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Sylvia ; or, the May Queen 
 
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 ""^^^^ LYRICAL DRAM)i^ 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE BARLEY 
 
 INTRODUCTION BY /^ '^lA 
 
 fX JOHN H.INGRAM < 
 
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 George Darley. 
 
 JN 1836, Miss Mitford, a leading spirit 
 among the literati of her day, writes : — 
 " I have just had a present of a most 
 exquisite poem, which old Mr Carey (the 
 translator of Dante and Pindar) thinks more highly 
 of than any poem of the present day — ' Sylvia, or 
 the May Queen,' by George Darley. It is exquisite 
 — something between the ' Faithful Shepherdess' 
 and the ' Midsummer Night's Dream.'" 
 
 Half-a-century ago, George Darley, author of 
 the poem thus alluded to, although now known 
 only to a select few, was numbered among the poets 
 of his people. He lived in an age of poets, and 
 yet Carey, no mean judge, held his poetry highest. 
 Lord Tennyson, whose own early lyrics were yet 
 young, was so struck by Darley's power, that he 
 volunteered to defray the cost of publishing his verse. 
 Mrs Browning, another youthful poet, praised 
 "Sylvia" as "a beautiful, tuneful pastoral," and her 
 future husband, Robert Browning, was deeply im- 
 pressed by it and its influence. We have his own 
 authority for stating that it did much to determine 
 
 (Vi710y70 
 
ri BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 the form of his own early dramas. That "Sylvia" 
 charmed Coleridge, and many other lesser men of his 
 generation, is only natural. 
 
 What is the " Sylvia" thus commended, and who 
 its author, Darley ? Miss Mitford, whilom the lead- 
 ing authority for all published about the poet, in 
 her wonted good-natured, well-meaning repetition 
 of unreliant gossip, condenses his story into these 
 words: — "The author (of 'Sylvia') is the son of a 
 rich alderman of Dublin, who disinherited him 
 because he would write poetry ; and now he supports 
 himself by writing in the magazines." 
 
 As a matter of fact, the poet was not the son of 
 Alderman Darley ; he was not disinherited because 
 he wrote poetry, and only the third assertion had a 
 grain of truth in it. Such few biographical data as 
 are known, and as are needed to be known, are as 
 follows : — 
 
 The poet's father, Arthur, inherited a small in- 
 dependency from his father, George Darley, of the 
 Scalp, County Wicklow. He married a cousin, who 
 is remembered as " a woman of singular beauty and 
 intelligence," and had several children, all of whom 
 became more or less distinguished in their various 
 ways. 
 
 George, the eldest, was born in Dublin, in 1795. 
 His parents leaving their native land for the United 
 States, the future poet, accompanied by two sisters, 
 was left in charge of his paternal grandfather, with 
 whom he remained until ten years of age. The boy 
 had become a great favourite with the old Wicklow 
 Squire, notwithstanding the fact that even at that 
 time he was " much more full of thought than able of 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. vii 
 
 speech, being afflicted with a hesitation, which in- 
 creased as years went on," 
 
 His parents returning to Dublin, George had to 
 leave his Wicklow home, and give up his pleasant 
 pony rides with his grandfather. He was placed in 
 charge of a tutor, and, after the usual scholastic 
 routine, was enabled to proceed to Trinity College, 
 Dublin, where he did not graduate until 1820, The 
 lateness of the age at which Darley took his degree 
 was doubtless due to the want of confidence 
 induced by the impediment in his speech, *'his 
 mask," as he not inaptly styled his affliction. This 
 same wretched infirmity retarded his success, and 
 embittered the whole of his future life. Some 
 College honour or scholarship which he contended 
 for, and from his intellectual superiority appeared 
 certain of gaining, was snatched from his grasp at the 
 vital moment, his physical trouble rendering him too 
 nervous to succeed. Utterly disgusted, he forsook 
 his native city, and did not visit it for years. 
 Determined to devote himself to literature, Darley 
 took up his abode in London, and there, in 1822, 
 published his first volume of verse. 
 
 "The Errors of Ecstasie," this first volume, was 
 somewhat incorrectly described as "a dramatic 
 poem." It consists mainly of a dialogue between a 
 Mystic and the Moon, and although not deficient 
 in imagination, nor devoid of occasional beauties, 
 neither it nor the " other pieces " which accompanied 
 it, gave great promise. 
 
 Darley was not long in London before he made 
 the acquaintance of many leading literati, but the im- 
 pediment in his speech frequently deterred him from 
 
viii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 mixing in congenial society. Writing to a critic 
 whose friendship he was desirous of acquiring, he 
 says, " I would call, or ask you to call, but that 
 conversation with me is a painful effort, and to 
 others painful and profitless. I am an involuntary 
 misanthrope, by reason of an impediment which 
 renders society and me burthensome to each other. 
 My works, whatever be their merit, are the better 
 part of me — the only one I can at all commend to 
 your notice." Probably his extreme sensitiveness 
 caused him to exaggerate the extent of his infirmity, 
 although he described it as " a hideous mask upon 
 my mind, which not only disfigures but nearly 
 suffocates it," as he gradually became intimate with 
 so many of the choicest spirits of his age, not even 
 excluding the critic already referred to. Canon 
 Livingston, indeed, states that "when completely 
 at ease in conversation with any congenial spirit, or 
 reading aloud, or declaiming from his favourite Eliza- 
 bethan authors, the defect in his speech disappeared." 
 That this defect did do much to sour Barley's 
 temper at times and preyed upon his mind cannot be 
 denied. Procter says that he was "once tempted by 
 this physical ailment to travel as far as Edinburgh, 
 to consult a professor of elocution who professed to 
 cure similar defects. The remedy, which appeared 
 to consist in causing his pupils or patients to utter 
 all their words in a sort of chant, produced no per- 
 manently good effect." 
 
 Darley's connection with some of the most pro- 
 minent London periodicals, and more particularly 
 with the London Magazine, naturally gave him 
 admission into the literary coteries of the metropolis. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. jx 
 
 He made the acquaintance of Lamb, Talfourd, Miss 
 Mitford, Chorley, Sir Henry Taylor, Lords Tennyson 
 and Houghton, Southey, " Barry Cornwall," and 
 others, but his correspondence shows that his extreme 
 sensibility to remarks other than laudatory on his 
 own works must have rendered a long and familiar 
 friendship with him very trying and uncertain. Miss 
 Mitford may not be very exact in her assertion that 
 Barley's disappointment at " not being acknowledged 
 as one of the great poets of the age " caused him to 
 acquire the " most intolerant fastidiousness and 
 determination to disallow all merit in other writers 
 — such as Scott and Wordsworth, for instance, and, 
 indeed, every poet in every language — except Shake- 
 speare and Milton," but his letters and critiques show 
 not only his own sensitiveness to want of appreciation, 
 but his difficulty to appreciate merit in others. With- 
 out any intentional unkindness, he was sarcastic ; and 
 Procter, who long retained his^riendship, admits that 
 his stammer having thrown him out of society, the 
 "loneliness produced melancholy, and sometimes a 
 little acerbity in his humour;" and Canon Livingstone 
 quotes the words of one who knew him well, to the 
 effect that " his manner varied according to his mood 
 and his companions. He was often somewhat of a 
 Diogenes, silent and brooding, subject to fits of 
 gloom and abstraction. At other times he would 
 be vigorous and sarcastic. But, when he chose, he 
 could be a delightful companion, for he was brimful 
 of knowledge and steeped in poetry. His taste and 
 feeling for music were exquisite." 
 
