Sylvia or, The May Queen. A Lyrical Drama. By George Darley |
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| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| III. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| IV. | ACT IV. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
 | Sylvia |  |
110
ACT IV.
Scene I.
Morning:I would, but cannot, sing
How with light foot, and half-spread wing,—
Or as a lady-page that soothes
A steed whose neck she hardly smoothes,
While proud, yet mad, to be carest,
He turns his red eye on her breast,
Snorts with high rage, yet stoops his crest,—
Day's bright conductress in doth come
Sleeking two coursers pied with foam,
And her white clasp their bridles on
Leads in the chariot of the Sun.
Enough to say that Morn appears,
When smiles may turn so soon to tears.
How know I there's no cause to weep?
What meant that fatal cloud of sleep?
In yonder bower my Sylvia lies,
O that the gentle girl would rise,
Glad my fond heart, and greet mine eyes!—
Come in, come in, thou loitering lover!
I burn till this suspense be over.
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Romanzo.
The dawn springs, yet no daylight to my soul!—
Soft! I will wake this bird, whose heavenly song
Cheers all beneath it. She was wont to pour
Her morning salutation to the sun
From peaked hill, ere he had tipt with light
The watery lamps that hang upon the thorn,
Or tinged their crystals blue. Come, let me wake her
With a lark's call!—
Awake thee, my Lady-love!
Wake thee, and rise!
The sun through the bower peeps
Into thine eyes!
Wake thee, and rise!
The sun through the bower peeps
Into thine eyes!
Behold how the early lark
Springs from the corn!
Hark, hark how the flower-bird
Winds her wee horn!
Springs from the corn!
Hark, hark how the flower-bird
Winds her wee horn!
The swallow's glad shriek is heard
All through the air!
The stock-dove is murmuring
Loud as she dare!
All through the air!
The stock-dove is murmuring
Loud as she dare!
112
Apollo's wing'd bugleman
Cannot contain,
But peals his loud trumpet-call
Once and again!
Cannot contain,
But peals his loud trumpet-call
Once and again!
Then wake thee, my Lady-love!
Bird of my bower!
The sweetest and sleepiest
Bird at this hour!
Bird of my bower!
The sweetest and sleepiest
Bird at this hour!
No stir?—no word?—what should this silence be?—
O she is dead i' the night!—Sylvia! What, Sylvia!
Away, false ceremony! I'll enter here!
[Bursts in through the lattice-door of
Sylvia's
chamber.
O she is dead i' the night!—Sylvia! What, Sylvia!
Away, false ceremony! I'll enter here!
Enter Agatha from the door of the cottage.
Agatha.
Alas! what noise was that?—My child!—Geronymo!—
Help! help!—Some villain—
[Exit into Sylvia's chamber through the lattice door.
Enter Romanzo from the cottage-door, with the body of Sylvia in his arms. Geronymo, Stephania, Roselle, Jacintha, and the other Peasants.
Romanzo.
Peace, good woman! peace!—
She sleeps like marble on a monument
113
No! no!—Else that firm-propp'd, high-fixed ocean
Pendant above us, would melt o'er our heads,
And drown the miserable sight in tears!—
O, what will come of this?
Agatha.
[From the cottage-door]
Where has he ta'en her?
Romanzo.
I sought you, painfully. Away! away!
You shall not have her now. Hark! was she sighing?
Geronymo.
Alack, she's dead! stark dead!
Romanzo.
Thou slanderous liar!
But for this precious burden in my arms,
I'd teach thee croak—
Agatha.
Sylvia!—She's gone!—she's dead!—
She stirs not!—breathes not!—
Romanzo.
Dead?
Geronymo.
Ay, dead as clay!
Romanzo.
Is it e'en so?—Why, then, I do beseech ye
That we may both be buried in one grave!
Agatha.
O he has murder'd her!—he has disgraced
My child, and then destroy'd her!
Peasants.
Villain! villain!
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Down with him! down with him!
Drive him away! Off! off!
[The Peasants assault Romanzo.
Romanzo.
