 | The Tercentenary of Corydon |  |
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ACT II.
Corydon's Tomb. A Wood.Enter Galatea, Phyllis, Amaryllis, Melibœus, Thyrsis, Menalcas, Alphesibœus, and Peasants.
Galatea.
Good master Melibœus! send you grace
To stay your willing gaiters; here's the place.
Phyllis.
How soft and delicately moves the air!
Amaryllis.
Did ever birds of heaven sing half so fair?
Menalcas.
And see the lichens grey have overgrown
The carven lines, “Hic jacet Corydon.”
Whereby I hold our Corydon 'tis clear
Here has been lying nigh three hundred year.
Alphesibœus.
I've heard my grandsire say, his grandsire said,
That he had heard, when Corydon was dead
He lay abed from twilight until day,
But when they came at dawn he was away.
And some old lieawakes made oath they wist
By nightfall of a wondrous floating mist,
Pale lilac in the shadows of the moon.
Which travelled woodwards like a silent tune.
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As woodpeckers soft tapping upon oak.
When doubting this strange tale men sought the wood,
There, like a dream, the poet's tombstone stood.
But who it was the body did convey
In such strange sort, or built the tomb this way,
My grandsire's grandsire could not surely say.
Galatea.
Here by our poet's tomb let all agree,
In faithful vows of love and amity.
Let each in presence of this common friend
Forget himself, and all his quarrels end.
Melibœus.
to Phyllis.
Good were it for the flock, were Love not strayed;
Well spoke the mistress, but what says the maid?
Phyllis.
Love never strayed until Neæra bold
Stole shepherd Melibœus from his fold.
Melibœus.
Nay, Melibœus marvelled why his herd
Menalcas' care before his own preferred.
Phyllis.
Come, tell me truly, at last Shrove-tide fair
You set no primrose in Neæra's hair?
Melibœus.
Ah! Phyllis, Phyllis! was there none to see
Menalcas' kiss beneath the linden tree?
Galatea.
What! out of tune already! Girl, what's this
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But ha!
[Enter a pair of marvellous fantastical linnets.
Sweet things, you sing like tinkling dew
On thirsty grass. But, prythee, who are you?
The Linnets.
Titiotix! When Corydon was here,
Of all the songs he loved we were most dear.
Titiotix! When Corydon was dead,
His loving spirit made us birds instead.
When twilight comes, and the grey smoke is curled
More soft, we flutter round the quiet world,
Haunting the wood, or slope, or woolly pen,
But chiefly the still hearts of dreaming men.
From Corydon we come; he much approves
Your loyal affections, and for these kind loves
He fain would heard your kindred souls confess
Your village joys and woes and wickedness.
You, Galatea, without stint or grudge,
Shall of the praise or sentence be the judge.
Titiotio—come, we wait, begin,
Most merry Melibœus, with your sin.
Melibœus.
Alas! for how two linnets should compel
My tongue to truth is more than I can tell.
Yet listen. Phyllis came to me alone
And asked a song; I sang her for my own
An air that I had found in Corydon.
Galatea.
And was there any prize to gain or miss?
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Aye, madam Galatea,—'twas a kiss.
All.
Ha! ha! how merry!
Phyllis.
You shall smart for this!
Galatea.
Indeed, fair sir, I hope you won your suit.—
But for our sentence, you must break your flute,
Lest, while amid the meadows pondering deep
On hidden strains, you lose an obvious sheep.
Now, Phyllis! Amaryllis! come, girls, say
What mischief you have dreamed since yesterday.
Methinks mere girls were better shut within
Glass cases, quite beyond the breath of sin,
As wax dolls innocent, all crisped and curled,
Crystal perfections.
Phyllis.
Well, we're like the world.
For, as the hundred-headed parson ran
Last Sunday doubling through his mazy plan,
I fell asleep, and dreamed, in Stratford town
That I beheld a wondrous mottled gown,
A wondrous mottled gown, but passing dear,
Scarce as I watched the price I checked the tear.
But “ah,” said I, “Menalcas will approve
This wondrous gown: Menalcas is my love,
And for a kiss this gown he sure will buy.”
The Linnets.
Titiotio!—Phyllis you're a lie!
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I too in church was dreaming, and I saw
A bonnet all in plaits of dainty straw,
With ribbons half-a-yard of blushing peach;
How I desired those ribbons passes speech;
For once I heard Alphesibœus tell
Menalcas, “Peach suits Amaryllis well.”
The Linnets.
Titiotiotix!—False maids, you both
Have been on trial, and each breaks her oath.
Phyllis,
weeping.
Oh! oh! sweet linnets, pardon! yes 'tis true,
And, Melibœus, I've no love but you;
In vain Menalcas shall one kiss implore,
If you will take me to your arms once more.
Amaryllis,
in tears.
Ah! Thyrsis dear, though surly you may be,
If but again your lips and mine agree,
Alphesibœus may go hang for me.
Galatea.
Well, well! enough;—your quarrel's at an end:
Where nothing's broken 'tis not hard to mend.
Here, Melibœus, though your lips are mute,
You now may win your prize without the flute.
Here, Thyrsis, leave your scythe, nor doubtful stand,
And, Amaryllis, let me have your hand;
And since by him your mutual bliss is won,
O happy pair, forget not Corydon!
All
O happy pair, forget not Corydon!
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bringing forward the offerings.
Lift high the silver urn, and therein fill
Honey, and wine, and water from the rill.
And cowslips fetch, and bluebells, and Lent lilies,
For Corydon most loves the daffodillies.
O Corydon! though at your tomb we lift
No artful song, nor any costly gift,
Yet all our hearts are yours, for ever move
Master and friend, and poet of our love.
The shepherd dies,—your music lives the same,
And cradled babies lisp our poet's name;
Our shepherd youth the summer twilight long
Ring the grey dells with echoes of his song,
And old men say his homely human phrase
Lights a warm sun on their declining days.
Then, poet, turn your kind approving eyes
Upon your kinsmen, nor indeed despise
Love's meaner symbols and poor sacrifice.
The Linnets.
Mistress, you sing right well, and rest you sure
Our Corydon despises nothing pure.
Melibœus
to Phyllis.
Our Corydon has said, “There are no slips
Between a shepherd and his sweetheart's lips.”
[Kisses her.
Phyllis.
Once the reeds swore,—so Corydon declares,—
“My Melibœus has grown asses' ears.”
[Boxes his ears, and runs off.
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Phyllis, I think one kiss will scarce repay
Full twenty wrongs in a short April day.
[Runs after her.
All.
Come, kinsmen, come! enough we all have played:
The noon is high, let's to the beechen shade.
Sooth to our children's children we'll recall
How on this day we kept high festival,
How the birds twittered, and the sunlight shone,
In the three-hundredth year of Corydon.
[Exeunt omnes.
| The Tercentenary of Corydon | |