University of Virginia Library

Giacomo.
Where is Fiesco now?

Isabella.
Oh you should see him!
Celia is showing him her gay saloon
Sparkling with lamps and flowers, and her quaint masque
Of country lasses, cunningly prankt out
With rustic finery. The little thief
Hath stolen all my roses—all save this—
To deck the pretty damsel she calls spring.
And there is she turning them round and round
To be admired; and there are they, all blushes,
Curtsying with coy and shamefaced bashfulness,
Yet full of a strange joy; and there is he
Dropping kind words and kinder smiles about,
Delighting and delighted: We must join them.

THE MASQUE.

Enter Spring.
Spring.
Room for the jocund queen of new-born flowers!
Bathed in light fragrant airs and sunny showers
I come. Beneath my steps the grass is set
With violets, cowslips, daffodils, all wet
With freshest dew as any crystal clear.
The youth, the smile, the music of the year
Am I. Who loves not Spring? Gay songs of birds
Tell my delights, and rough uncouthest words
Of shepherds. Fairest ladies here are posies
Of crisp curled hyacinths, pale maiden roses,
And bright anemonies of richer dyes
Than rubies, amethysts, or azure eyes
Of sapphires. Summer! hasten leafy queen!
And Autumn help to bind my garlands sheen!

Enter Summer.
Summer.
In a green nook, whose mossy bed receives
Shade from my own unnumbered world of leaves,
I heard a voice call Summer.

Spring.
Hast thou not
Brought flowery tribute? To thy favourite grot
I sent my deftest, trustiest messenger,
A dappled butterfly, whose pinions whir
Like thy mailed beetle's. He was charged to say
That great Doria would be here to-day—
Did not that rouse thee?

Summer.
Yes; his name hath won
To my deep solitudes, where scarce the sun
Can pierce the heavy umbrage. The cool places
To which the sweltering noon the wild deer chases;
The sheltered pools, which oft the swallows winglet
Skims, or where lazily her darker ringlet
Some Naiad floating in her beauty laves;
The little bubbling springs, whose tiny waves
Do murmur gently round old pollard trees,
Mingling their music with the stir of bees;
All these are mine: mine the wild forest glade
Where the bright sun comes flickering through the shade,
Gilding the turfy wood-walks; and his name
Is wafted through them with an odorous fame,
Balm breathing. Take my tribute. Strawberries bred
In shrubby dingles; cherries round and red,
And flowers that love the sun.

Spring.
Sweet flowers are thine,
Carnation, pink, acacia, jessamine,
With coral budded myrtle which discloses
White pearly blossoms, and perfumed musk-roses.

Enter Autumn.
Autumn.
Fair queens of leaves and flowers give way to me,
To Autumn and his fruits. Do you not see
How I am laden? Corn and grapes are here,
And olives. Of the riches of the year
I am the joyful gatherer. Merry nights
Have I at harvest time, and rare delights
When the brown vintagers beneath the trees
Dance, and drink in the sunset and the breeze.
And I have brought young tendrils of the vine
Amidst your gayer garlands to entwine
For great Doria.

Enter Winter.
Spring.
Ah! what form is this?
Stern Winter hence! Come not to mar our bliss
With frosts and tempests. Icy season hence!
See Summer sickens at thy influence,
And I can feel my coronet withering.

Winter.
Hence then thyself, fair, dainty, delicate thing!
Light fluttering playmate of the infant loves,
Mistress of butterflies and turtle doves,
Hence! and bear with thee that gay blooming toy,
To a fair girl from an enamoured boy
Fit homage, not for heroes. In this form
Thou hail'st a friend, Doria! The wild storm
The raging of the elements, the wave
That Winter flings aloft, are to the brave
A victory and a glory. Thou hast breasted
My billows, mountain-high and foamy crested,
And vanquished them. And I can guerdon thee,
I, barren Winter, from the unfading tree
To valour consecrate. This laurel crown
Wear! as it clips thy temples, thy renown
Will cast upon its shining leaves a light
Ineffable. Approach, ye Seasons bright,
With gifts and garlands; let us offer here
The blended homage of the circling year.