O use your will! my pride of man is o'er!
If all your staves were straws, I could not face them!
[Exit, the Peasants following.
Agatha, Stephania, and Roselle, bear Sylvia to the cottage.
The Scene closes.
Scene II.
Deep in a wild sequester'd nook,
Where Phebus casts no scorching look,
But Earth's soft carpet, moist and green,
Freckled with golden spots is seen;
Where with the wind that swayeth him
The pine spins slowly round his stem;
The willow weeps as in despair
Amid her green dishevelled hair;
And long-arm'd elms, and beeches hoar,
Spread a huge vault of umbrage o'er:
Yet not so thick but yellow day
Makes through the leaves his splendid way;
And though in solemnness of shade,
The place is silent, but not sad:
Here as the Naiad of the spring
Tunes her deep-sounding liquid string,
And o'er the streamlet steals her song,
Leading its sleepy waves along,—
How rich to lay your limbs at ease
Under the humming trellises,
Bow'd down with clustering blooms and bees!
And leaning o'er some antique root
Murmur as old a ditty out,
To suit the low incessant roar,
The echo of some distant shore,
Where the sweet-bubbling waters run
To spread their foamy tippets on:
Or mid the dim green forest aisles
Still haughtier than cathedral piles,
Enwrapt in a fine horror stand
Musing upon the darkness grand.
Now looking sideways through the glooms
At ivied trunks shap'd into tombs;
Now up the pillaring larches bare
Arching their Gothic boughs in air:
Perchance you wander on, in pain
To catch green glimpses of the plain,
Half glad to see the light again!
And wading through the seeded grass
Out to a sultry knoll you pass;
There with cross'd arms, in moral mood,
Dreadless admire the cloister'd wood
Returning your enhanced frown,
Darker than night, stiller than stone.
Where Phebus casts no scorching look,
But Earth's soft carpet, moist and green,
Freckled with golden spots is seen;
Where with the wind that swayeth him
The pine spins slowly round his stem;
The willow weeps as in despair
Amid her green dishevelled hair;
And long-arm'd elms, and beeches hoar,
Spread a huge vault of umbrage o'er:
Yet not so thick but yellow day
Makes through the leaves his splendid way;
115
The place is silent, but not sad:
Here as the Naiad of the spring
Tunes her deep-sounding liquid string,
And o'er the streamlet steals her song,
Leading its sleepy waves along,—
How rich to lay your limbs at ease
Under the humming trellises,
Bow'd down with clustering blooms and bees!
And leaning o'er some antique root
Murmur as old a ditty out,
To suit the low incessant roar,
The echo of some distant shore,
Where the sweet-bubbling waters run
To spread their foamy tippets on:
Or mid the dim green forest aisles
Still haughtier than cathedral piles,
Enwrapt in a fine horror stand
Musing upon the darkness grand.
Now looking sideways through the glooms
At ivied trunks shap'd into tombs;
Now up the pillaring larches bare
Arching their Gothic boughs in air:
Perchance you wander on, in pain
To catch green glimpses of the plain,
Half glad to see the light again!
116
Out to a sultry knoll you pass;
There with cross'd arms, in moral mood,
Dreadless admire the cloister'd wood
Returning your enhanced frown,
Darker than night, stiller than stone.
But now the Sun with dubious eye
Measures the downfal of the sky,
And pauses, trembling, on thy brow,
Olympus, ere he plunge below
Where ever-thundering Ocean lies
Spread out in blue immensities.
No stir the forest dames among,
No aspen wags a leafy tongue,
Absorb'd in meditation stands
The cypress with her swathed hands,
And even the restless Turin-tree
Seems lost in a like reverie;
Zephyr hath shut his scented mouth,
And not a cloud moves from the south;
The hoary thistle keeps his beard,
Chin-deep amid the sea-green sward,
And sleeps unbrushed by any wing
Save of that gaudy flickering thing
Too light to wake the blue-hair'd king;
Alone of the bright-coated crowd
This vanity is seen abroad
Sunning his ashy pinions still
On flowery bank or ferny hill:
Now not a sole wood-note is heard,
The wild reed breathes no trumpet-word,
Ev'n the home-happy cushat quells
Her note of comfort in the dells;—
'Tis Noon!—and in the shadows warm
You only hear the gray-flies swarm,
You gaze between the earth, and sky,
With wide, unconscious, dizzy eye,
And like the listless willow seem
Dropping yourself into a dream.