 It was under the pseudonym of "John Lacy " that 
 
X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Barley's contributions, commencing in July 1823, 
 first appeared in the London Alagazine. He wrote 
 a series of critical papers on the " Dramatists of the 
 Day," chiefly with a view of showing to what a 
 degraded state dramatic poetry had fallen. Amongst 
 contemporary writers he singled out two for com- 
 mendation, "a woman and a boy," as he remarked. 
 Joanna Baillie, nowadays not appreciated at her 
 worth, and Beddoes, were the dramatic poets whose 
 works he selected as exceptions to the general mass 
 of rubbish then doing duty for the drama. Darley's 
 great but deserved praise of "The Bride's Tragedy" 
 undoubtedly confirmed Beddoes in his devotion to 
 the poetic drama, and inspired him to continue his 
 labours in that direction. 
 
 In this series of papers on the drama, Darley made 
 a noteworthy admission which should not be over- 
 looked by his readers. Referring to the curious, 
 out-of-the-way phrases and self-manufactured words 
 which even in those days he habitually made use 
 of, he remarks, "When I cannot find w^i? authentic 
 word to express a compound notion or principle, my 
 horror of circumlocution obliges me to coin new and 
 barbarous, but I hope not inappropriate terms." 
 This custom, not without much to be said in its de- 
 fence when moderately resorted to, ultimately became 
 so habitual with our poet as to be a blemish and dis- 
 figurement of his later works. 
 
 Besides the letters referred to, Darley contributed 
 various articles in prose and verse to the London 
 Magazine, then the chief means of introducing many 
 of the best living authors to the public. His best 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xi 
 
 story, " Lilian of the Valley," appeared therein, and 
 contained the immensely popular lyric of " I've been 
 roaming." Well adapted to the voice, and display- 
 ing marked facilities of rhythm, the song deserved the 
 popularity it acquired, yet acquired more perhaps by 
 the reputation of the music it was wedded to by 
 Horn, and its singing by Miss Paton, than by its own 
 intrinsic merit. As a poem, it is surpassed by other 
 far less known lines by Darley. 
 
 In 1826 our poet collected and published some of 
 his tales under the title of " The Labours of Idleness ; 
 or. Seven Nights' Entertainments," as by " Guy 
 Penseval." The prose and verse of this forgotten 
 volume are alike graceful and charming. 
 
 In 1829 appeared " Sylvia," Barley's f/ii?/"(y««Z'r^. 
 It is difficult to characterise this work properly with- 
 out appearing extravagant. As a poem and as a story 
 it is equally charming. The plot is ingenious and 
 the characters interesting, and as a play, well acted 
 and adequately mounted, " Sylvia " should attain 
 popularity. Here and there it is disfigured by the 
 most curious naivete, and, at intervals, lapses into 
 such bathos, that the reader is inclined to think 
 the poet is intentionally jesting with his judgment. 
 Darley partly acknowledged these blemishes. Writ- 
 ing to Miss Mitford, he says : — 
 
 "You are quite right about 'Sylvia;' the gro- 
 tesque parts offend grievously against good taste. 
 I acknowledge the error, and deplore it. But the 
 truth is, my mind was born among the rude old 
 dramatists, and has imbibed some of their ogre milk, 
 which gave more of its coarseness than strength to 
 
xii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 my efforts. And, again, ' Sylvia ' was written in the 
 gasping times of laborious scientific engagements. 
 All its prose especially was what a boiling brain 
 first threw up to the surface, mere scum, which I never 
 intended to pass for cream." 
 
 Notwithstanding such drawbacks, trivial as com- 
 pared with its manifold beauties, " Sylvia " is full of 
 fascination. It is replete with exquisite fantasy, 
 poetry, pathos, and imagination. The introduc- 
 tory portions to each act, although not always 
 necessary for the story's development, are so metri- 
 cally charming and artistically beautiful that no lover 
 of verse would willingly part with them. They mostly 
 begin in a stately or subdued style, but, as the poet 
 proceeds, his wild Celtic fancy breaks its curb and 
 carries him into clouds of metaphor as marvellous as 
 they are musical, although often the flight ends by a 
 hasty and undignified descent to commonplace earth. 
 Thoroughly original as is the drama in its inception 
 and treatment, reminiscences of Shakespeare's lighter 
 moods frequently recur. The hero and heroine were 
 evidently suggested by Ferdinand and Miranda, and 
 much of the faery action shows how deep had been 
 the influence of " The Midsummer Night's Dream." 
 Nephon is a near relative of Puck, and Morgana Tit- 
 ania's twin-sister, whilst Andrea is a loquacious and 
 travelled Bottom. Ararach and his friends, fashioned 
 on the memory of Milton's Pandemonian imps, are, 
 as was to be expected, far less interesting and less 
 realisable than the pretty faery-folk, yet the descrip- 
 tion of the Fiend-king's hall and its entourage is 
 not deficient of grandeur, nor, indeed, unfit to rank 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xiii 
 
 with the hall of Eblis in " Vathek." Some of the lyrics 
 interspersed about the play are most daintily delicate, 
 and some — such as the lovely, musical serenade, 
 " Awake thee, my lady-love " — will linger long in the 
 memory. Barley's faery verse is among the loveliest 
 in the language ; at times is even sweeter than 
 Drayton's, and is as fantastic as Shakespeare's own. 
 
 The dramatis persofuv in " Sylvia," unlike those in 
 Darley's other dramas, have distinct individualities, 
 which they generally manage to retain, although 
 towards the end of the play, it must be admitted, 
 the author seems somewhat to tire of his puppets, 
 and they grow more indistinct, whilst he lapses into 
 lengthy interludes of unnecessary descriptive verse. 
 Many of these descriptive passages, however, are 
 highly imaginative, and should be in themselves 
 accepted as proofs of their author's poetic powers. 
 "Sylvia" may be confidently trusted to preserve 
 Darley's name from oblivion. 
 
 The London Magazitie did not exist many years, and 
 several members of its staff, including Charles Lamb, 
 "Barry Cornwall," and Thomas Hood, transferred 
 their services to the youthful Athetueum. Darley 
 also having apparently forsaken poetry, joined the 
 band of famous literati, who, by the aid of Mr Dilke, 
 were giving the leading literary journal its first start 
 on its career of success. After the publication of 
 "Sylvia," Darley forsook poetry, or appeared to do 
 so, for some years. He travelled abroad, supporting 
 himself mainly by his letters on Art. 
 
 Chorley, in his "Reminiscences," thus refers to 
 Darley's artistic contributions: "At the time when 
 
xiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 my connection with the AthencEum began, this 
 strange, reserved being, who conceived himself 
 largely shut out from companionship with his 
 brother poets by a terrible impediment of speech, 
 was wandering in Italy, and sending home to the 
 journal in question a series of letters on Art, written 
 in a forced and affected style, but pregnant with 
 research, unborrowed speculation, excellent touches 
 by which the nature of a work and of its maker are 
 characterised. The taste in composition, the general 
 severity of the judgments pronounced, might be 
 questioned ; but no one could read them without 
 being stirred to compare and to think. In parti- 
 cular, he laid stress on the elder painters, whose day 
 had not yet come for England — on Giotto, on Peru- 
 gino, on Francesco Francia, and on Lionardo da 
 Vinci. To myself, as to a then untravelled man, 
 the value of these letters was great indeed." 
 
