 | The Tercentenary of Corydon |  |
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ACT I.
SCENE I.
Bed-Chamber of Damon and Galatea.Galatea.
Thrice has the cock cried, “Waken, maid and wife!”
Yon barndoor sings as merry as a fife.
Heaven bless the day, and safe from rain-drops keep
My Sunday silk. What, Damon, do you sleep?
Up, sluggard! and, good Calend-keeper, say
How name you this fair morn?
Damon,
sleepily.
Eight short o'May.
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Praise Heaven, that kept your Galatea free
From wits like yours. 'Tis April twenty-three;
So far yu're Solomon; but this sweet morn
Three hundred years our Corydon was born.
Damon.
A murrain on your Corydon!
Galatea.
What's that?
Damon.
The landlord of the Bagpipes and the Cat,
Vile master of a viler public, where
As I was sitting last September fair,
Deep in my cups, not knowing white from brown,
He changed me a new penny for a crown.
Galatea.
Pig! idiot! husband! keep your common pelf,
Cat, Corydon, and Bagpipes to yourself.
I with good disposition will provide
For all the offerings of this holy tide.
Ho! Phyllis, Amaryllis! four o'clock!
Shame, lazy girls, to let a common cock
Crow o'er your slumbers.
Phyllis and Amaryllis,
dressing outside.
Nay! our brooms were going
Two hours before he even dreamed of crowing.
Galatea.
Come in, my merry handmaidens, and ask
What wool is needful for your morning's task.
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Good lack! dear Amaryllis, go you first:
I'm all unlaced.
Amaryllis.
Phyllis, my stays have burst.
Phyllis.
My hair's about my heels.
Amaryllis.
Your hair, you said?
Ha! here's my nightcap dangling on my head.
Phyllis.
Well, let's go in together, we'll profess
Such early risers have no light to dress.
[Enter Phyllis and Amaryllis.
Galatea.
Good morrow, girls! You've heard the village say
Our poet Corydon was born to-day.
And since I told my left hand from my right,
I can remember 'twas a time of white.
My grandsire's wont it was at morning dew
The tomb with seasonable gifts to strew,
And finest flour he took, from the wild bees
He borrowed honey, and the primroses
Wove all their slender arms to intertwine
A garland drenched with stoups of elder wine.
Should Galatea doubt to do the same,
My grandsire's villagers should cry me shame.
Go then, my Amaryllis, while the flowers
Are wet with dew, “improve the shining hours,”
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A various task of crimson and of white.
[Exit Amaryllis. Galatea rises, and sits down before the glass.
Phyllis, unlock my chest, therein reposes
My silk, dark blue, with intervals of roses.
I mean the dress I wore last Lammas fair,
Far bluer than Myrtilla's;—for my hair
Set it with cowslips; though the Fates cried nay,
We'd have a merry festival to-day.
Phyllis,
arranging Galatea's hair.
As Melibœus, Thyrsis, you outshone
Myrtilla, mistress; but who's Corydon?
Galatea.
Since Corydon has died, the master's flute
Hangs on the peg melodiously mute.
No ear has caught his music, and no hand
Can press the stops, for none can understand.
So sweet a singer ne'er shall sing to men
Till Corydon himself come back again.
Phyllis.
O! so he played the flute. And did he keep
The while he played a flock of woolly sheep?
For Melibœus minds a herd, and he
Can play the flute, and once he played to me.
Galatea.
My Phyllis, bid this Melibœus mind
His woolly sheep, and leave his flute behind.
But see our Amaryllis comes.
[Re-enter Amaryllis.
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The dew
Is on the upland, and the day's all blue.
Just over the brown fallow, loud and blithe
The lark is hanging, Thyrsis whets his scythe
Close where the river-line through grasses green
Runs cool and white along the soft ravine.
I, as by Thyrsis' side I stooped to get
Anemone or couching violet,
Saw down the glistening grass and through the trees
The village hiving like a swarm of bees.
Then, as this motley band with frequent stirs
Clustered and swayed, “What mean these villagers,
Thyrsis?” said I; but, while his scythe swept on,
Said surly Thyrsis, “'Tis for Corydon.”
Back with my flowers I came, my mind all dim
What Corydon's to me or I to him,—
Back with my flowers, but ever as I came
Long lines of scarlet mantles like a flame
Shot through the trees, white smock, and purple blouse,
Quick winding down the green birch avenues.
When I the wicket reached they were so far
As a thin voice could sound,—and here they are.
Galatea.
How the girl prates! To hear her one would say
Her parents were a rattle and a jay.
[Exeunt Galatea, Phyllis, and Amaryllis.
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SCENE II.
The front of Galatea's Farm.Enter Galatea, Phyllis, Amaryllis, Melibœus, Menalcas, Alphesibœus, and Peasants.
Melibœus.
O Galatea! whom three flocks obey,
Queen of our butter-milk, and curds and whey,
Receive the pastoral gifts I bring to-day.
This yellow swan-marked butter, that you see,
Was churned from my fawn-coloured Alderney.
And here are cheeses three, soft, round, and white,
Pressed by my three deft maidens in a night.
No defter maidens in our village dwell,
Nor Phyllis' self can press a cheese so well.
Last take this bowl of cream all yellowy, which
On the low marshlands of my farm grew rich,
Thick round the ladle curled, in foam-bells blown
By early winds,—and all for Corydon.
Menalcas.
O Galatea! on whose walls I know
The softest peaches and big nectarines grow,
Take these more humble fruits my hands bestow.
Apples of various kinds, these—I forget
Their name, and these the Kentish Fillbasket;
Their cheeks all red and glowing you may see
As when they fell last autumn from the tree.
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White as new milk, just taken from the nest.
Cider and mead I bring, and a vast scone
Of honeyed barley, all for Corydon.
Alphesibœus.
Sweet mistress Galatea! though I knew
No mortal feeds such lusty hens as you,
Yet as I could I brought my offerings too.
This is the hen Myrtilla used to beg,
And this the goose that lays the golden egg.
And,—as this morning through the woods we wound,
I heard the coo of doves, and climbing found
A pair of turtles, which shall make their moan,
If Galatea please, for Corydon.
Galatea.
Thanks, gentle friends; no mean bequests you bring,
A whole heart consecrates a lowly thing.
But see, we lag behind the eager day:
The greenwood calls us hence, Come, come away!
Join hand in hand, sweet friends, the dews are drying,
The birds are singing, and the bells replying,
Come to the woods, and hear the turtles moan,
For so we surely please, for Corydon.
[Exeunt omnes.
| The Tercentenary of Corydon | |