Measures the downfal of the sky,
And pauses, trembling, on thy brow,
Olympus, ere he plunge below
Where ever-thundering Ocean lies
Spread out in blue immensities.
No stir the forest dames among,
No aspen wags a leafy tongue,
Absorb'd in meditation stands
The cypress with her swathed hands,
And even the restless Turin-tree
Seems lost in a like reverie;
Zephyr hath shut his scented mouth,
And not a cloud moves from the south;
The hoary thistle keeps his beard,
Chin-deep amid the sea-green sward,
And sleeps unbrushed by any wing
Save of that gaudy flickering thing
Too light to wake the blue-hair'd king;
Alone of the bright-coated crowd
This vanity is seen abroad
117
On flowery bank or ferny hill:
Now not a sole wood-note is heard,
The wild reed breathes no trumpet-word,
Ev'n the home-happy cushat quells
Her note of comfort in the dells;—
'Tis Noon!—and in the shadows warm
You only hear the gray-flies swarm,
You gaze between the earth, and sky,
With wide, unconscious, dizzy eye,
And like the listless willow seem
Dropping yourself into a dream.
But look!—who rides before you now,
Light cavalier! upon a bough?—
Awake, and hear the merry elf
Say what he comes about himself.
Nephon
astride upon an elm-branch swinging himself
up and down.
Light cavalier! upon a bough?—
Awake, and hear the merry elf
Say what he comes about himself.
Heigh ho! heigh ho!
Ponderous as the fleecy snow,
Up and down, and up I go!
I can raise a storm, I trow!—
Pumping up the air below
Off the branch myself I blow!
[Descends.
Ponderous as the fleecy snow,
Up and down, and up I go!
I can raise a storm, I trow!—
Pumping up the air below
Off the branch myself I blow!
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O who is so merry, so merry, heigh ho!
As the light-hearted fairy, heigh ho!
He dances and sings
To the sound of his wings,
With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!
As the light-hearted fairy, heigh ho!
He dances and sings
To the sound of his wings,
With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!
O who is so merry, so airy, heigh ho!
As the light-headed fairy, heigh ho!
His nectar he sips
From the primrose's lips,
With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!
As the light-headed fairy, heigh ho!
His nectar he sips
From the primrose's lips,
With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!
O who is so merry, so wary, heigh ho!
As the light-footed fairy, heigh ho!
His night is the noon,
And his sun is the moon,
With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!
As the light-footed fairy, heigh ho!
His night is the noon,
And his sun is the moon,
With a hey, and a heigh, and a ho!
But I, forsooth, must work by day
Because I am a cunning fay!
'Ads me! I'm sorry I'm so clever,
Ele I had nought to do for ever,
But mingle with the moonlight elves,
That catch the spray on river shelves
For snowballs to bepelt each other,
Or deep in pearly tombs to smother.
Ah Nephon! but the queen, you know,
Calls you her blithe and dapper beau,
You must not scorn her service so.
Hem! hum!—let me see!—
What is my first deed to be?—
Here I take my chair of state
Underneath this sunflower great;
Now I cock my arms, and frown
Like village-beadle in blue gown;
Now I stroke my beard, and now
Wrinkle deep my sapient brow,
That I may appear to be
Lost in mine own profundity.—
Ay; we have matters grave to do:
So with a short corant, or two,
Ere I begin,—around yon flower
I'll sing a span-new sonnet o'er.
Because I am a cunning fay!
'Ads me! I'm sorry I'm so clever,
Ele I had nought to do for ever,
But mingle with the moonlight elves,
That catch the spray on river shelves
For snowballs to bepelt each other,
Or deep in pearly tombs to smother.