 As Canon Livingstone points out, Darley was, 
 indeed, one of the first to appreciate the early Italian 
 painters. His letters on Art did much to prepare the 
 thinking public for an appreciative reception of the 
 tenets of the " Pre-Raphaelite " school. Whether his 
 literary critiques in the Athenccum were so well 
 regarded is scarcely a moot point. Chorley avers 
 that, on his return to England, Darley took up the 
 position of dramatic reviewer in the most truculent 
 and uncompromising fashion, and treated some of 
 the best favoured authors of the day with relentless 
 severity. That something can be said, and well 
 said, on the other side, the following words from the 
 obituary of Darley in the Athenceum of the 28th 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xv 
 
 November 1846 show: — "As a critic, it would be 
 difficult to rate him too highly. Though his manner 
 might be too uncompromising, and his language 
 made, perhaps, too poignant by characteristic allu- 
 sions, distinctions, and similes, to suit those who 
 shrink from the more severe aspect of truth — though 
 his periods were at times ' freaked * with eccentrici- 
 ties of phrase which, in most other persons, would 
 have been conceit — his fine and liberal organisation, 
 which made him sensible to poetry, painting, and 
 music, and to their connection — his exact and in- 
 dustriously gathered knowledge — above all, his 
 resolution to uphold the loftiest standard and recom- 
 mend the noblest aims, gave to his essays a vitality 
 and an authority which will be long felt. Intolerant 
 of pretension, disdainful of mercenary ambition, and 
 indignant at sluggishness or conceit, he will be often 
 referred to by the sincere and generous spirits of 
 Literature and Art as one whose love of truth was 
 equalled by his perfect preparation for every task 
 that he undertook, and whose praise was worth 
 having — not because it was rarely given, but because 
 it was never withheld save upon good grounds. " 
 
 Although it was not until 1839 that Darley 
 printed any more poetry, save a few fugitive pieces 
 in the periodicals, it is probable that he never 
 abandoned it entirely. The little success " Sylvia " 
 gained, save among his own small circle of poets, 
 discouraged him from publishing for a time. In the 
 above year, he printed and circulated among his 
 literary acquaintances a bizarre production entitled 
 "Nepenthe," It is a startling manifestation of 
 
xvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Darley's facility of rhyme and musical rhythm. It 
 contains passages of such glowing passion and 
 glittering thought, such a bewildering exuberance 
 of language, coupled with such complicated meta- 
 phors and eccentric phraseology that one is disposed 
 to agree with Miss Mitford, that " there is no 
 reading the whole poem, for there is an intoxication 
 about it that turns one's brains." 
 
 As a matter of fact, "Nepenthe " is a fragment, 
 only two cantos of it having appeared in print. 
 The opening verses are characteristic of the poet's 
 better style : — 
 
 " Over a bloomy land untrod 
 
 By heavier foot than bird or bee 
 Lays on the grassy-bosomed sod, 
 I passed one day in reverie : 
 « High on his unpavilioned throne 
 The heaven's hot tyrant sat alone, 
 And like the fabled king of old, 
 Was turning all he touched to gold." 
 
 Unfinished, disconnected, and incomprehensible 
 as was " Nepenthe," its author was as anxious as 
 ever about his readers' opinions. Some passages 
 from a letter he wrote to Miss Mitford on the 
 subject will equally well display Darley's epistolary 
 powers, his egotism, and his intense sensitiveness 
 to the critical opinions of others : — 
 
 " I cannot refrain, even at the risk of egotism, 
 dear Miss Mitford, from expressing my pleasure and 
 pride at your reception of my sorry little poetical 
 tract ' Nepenthe. ' Praise in general is to me more 
 painful than censure, compliments as formal as those 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xvli 
 
 of ' the season ' from visitors, the frozen admiration 
 of friends, I shudder in the heart at all this ; but 
 one word of real enthusiasm, such as yours, is happi- 
 ness, hope, and inspiration to me. Such as yours, 
 I say, for when, together with being enthusiastic, 
 praise is discriminative, it becomes to me what a 
 feather is to an eaglet ; argue as we will, the spirit 
 cannot soar without it. Mine has been, I confess, for 
 a long time like one of Dante's sinners, floating and 
 bickering about in the shape of a fiery tongue, on the 
 Slough of Despond. If it ever has risen, 'twas an 
 ignis fatuus for a moment only. Seven long years 
 did I live on a charitable saying of Coleridge, 
 that he sometimes liked to take up ' Sylvia.' What 
 you say of her and ' Nepenthe ' will keep the pulse 
 of hope (which is the life of the spirit) going, so 
 that I shall not die inwardly before the death of 
 the flesh. Many do, it is my firm belief, who, alas ! 
 have had still more ambition, and less success than 
 I. Murder is done every night upon genius by 
 neglect and scorn. You may ask, could I not 
 sustain myself on the strength of my own ap- 
 probation ? . . . 
 
 " Believe me, I am far above the vulgar desire 
 for popularity. I have none of that heartburn. In- 
 deed, who of any pride but must feel as high as scorn 
 above public praise when we see on what objects it 
 is lavished 1 Should I stand a hair-breadth more 
 exalted in my own esteem by displacing for a day 
 such or such a poetaster from his pedestal? But, 
 candidly, judicious praise is grateful to me as frank- 
 incense, partly, no doubt, for the love of fame, born 
 
 B 
 
 y 
 
xviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 with us like our other appetites, and greatly do I 
 feel from its being the proof that my supposed path 
 towards the Centre of Light is not an aberration ? . . . 
 
 "Your preference for 'Nepenthe,' an unfinished 
 sketch, to 'Sylvia,' a completed poem, gives me 
 confidence in your judgment. It shews me you 
 have, what is so difficult to meet with, a sub- 
 stantive, self-existent taste for poetry itself, when 
 you can thus like storyless abstraction better than a 
 tale of some (though little) human interest — not that 
 the latter should be unappreciated where it occurs, 
 but it alo7ie is usually thought of. . . . 
 
 "The double mind seems wanting in me; cer- 
 tainly the double experience, for I have none of 
 mankind. My whole life has been an abstraction, 
 such must be my works. I am, perhaps, you know, 
 labouring under a visitation much less poetic than 
 that of Milton and Mceonides, but quite as effective, 
 which has made me for life a separatist from 
 society. . . . 
 
 "Were my knowledge of humanity less confused 
 than it is, I apprehend myself to be still too much 
 one-sided for the making a proper use of it. Do you 
 not expect so from ' Nepenthe'? Does it not speak 
 a heat of brain mentally Bacchic ? I feel a necessity 
 for intoxication (don't be shocked, I am a mere tea- 
 drinker) to write with any enthusiasm and spirit. I 
 must think intensely or not at all. 
 
 " My health is an indifferent one ; a tertian head- 
 ache consumes more of my life than sleep does, and 
 worse than this, not only wasting it, but wearing it 
 down. And I have to scribble every second day for 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xix 
 
 means to prolong this detestable headachy life, to 
 criticate and review, committing literary fratricide, 
 which is an iron that enters into my soul, and doing 
 what disgusts me, not only with that day, but the 
 remaining one. . . . 
 
 "Another hateful result of a solitary life, it makes 
 me very selfish. Indeed, I doubt if it be not the 
 mother of as many vices as idleness, instead of so 
 much wisdom, and what not, it is said to hatch. 
 Swift, you know, says, 'There are many wretches 
 who retire to solitude only that they may be with the 
 devil in private.' Man is surely a most gregarious 
 animal; we ought all to put our minds together as 
 near as the other beasts do their noses. I say this 
 to shew you that my misanthropy is compelled, and 
 that my mind has not grown hairy like that of many 
 another anchorite, as well as his body." 
 
