spell:
And, underneath a hollow stone,
A water-dæmon seemed to moan,
Condemned forever there to dwell

And sob in sorrow: wildly blown
Its foaming hair about me fell.

I raised the rock that held it bound,
And, lo, it changed into a sound,
A shape of music, viewless yet,
Breathing of fern and violet:
And from the sound a form unwound,
A silvery thing, that twinkled wet,
A rainbow winding her around.

She on my eyelids kissed me thrice,
And clasped me with white arms of ice;
And gazing on her, light as loam
My heart grew.—I would bear her home,
This Naiad creature with wild eyes,
Born of the flowers and the foam,
And make her mine in other wise.

But she like water swung and swayed;
Then like a ripple tripped the glade,
A Limnad, or a Naiad thing,
That fluttered now a rainbow wing,
And now a prism'd shine and shade,
Weaving a cirque, a bubble ring,
Wherein my satyr heart was laid.

And then, as softly still as moss
Greening some drowsy rock across,
She stole beside me: and I felt
Her mouth on mine; her breath, that smelt

Of fern and flower.—At a loss
I leapt to seize. ... She seemed to melt
And vanish with wild locks atoss.

And in her place—I rubbed my eyes—
I saw a trailing wood mist rise;
An azure form, an irised gray,
That seemed to motion me the way
That I must follow. In this wise
I hither came. Now tell me pray,
Passed she this way, in some disguise?

First Faun

Naught saw I save a topaz gleam
Flit through these glades, a sunset beam.

Satyr

'T was she I know. But whither fled?

First Faun

I know not. Haply overhead,
Where, yonder, falls the mountain stream.

Satyr

Farewell.—Mayhap't is as you said.
There I perhaps may find my dream.

He departs, leaping lightly into the shadows. The Fauns seat themselves at the foot of a gigantic oak tree, and stare steadily in the direction which the Satyr has taken.
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Dusk deepens. A pipe is heard, far off in the forest; a lyric note—like that of a nightingale.
First Faun

What does the flute say, brother?

Second Faun

Dream, dream, dream.

First Faun

Tell me the dream it sings to you. I hear,
But I am tired and only wish to sleep.

Second Faun

Sleep then; and let me murmur it in your ear.
Now I remember: it was but last year
This thing befell me. Still the old trees keep
A record of that happiness, I deem,
And this dim moment brings its beauty near.

First Faun

Tell me of that lost happiness. Very dear
It must have been, since now it sings so sweet.
And brings the wildflowers crowding to your feet.

Second Faun

'T was in this selfsame forest,
When Spring walked here and dreamed,

And everywhere, in earth and air,
The God of Beauty gleamed:

'T was in this selfsame forest,
Lost in the oldtime hills,
When every rock the ladysmock
And crocus blossom frills:

'T was in this selfsame forest,
Beneath a flowering thorn,
I saw the side of a tree divide
And a dryad presence born.

A shape of emerald shadow,
The sunlight arrowed through,
Who left the print of her feet in mint
And windflowers wet with dew.

Her hair was corn-ripe amber,
And golden-long as moss,
And the woodland glanced into light and danced
Whenever she made it toss.

Her eyes were mountain azure,
Star-sapphired, ray on ray,
And wherever they fell a wildflower-bell
Leapt blue beside the way.

Her mouth, an apple-blossom.
Her tongue, a rosy bee;
And whenever she spoke a bird awoke
And a wing beat in the tree.

And I was fain to follow,
Forever and a day,
And make her mine as the eglantine
Makes its the heart of May.

And oft she turned with laughter,
And oft she tossed her head;
And I followed on till the day was gone,
And the sunset's rose burned red.

And still I followed after,
And still she fled afar,
Till eve was done and, one by one,
Night bloomed with star on star.

And then once more she beckoned,
And wild of heart drew near,
And I felt her breast to my bosom pressed,
And her wild-fern breath in ear.

And what to me she whispered,
And what my heart replied,
The wild, deep soul of the solitude
Dreamed, and the wind in the ancient wood
Into starry being sighed.

First Faun

Silence. The reticent stream makes not a sound;
The forest sleeps and winds are hushed around.

Slowly the moon, like some bright Oread, breasts,
With pearl-white bosom bared, the vasty wood,
And a pale moment on the mountain rests,
Startled, astonished at the solitude.
Silence. A bird stirs in the nested leaves,
And the deep bosom of the forest heaves.

Second Faun

Murmur. Conspiracies of tempest pass,
Swaying the forest as deer sweep the grass:
Æolian raiment rustles; and dim feet
Of darkness dance, anticipating dreams
That die before fulfilment; whispers meet
And syllabled voices of the hills and streams.
Murmur. The Night Wind passes.—Hark! again,
Far off, the caution of approaching rain.

They stretch themselves at the foot of two gigantic trees, and sleep. Silence, save for that indefinable movement which is ever perceptible in a forest no matter how windless the night may be. It is as if invisible and ministering forces were assembling, above and below the earth, to perform certain duties, the fructifying and finishing of fruit and flower and leaf. The moon has risen and pours her pale light down on the recumbent forms of the Fauns. All is
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mystery and moonlight and shadow. Dimly at first, and seemingly remote as lost antiquity, a voice is heard, murmurous with a mighty music, to which another voice, as remote and majestic, replies, making the forest-hush melodious with meaning.
An Ancient Oak

I heard a voice in the forest
When the world was thrilled with morn;
And its sound was the sound of waking
And vision a moment born:
And it said to my heart: “Behold me!—
But let thy Dryad beware:
For I am she, the deity,
Whose beauty wakes despair.”
And full in the dawn I saw her,
As Actæon saw of old,
The perilous virgin presence,
With gaze of green and gold:
As Actæon saw I saw her,
White-limbed where the morning wells,—
And the hound-like sense of that insolence
Has silenced my soul with spells.

An Ancient Beech

I heard a voice in the forest
When the earth was hushed with eve;
And its sound was the sound of slumber
And dreams that none perceive:

And it called to my soul: “Behold me!—
But let one look suffice;
For I am she, the divinity,
Whom none shall gaze on twice.”
And I looked as looked Endymion,
And saw her shimmering there,
With limbs of pearl and mother-of-pearl,
A crescent in her hair:
As Endymion saw I saw her,—
Like the moon on Tempe's streams,—
And the light of her look and the joy I took
Have blinded my heart with dreams.

With the hushing of the voices of the trees, myriad insect sounds make themselves audible, 'mid which is heard the fine, fibril pipings of a syrinx; and suddenly, in a whirl of creatures of the forest, Pan, blowing fiercely on his pipes, dances down the glade. The Fauns stir in their sleep; rubbing their eyes they leap to their feet and follow after him. Scene closes.

University of Virginia Library

THE DRYADS

A ONE-ACT LYRICAL DRAMA OF ANCIENT GREECE