Ah Nephon! but the queen, you know,
Calls you her blithe and dapper beau,
You must not scorn her service so.
119
What is my first deed to be?—
Here I take my chair of state
Underneath this sunflower great;
Now I cock my arms, and frown
Like village-beadle in blue gown;
Now I stroke my beard, and now
Wrinkle deep my sapient brow,
That I may appear to be
Lost in mine own profundity.—
Ay; we have matters grave to do:
So with a short corant, or two,
Ere I begin,—around yon flower
I'll sing a span-new sonnet o'er.
Pretty lily! pretty lily!
Why are you so pale?
Why so fond of lone-abiding
Ever in a vale?
Why are you so pale?
Why so fond of lone-abiding
Ever in a vale?
Pretty lily! pretty lily!
Are you lover-lorn?
That you stand so droopy-headed,
Weeping night and morn.
Are you lover-lorn?
That you stand so droopy-headed,
Weeping night and morn.
Idle fairy! idle fairy!
Prattle here no more,
But be gone, and do your bidding
As you should before.
Nephon.
Prattle here no more,
120
As you should before.
Ha?—ha?—that's Osmé!—Come, I know your voice;
It is the sweetest of our tribe:—Come forth;
You need not hide within that flowery bell,
Nor think to cheat me; come, I know you well.
Osme.
(Coming out of the lily.)
Nephon, the queen is angry that you stay,
And sent me down to bid you haste away.
Two fiends are coming; dark, malignant things!
List! you may hear the brushing of their wings
Along the distant grass.—Away, dear Nephon!
Nephon.
Off! off! off!
Like a needle of light from the sun
So straight to my object I run!
[They vanish.
Scene III.
Within the Vale, a little vale
Strew'd with its own sweet flowers pale;
And made by steep surrounding hill
More lonely, yet more lovely still.
Strew'd with its own sweet flowers pale;
And made by steep surrounding hill
More lonely, yet more lovely still.
Were a high-raised and hoary stone,
Cross-crown'd, a tomb, itself alone,—
I'd think yon mossy rock and gray
Were ev'n the very thing I say:
Were two green willows bending o'er
A stone, and seeming to deplore,
Proof that a slumberer lay beneath
Clasped to the icy cheek of Death,—
I'd think yon willows surely wept
Some one in that cold dalliance kept:
Were garlands white, on willows hung,
Sign that one died, and died too young,
Changing the light robe for the pall,
The bridal for the funeral,—
Yon pallid wreaths would make me fear
Some Flower of Youth lay buried here:
Were yews, green-darkling in their bloom,
Sentinels only of the tomb,—
Were cypress-mourners standing round
Ling'rers alone on holy ground,—
Yon trees, as sullen as they seem,
Would tell too plain a tale I deem.
Cross-crown'd, a tomb, itself alone,—
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Were ev'n the very thing I say:
Were two green willows bending o'er
A stone, and seeming to deplore,
Proof that a slumberer lay beneath
Clasped to the icy cheek of Death,—
I'd think yon willows surely wept
Some one in that cold dalliance kept:
Were garlands white, on willows hung,
Sign that one died, and died too young,
Changing the light robe for the pall,
The bridal for the funeral,—
Yon pallid wreaths would make me fear
Some Flower of Youth lay buried here:
Were yews, green-darkling in their bloom,
Sentinels only of the tomb,—
Were cypress-mourners standing round
Ling'rers alone on holy ground,—
Yon trees, as sullen as they seem,
Would tell too plain a tale I deem.
Then say, when rock, and willow sweet,
White garland, yew, and cypress meet,
As here,—what should the group betoken?—
Speak, Lover!—though thy heart be broken!
White garland, yew, and cypress meet,
As here,—what should the group betoken?—
Speak, Lover!—though thy heart be broken!
122
Romanzo.