 In 1840, Darley published his "Thomas a Becket." 
 It is the poorest of his dramatic works, although at 
 the time of its appearance he evidently regarded it as 
 his masterpiece and the corner-stone of his future 
 fame. Writing to " Bany Cornwall," he character- 
 istically says : — 
 
 "I am, indeed, suspicious, not of you, but of my- 
 self; most sceptical about my right to be called * poet,' 
 and therefore it is I desire confirmation of it from 
 others. Why have a score of years not established my 
 title with the world? Why did not 'Sylvia,' with 
 all its faults, ten years since ? It ranked me among 
 the small poets. I had as soon be ranked among the 
 piping bullfinches. 
 
 " Poets are the greatest or most despicable of in- 
 
XX BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 tellectual creatures. What with ill-health, indolence, 
 diffidence in my powers, and indifference {now) to 
 fame, I feel often tempted to go and plant cabbages, 
 instead of sowing laurel seeds that never come up. 
 Verily, I court the mob's applause, and care about 
 its censure as much as Coriolanus did ; but unless 
 selected judgments are edified, where is the use of 
 writing for the All-seer's perusal and my own. 
 
 " Glad ' Becket ' pleases you so far, but dissatisfied 
 (with myself, mind !) that it has only induced you to 
 skim it. For Heaven's sake, unless it fo)xe you to 
 read it thoroughly, cram it into the blazes ! No 
 poetic work that does less is worth a fig-skin. 
 
 " Many persons, as well as you, dislike ' Dvverga ; ' 
 to me it seems, of course, the highest creation in the 
 work. I wrote it with delight, ardour, and ease; how, 
 therefore, can it well be overwrought ? which would 
 imply artifice and elaboration. I think you'll like it 
 better some time hence. T. Carlyle wrote me a 
 characteristic letter; compares 'Becket' to 'Gotzvon 
 Eerlichingen ! ' and predicts vitality. Miss Mitford 
 pronounces me Decker, Marlowe, and Heywood 
 rolled into one ! Others too are favourable, but see 
 what my great friend, the editor of the Athentruni, 
 has done for me." 
 
 Neither the author's own self-satisfaction, nor the 
 absurd applause of his friends, can obtain the vitality 
 predicted for "A Becket." Owing to the highly 
 tragic nature of the story dealt with, the work is not 
 entirely devoid of dramatic interest, and might even 
 pass muster as a stage play ; but of poetic talent it is 
 peculiarly deficient. Nor are any of the dramatis 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxi 
 
 personce humanly interesting ; they are only lay figures 
 which their creator is unable to vitalise. The reader 
 cannot feel any solicitude for the fate of Fair Rosa- 
 mond, or A Becket, or of King Henry, the chief 
 personages of the play : the best, and, as Miss 
 Mitford truly remarks, "The most original scene is 
 one in which Richard is represented as a boy — a boy 
 foreshowing the man, the playful, grand, and noble 
 cub in which we see the future lion." 
 
 In the same year that " A Becket " was published, 
 its author contributed to " Finden's Tableaux," then 
 under Miss Mitford's editorship, a far less pretentious, 
 but really more poetic, production. " The Harvest 
 Home," although only written to illustrate an engrav- 
 ing is, in parts, a fairly good example of Barley's 
 lyrical powers. The opening lines well display his 
 idiosyncrasies : — 
 
 " While on my knee within the myrtle shade 
 My silent lyre did stand, 
 Upon my shoulder, like a feather laid, 
 I felt a little hand." 
 
 Although Darley again and again, in works 
 published or left in manuscript, continually attempted 
 to produce dramas, it must be confessed that he did 
 not possess an aptitude for that branch of literature. 
 His true vein was lyrical, and even " Sylvia " does 
 not contradict, but rather confirms this opinion. It 
 is a matter for real regret that some of his best 
 work has never been published, and has probably 
 perished. The posthumous volume of his "Poems," 
 edited by R. & M. J. Livingstone,* contains several 
 * " A Memorial Volume for private circulation." 
 
xxii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 musical and beautiful lyrics, extracted from the 
 manuscript of "The Sea Bride." This play, if we 
 may judge from the specimens left of it, would have 
 proved no unworthy companion to "Sylvia" itself. 
 As an example of the sweetly musical verses with 
 which it abounds may be fitly cited the following 
 " Dirge," sung by Mermen : — 
 
 " Prayer unsaid, and mass unsung, 
 Deadman's dirge must still be rung ; 
 Dingle-dong, the dead-bells sound ! 
 Mermen chant his dirge around ! 
 
 " Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair, 
 Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair : 
 Dingle-dong, the death-bells go ! 
 Mermen swing them to and fro ! 
 
 " In the wormless sands shall he 
 Feast for no foul gluttons be : 
 
 Dingle-dong, the dead-bells chime ! 
 Mermen keep the tone and time 1 
 
 " We must with a tombstone brave 
 Shut the shark out from his grave : 
 Dingle-dong, the dead-bells toll ! 
 Mermen dirgers ring his knoll ! 
 
 " Such a slab will we lay o'er him 
 All the dead shall rise before him ! 
 
 Dingle-dong, the dead-bells boom 1 
 Mermen lay him in his tomb ! " 
 
 Several pieces in the same little book are auto- 
 biographical in character. They are replete with 
 sorrowful regrets, expressions of frustrated ambition, 
 and unsatisfied longings for poetic fame. Continually 
 is the poet found sighing at the thought of his own 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxiii 
 
 unnoted gi'ave, or vainly endeavouring to manifest 
 contempt for the renown he never lived to acquire. 
 This latter feeling is shewn in such pieces as 
 "Memento Mori," an inscription for a tombstone, 
 and the former more poetically in "The Lament." 
 From these idiosyncratic verses may be quoted the 
 following lines : — 
 
 " Above my earth the flowers will blow, 
 As gay, or gayer still than now 1 
 And o'er my turf as merrily 
 Will roam the sun-streaked giddy bee, 
 Nor wing in silence past my grave : 
 The bird that loves the morning rise, 
 Whose light soul lifts him to the skies, 
 Will beat the hollow heaven as loud, 
 While I lie moistening in my shroud 
 With all the cruel tears 1 have ! 
 
 " No friend, no mistress dear, will come 
 To strew a death-flower on my tomb ; 
 But robin's self, from off my breast, 
 Will pick the dry leaves for his nest 
 
 That careless winds had carried there : 
 All but the stream — compelled to mourn, 
 Aye since he left his parent urn- 
 Will sport and smile about my bed 
 As joyful as I were not dead — 
 
 Neglect more hard than death to bear ! 
 
 " Alive, I would be loved oi One, 
 I would be wept when I am gone ; 
 Methinks a tear from Beauty's eye 
 Would make me even wish to die — 
 
 To know what I have never known I 
 But on this pallid cheek, a ray 
 Of kindred ne'er was cast away, 
 
xxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 And as I lived most broken-hearted 
 So shall I die, all — all deserted, 
 Without one sigh — except my own ! " 
 
 Less conventional in phraseology, and higher in 
 tone, are the following lines styled " The Fallen 
 Star," also to be found in this valuable and inter- 
 esting posthumous volume : — 
 
 " A star is gone ! a star is gone I 
 There is a blank in Heaven, 
 One of the cherub choir has done 
 His airy course this even. 
 " He sat upon the orb of fire 
 That hung for ages there, 
 And lent his music to the choir 
 That haunts the nightly air. 
 " But when his thousand years are passed. 
 With a cherubic sigh 
 He vanished with his car at last, 
 For even cherubs die. 
 " Hear how his angel brothers mourn — 
 The minstrels of the spheres — 
 Each chiming sadly in his turn 
 And dropping splendid tears. 
 " The planetary sisters all 
 Join in the fatal song, 
 And weep this hapless brother's fall 
 Who sang with them so long. 
 " But deepest of the choral band 
 The Lunar Spirit sings, 
 And with a bass-according hand 
 Sweeps all her sullen strings. 
 " From the deep chambers of the dome 
 Where sleepless Uriel lies, 
 His rude harmonic thunders come 
 Mingled with mighty sighs. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxv 
 
 " The thousand car-borne cherubim, 
 The wandering eleven, 
 All join to chant the dirge of him 
 Who fell just now from Heaven." 
 
