Sylvia or, The May Queen. A Lyrical Drama. By George Darley |
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Scene II.
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 | Sylvia |  |
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!
118
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.
| Sylvia | |