Hither they bend them slowly. On this stone,
Green with the antique moss of many a year,
I think they mean to lay her; and perform
The simple rites which country-people love
Around her gentle earth, ere it be borne
To consecrated ground. Young heralds twain
Have deckt the place already.—I'll retire:
My presence might disturb the holy scene,
And I would be at peace as well as she!
My storm of life at length, I hope, is o'er;
A stillness is upon me, like the pause
That ushers in eternity!—'Tis well!
[Retires.
The Procession enters. Six Maidens strewing flowers. The Dirgers. Then four Youths with a bier, on which Sylvia is laid beneath a virgin pall. Agatha supported by Stephania and Roselle. Geronymo, Jacintha, and Peasants following.
DIRGE.
Wail! wail ye o'er the dead!Wail! wail ye o'er her!
Youth's ta'en, and Beauty's fled,
O then deplore her!
123
Strew! strew ye, Maidens! strew
Sweet flowers, and fairest!
Pale rose, and pansy blue,
Lily the rarest!
Sweet flowers, and fairest!
Pale rose, and pansy blue,
Lily the rarest!
Wail! wail ye, &c.
Lay, lay her gently down
On her moss pillow,
While we our foreheads crown
With the sad willow!
On her moss pillow,
While we our foreheads crown
With the sad willow!
Wail! wail ye, &c.
Raise, raise the song of wo,
Youths, to her honour!
Fresh leaves, and blossoms throw,
Virgins, upon her!
Youths, to her honour!
Fresh leaves, and blossoms throw,
Virgins, upon her!
Wail! wail ye, &c.
Round, round the cypress bier
Where she lies sleeping,
On every turf a tear,
Let us go weeping!
Where she lies sleeping,
On every turf a tear,
Let us go weeping!
Wail! wail ye, &c.
Geronymo.
Cease!—we must bear her on. 'Tis a long way to the village, and she must lie there a time before the priest will give her viaticum. Take up the bier!
124
Should we leave the crown upon her thus?
Peasants.
Ay! ay! she was our May-Queen, and shall go to the grave with all her honours about her, like the greatest prince in Christendom. Come away!
Enter Andrea.
Andrea.
As I'm a person, my old acquaintances!—Beauteous Mistress Stephania, your servant! Lovely Mistress Roselle, yours!—Ladies, one and all, I am your most devoted—
Peasants.
The fiend! the fiend!—Away!
[They all run off except Agatha.
Agatha.
Come twenty fiends I'll stay by thee, my child!
Andrea.
What a-vengeance do the people see in me to frighten them?—Alack! I forgot that I was a prodigy! a lusum naturum!—Yet, after all, I do not know that a pair of neatly-twisted antlers are such a run-away matter; unless I threatened to butt with them! Then as to cloven feet,—why it is but having four toes instead of ten, and make the most of it! The 'longation of my ears, indeed, I consider as a manifest improvement—an “accession,” as we elegantly term it. So that, upon the whole, although I should be loth to flatter myself, I think I am a very personable-looking—Tizzy, Master
125
[Approaching the bier.
Romanzo.
(Darting forward.)
Miscreant, forbear! Hold off thy impious hands!
Andrea.
(Falling on his knees.)
O lud! the ghost of my unfortunate master!
Romanzo.
Slave that denied'st me! Ingrate!
Scorn of man!
Thou kneel'st for sacrifice at this pure altar,
And from the deep pollution of thy touch
Shalt cleanse it with thy blood!
Agatha.
(Holding his arm.)
Stay!—stay!—no blood—
Let there be none spill'd here. In death as life
Her bed be stainless!—O profane it not
With aught unsacred, or her cheek will grow
More pale with horror still!
Andrea.
'Slife! I must not let the old lady lose the fruits of her eloquence! While she talks, I'll walk: he may catch me if he can, but at least I will show him a fair pair of heels for it—
[Runs away.126
O youth! dead Beauty's soldier! pardon me!
The widow's, the unchilded mother's thanks,
Attend thee ever!—let this act of thine
Make thy last pillow softer than the babe's
That smiling goes to Heaven!—O I have done ye
Most cruel wrong!
Romanzo.