 In 1 84 1 Darley again attempted to attract public 
 notice by another dramatic work. " Ethelstan, King 
 of Wessex/' this new venture, was prefaced by some 
 characteristic remarks. " These hands," says Darley, 
 " would fain build up a cairn or rude national monu- 
 ment ... to a few amongst the many heroes of our 
 race. . . . ' Ethelstan ' is the second stone, * Becket ' 
 was the first, borne thither by me for this homely 
 pyramid. . . . The meditative pilgrim has stopped 
 to applaud my labour, the man of practice has 
 bestowed on it a cold approval, as a profitless, 
 romantic project, too much out of the present taste, 
 creditable to my dwarfish strength, but demanding 
 a giant's ; while the busy world of wayfarers pass 
 it by unseen. ' Hope must be the portion of all 
 that resolve on great enterprises.' ... I have, more- 
 over, been in many cases consoled by the enthu- 
 siasm of strangers for the indifference of friends. 
 . . . Such opinions are indeed a ' portion ' realised 
 beyond any promise of Hope, and all power of 
 Fortune : half the possible harvest is housed, which 
 should, so far as regards self, content an ungrasping 
 cultivator of his poetic field. A more comprehensive 
 and divine ambition would wish to see its efforts 
 generally beneficial, but of this half portion I fear to 
 be still disappointed ; it waits on genius as large as 
 the ambition." 
 
 " Ethelstan " was in some respects an advance on 
 
XX vi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 "Becket," but as a drama is a failure. The char- 
 acters have no vitality, and their conversations 
 alternate between bombastic grandiloquence and 
 ludicrous colloquilism. There is a straining after, 
 and frequent copying of archaic models, likely to 
 repel the student of dramatic literature. The imita- 
 tions of Danish and Saxon ballads interspersed about 
 the work, although imitations, are lyrically successful, 
 and are not unworthy of their parentage. 
 
 Besides the works already referred to, and others 
 known to have existed in manuscript, Darley edited, 
 with a hastily written introduction, the works of 
 Beaumont and Fletcher ; also wrote many literary 
 and artistic critiques and some mathematical volumes. 
 
 During the five-and-twenty years Darley lived in 
 England and abroad he saw but little of his family, 
 and revisited his native country but rarely. In Nov- 
 ember 1846, his health, as his correspondence 
 shows, never strong, finally succumbed, and on 
 the 23rd of the month he died in London, aged 
 fifty-one, of decline. 
 
 One of his cousins, who knew him intimately, 
 states that " his figure was tall and graceful ; his 
 natural movements very striking as he walked ; his 
 thoughts seemed to influence unconsciously every 
 movement of his body. His manner had much 
 dignity, and conveyed at once that he was a man 
 of commanding intellect. His face was decidedly 
 handsome, the features well cut, the forehead large, 
 mouth very expressive. The pale face bore a 
 melancholy expression, and the intellect and im- 
 agination — both in constant exercise — left visible 
 traces of their presence. " 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. xxvii 
 
 The best peroration of his life's short story is the 
 Epitaph he wrote for himself : — 
 
 " Mortal, pass on ! — leave me my desolate home, — 
 I ask of thee no sigh — I scorn thy tear ! — 
 To this small spot let no intruder come, — 
 The winds and rains of Heaven alone shall mourn 
 me here ! " 
 
 JOHN H. INGRAM. 
 
 Nole.- — Thanks are due, and are hereby gratefully 
 tendered, to Miss Darley and Canon Livingstone 
 (the poet's cousins) for various items of biographical 
 interest, and for permission to use letters and poems 
 herein quoted. J. H. I. 
 

 Preface. 
 
 5HE present Work is founded, in some 
 measure, on a trifling story — " Lilian 
 of the Vale," which the Author published 
 not many j-ears since. That story being 
 interspersed with lyrical pieces, he was solicited to 
 adapt it for the stage ; but considering its deficiency 
 in human interest, he thought its success would be on 
 that account, if on no other, more than usually un- 
 certain. However, containing a few incidents of the 
 dramatic kind, it suggested the idea of building upon 
 them an Opera, which might not be unacceptable. 
 Accordingly, one or two scenes of the following piece 
 were written with that design ; but, disheartened by 
 the almost universal failure of modem dramatists, by 
 the prospect of suspense and servility which lay before 
 him in his undertaking, as also by a mistrust of his 
 own powers in this the most difficult walk of poetry, 
 the Author gave up his resolution of writing for the 
 stage. Passionately imbued with a love for theatrical 
 composition, it then only remained for him to modify 
 the scenes already sketched, and to continue his work 
 on the plan of a dramatic poem, which he has at- 
 tempted in the following pages. 
 
 By the above change of object, the Author likewise 
 proposed to himself the benefit of a perfectly unre- 
 stricted design, so as io afibrd him the best chance of 
 
XXX PREFACE. 
 
 succeeding, when his faculties, such as they are, had 
 no obstacles to contend with beyond their own imper- 
 fection. On the same principle of writing at the 
 greatest possible mechanical advantage, he has, 
 throughout the whole course of his work, indulged 
 his vein, whatever it happened to be, — serious or 
 humorous, didactic or descriptive ; he has written 
 verse or prose, song or dialogue ; followed the heroic 
 or the lyric measure ; been " everything by starts, and 
 nothing long," according to the impulse of the 
 moment. Under all these favourable circumstances, 
 if he has not succeeded in producing entertainment, 
 he will regret it most unfeignedly for the reader's 
 sake, and scarcely less for his own. 
 
JavJ^fe VivvJi^ iM'cV^ XUC ^4 ^ 
 JiV^ UtJL. Ww (i^lAnt lurm. {^^ Via>A ^^^ 
 
 Facsimile of Barleys Hand-writing. 
 
Characters. 
 
 ROMANZO. 
 
 Andrea. His Sei"vant. 
 Geronymo. 
 
 Sylvia. 
 
 Agatha. Her Mother. 
 
 Stephania. "j 
 
 ROSELLE. \ Peasant Girls. 
 
 Jacintha. J 
 
 Peasants, ^c. 
 
 Spirits. 
 
 Morgana. Queen of the Fairies. 
 Nephon. 
 
 OSME. 
 
 Floretta. 
 
 Fairies. 
 
 Ararach. King of the Fiends. 
 
 Grumiel. 
 
 Mom I EL. 
 
 Demons. 
 
 The Scene lies in Italy, amotigst the At^ennines. £_. 
 
fK^'^'CP' 
 
 Sylvia; 
 
 or, 
 
 The May Queen. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 DEEP-DOWN valley, with a stream ; 
 Fit hauot for a poetic dream : 
 A cot fast by the water-edge, 
 A bower, and a rustic bridge ; 
 The grass as green as dewy Spring 
 
 Had just beswept it with his wing, 
 
 Or the moist splendour of the Morn, 
 
 Did every glistening blade adorn : 
 
 As soft the breeze, as hush the air, 
 
 As Beauty's self were sleeping there. 
 
 Enter Romanzo on the heights, 
 
 Who sings the song our Author writes. 
 
 Romanzo. O beauteous valley ! grassy-coated moun- 
 tains ! 
 Soft flowery banks, sweet pillows for unrest ! 
 
34 SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEMN. 
 
 silent glen of freshly-rolling fountains, 
 
 If there be peace on Earth, 'tis in thy breast ! 
 
 [Descends. 
 
 At length, Romanzo, stay thy wandering feet : 
 
 Here be thy home, here be thy resting-place. 
 
 I've often heard the road to Paradise 
 
 Lay through the gates of Death ; it is not so — 
 
 This is Elysium, yet I have not died ! 
 
 Or Death has come so softly, that I never 
 
 Heard even his footfall : he has taken me 
 
 When I was sleeping on some bank of roses, 
 
 And only said — Sleep on ! O beauteous scene ! 
 
 Beyond what Hope, or fairy-footed Fancy, 
 
 Ever could lead me to ! The sunny hills, 
 
 Lightening their brows, appear to smile at me. 
 
 So lost in sweet astonishment. Even I 
 
 Could smile, who have not smiled since I could feel. 
 
 The melancholy God loves me no more ; 
 
 My spirit bursts forth in song (Joy's eloquence), 
 
 And like yon tremulous nursling of the air, 
 
 Perch'd on and piping from a silver cloud, 
 
 1 cannot choose but pour my strain of praise 
 To this most beautiful Glen. 
 
 Beautiful Glen ! let the song of a Rover 
 Awake the sweet Echo that lies on thy hill ; 
 
 Let her say what I say of thy beauty twice over, 
 And still as I praise let her mimic me still. [Echo. 
 
 Beautiful Glen of sweet groves and sweet bowers ! 
 My voice is unworthy to praise thee alone : 
 
 Let all thy sweet birds tell to all thy sweet flowers 
 The tale that I teach them in words of their own. 
 
 [Birds. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 35 
 
 Beautiful Glen of the white-flowing torrent ! 
 If Spirit or Nymph be grown vocal again, 
 Let her tune her sweet voice to the roll of thy 
 current, 
 And mock me with murmuring — Beautiful Glen ! 
 
 [Voice ivithin — " Beautiful Glen ! " 
 
 Ha ! what was that ? — was it a voice indeed, 
 Or but the repetition of my words 
 Made by some hollow cave ? — Never before 
 Came syllables from Echo's faltering tongue 
 So exquisitely clear ! — Haply, I dream, 
 And this is all illusion : soft ! I'll prove it — 
 \_Sings\ " Beautiful Glen ! " 
 
 \The voice repeats " Beautiful Glen ! " 
 Wondrous ! — this is no voice 
 Of earth, yet speaks to mortal apprehension ! 
 
 who — who art thou, minstrel invisible ? 
 
 Tell me, who art thou that dost sing so sweetly ? 
 
 \The voice sings] Sing, and I shall answer meetly. 
 
 ROMANZO. Who art thou that sing'st so sv/eetly, 
 
 Echo, Echo, is it thou ? 
 
 [ Voice'] Now I'm asked the question meetly, 
 
 1 will answer meetly now. 
 ROMANZO. Who art thou ? 
 
 [ Voice] Perhaps what thou art ! 
 
 RoMANZO. I'm a rover ! 
 
 Invoice] So am I ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Art thou mortal ? 
 
 [ Voice] Not as thou art ! 
 
 RoMANZO. Art thou spirit ? 
 
 [ Voice] Come and try ! 
 
 RoMANZO. Now I've asked the question meetly, 
 
 Answer me as meetly now. 
 
36 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEiV. 
 
 [ Voice] I have answer'd thee discreetly, 
 More I cannot answer now. 
 
 RoMANZO. Shall I believe in this? — Ears, can I 
 trust your evidence ? I have likened ye oft to those 
 wild sea-shells which are full of most delicate music 
 born in their own hollows : was this but the fan- 
 tastical creation of yours ? No ! it was plain as light ; 
 and if unreal, then is yon marble dome but a vapour 
 of the imagination ! — What meant this syren of the 
 air? Why did it court me on ? — No matter ! As the 
 poor swimmer dives for a jewel at the bottom of the 
 perilous gulf, so must thou too, Romanzo, seek thy 
 fortune in the depths of this mystery ; though, like 
 him, the waves of ruin may o'erwhelm thee. — Ha ! 
 ^^'hat a palace is here ! a rural one ! — Nature, thou 
 hast a Doric hand, but a most Corinthian fancy ! — 
 Or is this, too, a work of enchantment ? Has it been 
 transported hither while I was dreaming, by some 
 genii, the mighty slaves of a magician, or raised by 
 the wand of fairy Maimoun, as we read of in the 
 tales of the East ? — To be sure, this jessamine tapestry 
 is thick enough to hide a less modest dwelling. How 
 prettily it smiles through the leaves ! like a russet 
 maiden holding a rose before her beauty to enhance 
 by concealing it. Does a woodman live here, or an 
 anchorite ? — It is the very retreat for an uncanonized 
 saint, or the snow-bearded tenant of a wilderness. 
 At home, father ? {^Knocks. 
 
 Enter Agatha. 
 
 Agatha. Your will, signior? 
 
 ROxMANZO. Pardon, good dame ! I have need of 
 that for my rudeness, ere I can expect any other 
 favour. Pardon, I beseech you, for my intrusion. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 37 
 
 Agatha. It needs none, signior ! The traveller 
 is welcome to my poor cottage, though but few enter 
 it. 
 
 RoMANZO. Strange ! for I think its beauty might 
 allure the steps of a courtier. Do many people in- 
 habit this valley? 
 
 Agatha. Two only, signior ; myself and daughter. 
 
 RoMANZO. Oh ! then it was she I heard just now 
 sing so divinely ? 
 
 Agatha. My daughter, signior ? no ; she is now 
 far away on the hills, gathering wild flowers or 
 simples. 
 
 RoMANZO. What then, do you keep a mocking 
 bird? 
 
 Agatha. The echo, signior, is loud in this place : 
 you are now standing on the plat we call '■^Echo's 
 ground." Say echo! and it will be thrice answered. 
 
 RoMANZO. Ay, but can your echo maintain a 
 conversation ? — for here was one, I assure you. 
 
 Agatha. Nay, signior, I cannot account for it ; 
 your senses must have been deceived. 
 
 RoMANZO. Perhaps so. [AszWc] But it is a 
 mystery I will rather die than leave unravelled. 
 \_Aloud.'\ Prithee, dame, if a wanderer may presume 
 on your good nature, will you afford me a night's 
 lodging in your pretty bird-cage ? 
 
 Agatha. Willingly, signior, if its poor accommo- 
 dations may content you. 
 
 RoMANZO. Poor ! — while the vine forms the gable 
 of your tenement, and hangs at your window, you 
 have meat, drink, and shelter together. Thanks, 
 gentle hostess ! 
 
 Agatha. Pray walk in. 
 
 \£xcuni iiiio the cottage. 
 
38 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 A view like one of Fairy-land, 
 
 As gay, as gorgeous, and as grand : 
 
 Millions of bright star-lustres hung 
 
 The glittering leaves and boughs among ; 
 
 High-battled, domy palaces, 
 
 Seen crystal through the glimmering trees. 
 
 With spires and glancing minarets, 
 
 Just darting from their icy seats : 
 
 Pavilions, diamond-storied towers, 
 
 DuU'd by the aromatic bowers ; 
 
 Transparent peaks and pinnacles. 
 
 Like streams shot upward from their wells, 
 
 Or cave-dropt, Parian icicles. 
 