Speak not of it, I pray you.
Let us stand here, on either side the shrine,
And weep in silence o'er her.
Enter Floretta.
Look! oh look!
Here is a little mourner come to join
Its sparkly tears with ours!
Floretta.
Here is a little mourner come to join
Its sparkly tears with ours!
Where can my young beauty be
That I have not found her?—
Out, alas! this is not she
With a shroud around her?
That I have not found her?—
Out, alas! this is not she
With a shroud around her?
Ay!—But stay! I scent a flower—
Let me smell it—pah! pah!
Well I know its deadly power—
Come, unloose ye!—hah! hah!
Let me smell it—pah! pah!
Well I know its deadly power—
Come, unloose ye!—hah! hah!
127
Marble-one! Marble-one! rise from the tomb!
Long hast thou slumber'd—Awake thee! awake thee!
Eyes, to your lustre! and cheeks, to your bloom!
Lips, to your sweet smiling-office betake ye!
Long hast thou slumber'd—Awake thee! awake thee!
Eyes, to your lustre! and cheeks, to your bloom!
Lips, to your sweet smiling-office betake ye!
Hark, she sighs! the Maiden sighs,
Life and sense returning;
Now she opes her pretty eyes
Making a new morning!
Life and sense returning;
Now she opes her pretty eyes
Making a new morning!
One white arm across her brow,
Draws the sleepy fair-one:
Like a daystar rises now—
Is she not a rare one?
Draws the sleepy fair-one:
Like a daystar rises now—
Is she not a rare one?
Still she sits in wonder so,
With her shroud around her,
Like a primrose in the snow
When the Spring has found her!
With her shroud around her,
Like a primrose in the snow
When the Spring has found her!
The Pride of the Valley, the Flower of the Glen,
Is breathing, and blooming, and smiling again!
Is breathing, and blooming, and smiling again!
Kiss her, and press her,
Caress her, and bless her,
The sweet Maiden-Rose! the Sun's Darling!
Caress her, and bless her,
The sweet Maiden-Rose! the Sun's Darling!
128
(Above.)
Away! come away!
Osme.
(Above.)
We have springes to lay,
While thou 'rt chattering here—
Nephon.
(Above.)
Like a starling!
Floretta.
Then fare thee well,
My bonnibel!
I would thou wert indeed a flower;
Thy breast should be
My canopy,
And I a queen in that sweet bower!
[Vanishes.
Agatha.
I did not hope such joy this side the grave:
O could my bosom clasp thee all—close!—close!
Romanzo.
This hand's enough for me.
Sylvia.
Dear Mother!—Friend!—
Anon I'll say how much I love ye both:
I'm faint as yet, and wandering; lead me in.
[Exeunt.
Enter Nephon with a suit like Andrea's.
Nephon.
Now shall my disguise
Cheat the spinster's eyes,
129
Cheat the demons' too.
But I first must grow
Some five feet or so,
And swell out my span
To the size of man.
[Takes the shape of Andrea, and assumes his dress.
Mortals, blame us not
For the tricks we play;
Were ye fairies, what
Would ye do, I pray?
I would lay a crum,
Could ye change your shapes,
Ye would all become
Mischievous as apes.
Troth I think at present
In the tricking trade,—
Though not quite as pleasant,—
Ye are just as bad! (Peasants without.)
A miracle! a miracle!
Nephon.
Here the loobies come
Pat as A, B, C.
So behind the tomb
I will nestle me.
[Hides himself.
130
All.
'Tis true, 'tis certain, 'tis a fact to be chronicled in tradition. Here she lay; here is her crown. She is alive again! Let us go, and welcome her back from darkness.to daylight. Huzza!
[As they go out, Nephon twitches Roselle by the skirt.
Nephon.
Mistress Roselle! What, never a word for your old friend and bottle-companion, Andrea?
Roselle.
Andrea!—I vow he is himself again! Turn about: let me see all your points, lest I be jockeyed. What have you done with your headgear? Have you been using the infallible corn-and-horn-rubber of little Beppo, the pedlar, that you have gotten rid of your monstrosities?