 Green haunts, and deep enquiring lanes. 
 Wind through the trunks their grassy trains ; 
 Millions of chaplets curl unweft 
 From boughs, beseeching to be reft. 
 To prune the clustering of their groves. 
 And wreathe the brows that Beauty loves. 
 Millions of blossoms, fruits, and gems. 
 Bend with rich weight the massy stems ; 
 Millions of restless dizzy things, 
 With ruby tufts, and rainbow wings, 
 Speckle the eye-refreshing shades, 
 Burn through the air, or swim the glades : 
 As if the tremulous leaves were tongues, 
 Millions of voices, sounds, and songs, 
 Breathe from the aching trees that sigh. 
 Near sick of their own melody. 
 
 Raised by a magic breath whene'er 
 The pow'rs of Fairy-land are here, 
 And by a word as potent blown 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 To sightless air, when they are gone, 
 
 This scene of beauty now displays 
 
 Both flank and front in sheets of blaze : 
 
 Spirits in an ascending quire 
 
 Touch with soft palm the golden wire : 
 
 While some on wing, some on the ground, 
 
 In mazy circles whirl around : 
 
 Kissing and smiling, as they pass, 
 
 Like sweet winds o'er the summer grass : 
 
 Nephon and OsME chief are seen. 
 
 In heavenly blue, and earthly green, 
 
 The one and other : both unite 
 
 With trim Floretta veiled in white ; 
 
 And mincing measures small and neat, 
 
 Mimic the music with their feet. 
 
 After their dance is done, the chorus 
 
 Hints something new descends before us. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits, 
 Gently ! — gently ! — down ! — down ! 
 
 From the starry courts on high, 
 Gently step adown, down 
 
 The ladder of the sky. 
 
 Sunbeam steps are strong enough 
 
 For such airy feet ! — 
 Spirits, blow your trumpets rough, 
 
 So as they be sweet ! 
 
 Breathe them loud, the Queen descending. 
 Yet a lowly welcome breathe, 
 
 Like so many flowerets bending 
 Zephyr's breezy foot beneath ! 
 
 Morgana descends amid sweet and solemn music. 
 
40 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Morgana. No more, my Spirits ! — I have come 
 from whence 
 Peace, with white sceptre wafting to and fro. 
 Smoothes the wide bosom of the Elysian world. 
 Would 'twere as calm on Earth ! But there are some 
 Who mar the sweet intent. Ev'n in these bounds, 
 Ararach, wizard vile ! who sold himself 
 To Eblis, for a brief sway o'er the fiends. 
 Would set up his dark canopy, and make 
 Our half o' the vale, by force or fraud, his own. 
 We must take care he do not. — Where's that ouphe ? 
 That feather-footed, light-heeled, little Mercury? 
 That fairy-messenger ? whom we saw now 
 Horsed on a dragon-fly wing round the fields ? 
 Come out, sir ! — Where is Nephon ? 
 
 Nephon. Here am I ! here am I ! 
 Softer than a lover's sigh. 
 Swifter than the moonbeam, I 
 Dance before thee duteously. 
 
 Morgana. Light gentleman, say whither hast 
 thou been? 
 
 Nephon. Over the dales and mossy meadows 
 green. 
 
 Morgana. Doing the deed I told thee? 
 
 Nephon. Else would I fear thou'st scold me ! 
 
 Morgana. Led'st thou the Rover downward Lo 
 the glen ? 
 
 Nephon. Down, down to the glen, 
 Through forest and fen ; 
 O'er rock, and o'er rill, 
 I flattered him still ; 
 With chirp, and with song. 
 To lure him alonjj ; 
 
SYLVIA ; UR, THE MAY QUEEN. 41 
 
 Like a bird hopping onward from bramble to briar, 
 I led the young Wanderer nigher and nigher ! 
 
 Morgana. None of your idle songs ! speak to me 
 plain. 
 
 Nephon. I laid a knotted riband in his path, 
 Which he took up ; kiss'd — 'twas so tine ! — and put it 
 Into his breast : Ting ! ting! said I, from out 
 A bush half down the dale : he gazed. Ting! ting I 
 Said I again. On came he, wondering wide, 
 And stumbling oft, ha ! ha ! — but ne'er the less. 
 He followed sweet ting! ting! down the hill-side, 
 E'en to the bottom : where I mock'd and left him. 
 
 Morgana. I'll bring thee a sweet cup of dew 
 for this. 
 Cold from the moon. 
 
 Nephon. Meantime, I'll drain a flower 
 Fill'd with bright tears from young Aurora's eye. 
 
 Morgana. Skip not away, sir !— List what thou 
 must do. 
 False Ararach doth love the gentle maid 
 Who shepherds in this vale : nay, he would have her 
 Sit on his iron throne, and rule with him. 
 She has oft wept, and call'd Heaven pitiless, 
 So that I've laugh'd to see her needless pain. 
 She is my favourite, and I will protect her : 
 I've search'd the wilderness of Earth all o'er 
 To find her a fit bridegroom : this is he 
 Whom thou hast guided hither. 
 
 Nephon. A trim youth ! 
 
 Morgana. Be it thy business to search out the wiles, 
 Prevent the malice, curb the violence, 
 With which the spiteful monarch will assail him. 
 Ev'n now he scents some new-come virtue here. 
 
42 SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 And plots its quick destruction. Swift, away ! 
 Thou'It see me nich'd within a hovering cloud, 
 Pointing thee what to do. When thou would'st know 
 How to direct thyself, look up to Heaven, 
 And light will fall upon thee. Swift, away ! 
 Nephon. Away ! away ! away ! 
 Away will I skip it ! 
 Away will I trip it ! 
 Flowers, take care of your heads as I go ! 
 Who has a bright bonnet 
 I'll surely step on it. 
 And leave a light print of my mannikin toe ! 
 
 Away ! away ! away ! [ Vanishes. 
 
 Morgana. I've seen a man made out of elder pith 
 More steady than that puppet ! — Yet, he's careful, 
 Even where he seems most toyish. — Virgin Spirit ! — 
 Come hither, fair Floretta ! 
 
 Floretta. As the murmuring bird-bee comes, 
 Circling with his joyous hums, 
 Red-lipt rose, or lily sweet — 
 Thus play I about thy feet ! 
 
 Morgana. Thou art the Queen of Flowers, and 
 lov'st to tend 
 Thy beauteous subjects. Thou dost spread thy wing 
 Between the driving rain-drop and the rose, 
 Shelt'ring it at thy cost. I've seen thee stand 
 Drowning amid the fields to save a daisy. 
 And with warm kisses keep its sweet life in. 
 The shrinking violet thou dost cheer ; and raise 
 The cowslip's drooping head : and once didst cherish 
 In thy fond breast a snowdrop, dead with cold, 
 E'en till thy cheek grew paler than its own. 
 
SVLFIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 43 
 
 Floretta. Ay, but it never smiled again ! Ah, 
 
 me ! 
 Morgana. Go now, since beauty is so much thy 
 care, 
 Sweetness and innocence — go now, I say, 
 And guard the human lily of this vale. 
 Follow thy mad-cap brother, and restrain 
 His ardour with thy gentleness. 
 
 Floretta. Ere thou say Begone ! I'm gone : 
 'Tis more slowly said than done ! 
 
 [ Vanishes, 
 Morgana. Osme, thou fragrant spirit ! where art 
 
 thou? 
 Osme. Rocking upon a restless marigold, 
 And in its saffron, leafy feathers roll'd ; 
 But with a bound I'm with you here — behold ! 
 
 Morgana. Hast thou been sipping what the wild 
 bee hides 
 Deep in his waxen cave, thou smell'st so sweet ? 
 