Nephon.
Pooh! 'twas only a disguise to see if you had love enough to remember me.—Ah! Mistress Roselle, you know by mine eloquent eye in what a situation my heart is.
Roselle.
Why, as I guess, just under your left breast.
Nephon.
No, gypsy! but just under yours; there you have it, close prisoner, like a kernel in a filbert.—Hear me now: do you see this crown?
Roselle.
Ay; why do you untangle it?
Nephon.
It makes me mad to see that pale-faced
131
Roselle.
Why, as to that, indeed, I do not know for certain, but I think, as it were, that, mayhap, I shall look quite as well in it as my fine lady there. But, if the plaguy thing wont fit me—
Nephon.
Try it: I have taken out that twig, and if it does not fit you now, why cap never fitted a felon. Only try it.
Roselle.
(Putting it on.)
By our ladykin, so it does!—O beautiful!—What do you think, friend Andrea? Am I a Venus in dimity, or not?
Nephon.
You are the most exquisite,
incomparable, incomprehensible princess, that ever made her
appearance in wooden clogs and stuff petticoats.—
(Aside.)
Going!—going!—how she searches about
for the pillow!
Roselle.
Stephania! pull off my shoes—untie my sash—now!—now!—Where have you hidden the pillow?—I'm as sleepy to-night as a hedgehog.
Nephon.
And shall lie as hard. Hooh! what pig-iron creatures these mortals are! even the lightest o' the species! I should not like to be the miller, your father, pretty maiden, if all my sacks were so weighty.
[Lays her upon the stone.Now, ye malicious couple! spend your spite upon this. I have had a hint of your doings.
132
Like a mist
kist
By the matin ray,
Or a shade
frayed,
Thus I wane away!
[Vanishes.kist
By the matin ray,
Or a shade
frayed,
Thus I wane away!
Enter Grumiel and Momiel.
Momiel.
Ha! here she lies—Quick! up with her, thou log!—
Let not the imp fry catch us.
Grumiel.
Wasps!
Momiel.
That blockhead!
He should have had no profit by success.
But, having served us, worn our livery still
Which he so hated: now shall he assume
What will dislike him more,—a brutish tail,
The most ridiculous badge to smooth mankind.
Thus prosper they who covenant with the fiends!
[Exeunt, bearing off Roselle.
133
Scene IV.
Upon a lark's back, safe and soft,
Jaunty Morgana sits aloft;
And, while the sun-bird fans and sings,
Peeps through the lattice of his wings
At all beneath: Her light attendant,
Osme, floats like a starry pendant
Beside the Queen; to do her hest
Where'er her majesty thinks best.
Morgana.
Jaunty Morgana sits aloft;
And, while the sun-bird fans and sings,
Peeps through the lattice of his wings
At all beneath: Her light attendant,
Osme, floats like a starry pendant
Beside the Queen; to do her hest
Where'er her majesty thinks best.
By this, I think, our host should be assembled:
Thou gav'st command to Nephon?
Osme.
Madam, I did.
Morgana.
Where he should place his guards, and line our bounds
Securely, did'st thou?
Osme.
Yes, so please your highness.
He would convene too, on the level sward,
Minstrels and morris-dancers—
Morgana.
Foolish sprite!
We shall have other feats anon. Two fiends
Already have transgressed my flowery verge,
And borne a sleeping shepherdess away.
Well, if no more: but, from yon woods I deem
134
At opportunity.—Flit down, and know
What has been done: my breast is full of cares
Both for my kingdom, and my shepherd twain.
Osme.
A fairy Iris, I will make my bow
Of a bent sunbeam, and glide down as swift
As minnow doth the waterfall.
[Vanishes.
Morgana.
She lights!
And birdlike wings into the woody Vale,
Full of her errand. It is featly done.—
Fall midway to the Earth, sweet Lark! I pray.
The Scene closes.
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,
138
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;
139
'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.
140
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!
142
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,
143
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;
144
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?
145
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!
148
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 | |