 Osme, No : I would never rob the minstrel-thing, 
 That lulls me oft to sleep with murmuring. 
 And, as I slumber, fans me with his wing. 
 Morgana. My gentle elve ! — Come thou, come 
 thou with me : 
 I've an apt business for thy strength. Sit here, 
 On my light car, and be the charioteer ; 
 Guide thou my trembling birds of Paradise, 
 That prune themselves from this dull earth to rise, 
 And cry with painful joy to float amid the skies. 
 Ascend ye other Spirits all with me ! 
 
 chorus. 
 See the radiant quire ascending, 
 Leaving misty Earth below, 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 With their varied colours blending 
 Hues to shame the water-bow. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, still ascending 
 Many an upward airy mile ! 
 
 To the realms of glory wending. 
 Fare thee well, dim Earth, awhile ! 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 The jasmined cottage in the glen 
 Presents its flowery front again : 
 Opening its gem-bestudded door 
 Is seen the Youth we saw before ; 
 He finds his Hostess on the green, 
 Who at her purring wheel hath been, 
 Since Phosphor raised his ocean-cry, 
 As nimbly he sprang up the sky. 
 His towering walk to 'gin betimes, 
 Lest Titan catch him as he climbs. 
 Were I an artist I could etch 
 E'en now a pretty moral sketch : 
 The widow, with a serious look, 
 Conning her distaff as a book ; 
 Her eyes on earthly duties bent, 
 Her mind on higher things intent : 
 The youngster worships all he sees 
 As he were well content with these : 
 His the broad brow of admiration. 
 Hers the pale smile of resignation ; 
 His Grief is old, his Joy is new, 
 Her Joy is dead, — and Sorrow too ! 
 Now, while they talk, in silence I 
 May underneath the rose tree lie. 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 45 
 
 ROMANZO. It is true ! it is true ! — This scene is 
 too bright for an illusion! — Joy! ecstacy ! I tread 
 the earth ! I hear the song of birds, and the fall of 
 waters ! — No ! my senses could not so far deceive me ! 
 — Oh, how I feared, on waking, to find all that had 
 passed a dream !— Sun, I thank thee, for dispelling 
 with thy glorious light the mists of doubt and appre- 
 hension ! — Nay, here is living testimony ! — Good 
 morrow, hostess ! — Why, Fortune herself does not 
 turn the wheel faster ! 
 
 Agatha. I wish she were obliged to turn it as 
 steadily. 
 
 RoMANZO. Would that she had your beechen 
 wheel, and you her golden one, even for a single 
 round ! 
 
 Agatha. She would be a fool to make the ex- 
 change ; and I, perhaps, no better.— May she be as 
 kind to you, signior, as you wish her ! 
 
 Romanzo. Thanks, my good dame ! — What ! are 
 your birds always so merry at matins ? or is it me 
 whom tliey welcome so joyfully ? 
 
 Agatha. You and the sun, I suppose, signior. 
 
 Romanzo. Ah ! I doubt whether the god has not 
 the greater share of the compliment. — But, hostess ! 
 kind hostess, what angel voice was that I heard this 
 morning ? It thrilled my very heart-strings with 
 pleasure ! 
 
 Agatha. Are you quite sure it was an angel you 
 heard, signior ? 
 
 Romanzo. Truly, I would think it ! 
 
 Agatha. Else, I should have said it was no more 
 divine a being than my daughter. 
 
 Romanzo. Oh, for the love you bear her, say not 
 so ! — If she be such a cherub, Earth cannot pretend 
 
46 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 to keep her ! — Yet, by our Lady, we have need of a 
 saint or two here, for there is no lack of sinners. 
 
 Agatha. Oh, sir, you must not talk so wildly. 
 My daughter rises when the lark is but shaking the 
 dew off his breast ; she is almost as light to mount 
 the hills as he the heavens ; and it is nearly as hard 
 to get the one as the other to speak without singing. 
 
 ROMANZO. Whither has she gone ? 
 
 Agatha. Do you see that little bird I spoke of, 
 hitching himself, as it were, up the sky ? 
 
 RoMANZO. Yes, as if he were scaling an invisible 
 ladder. What of him ? 
 
 Agatha. You might as well climb the stepless 
 air and catch that voice, that singing speck in the 
 clouds — for he is now no more, — as overtake my 
 Sylvia. But they will both, wild ones as they are, 
 sink at once into their nests when their duty calls them. 
 
 Romanzo. Well, I must be patient. — From your 
 speech, good lady, I surmise — pardon me — that you 
 have not alv/ays lived in this secluded valley. 
 
 Agatha. Not always, sir, as you say. My for- 
 tunes were once higher, though my wishes never. Had 
 my husband been but left to me, I had not regretted 
 the loss of worldly treasures. He, however, died, in 
 the field of glory, as they call it, — and that was also 
 the death of my happiness. In that fatalplainof Aost — 
 
 Romanzo. Ha ! it is something to have fallen 
 with Bayard ! 
 
 Agatha. Little to the widow : — Hark ! — 
 
 [Song 7vttJioj{f\ Oh, sweet to rove 
 The wilds we love. 
 Soft glade, smooth valley, and mountain steep — 
 
 Agatha. She comes ! My bird — 
 
SyLt-^/A ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 47 
 
 RoMANZO. The voice ! the lovely voice ! — Show 
 thyself, chantress ! lest I go mad with expectation ! 
 
 Agatha. Pray, signior, retire into the arbour : 
 hide yourself in the foliage. Silent is the nightingale 
 when the stranger's eye is upon her. — Ah ! roamer ! 
 [Sylvia appears on the bridge.^ 
 
 Agatha. Come hither, truant ! and let age play 
 the child in thy bosom. — Where hast thou been, 
 wanderer ! tell me ? 
 
 Sylvia. Oh, sweet to rove 
 The wilds we love. 
 Soft glade, smooth valley, and mountain steep ; 
 Ere birds begin 
 Their morning din. 
 Bright sun abed, and bright flowers asleep. 
 
 Agatha. Come to my arms ! 
 RoMANZO {within the arbour). Is it a sylph or 
 wood-nymph that glitters before me? 
 Sylvia [approaching). 
 
 While Cynthia looks 
 Still in the brooks 
 And sees her beauty begin to wane : 
 Down in the dell 
 Her silver shell 
 Seems hung from Heav'n by a sightless chain. 
 
 To see the elves 
 
 Prepare themselves 
 To clraib the beams of the slanting moon, 
 
 Or swiftly glide 
 
 In bells to hide 
 And press their pillows of scent at noon. 
 
48 SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEX. 
 
 To pluck the gems 
 
 That bow the stems 
 Of flowers, in meadow or secret glen ; 
 
 To ope their breasts, 
 
 And trim their crests, 
 And spread their beautiful looks again. 
 
 Agatha. No longer ! no longer ! — 
 
 Sylvia. Oh, sweet ! oh, sweet ! 
 And sweeter yet. 
 My crown of roses, my pearls of dew, 
 To come ! to come I 
 Once more to home, 
 With flow'rs, and kisses as sweet, for you ! 
 
 RoMANZO {Btirsting from the arbour). Angels are 
 brighter than I dreamt them ! 
 
 Sylvia. Ah ! Morgana defend me ! 
 
 Agatha. Fear not, my daughter. Thou knowest 
 there is no evil spirit can enter this half of the glen. 
 Look not so strange at him. 
 
 Sylvia. Evil ! — Oh, if that creature be evil, I can 
 not be good ! — It is not one of Morgana's courtiers, is 
 it ? They take all shapes that are delightful. 
 
 Agatha. This is my daughter, sir ; daughter, 
 this is our guest. [Aside.'] Youth salutes youth as 
 rose doth rose — they blush at each other, and sigh — 
 I must be prudent here ; these new acquaintances will 
 be near ones, though they keep the matter so silent. 
 
 Sylvia. Some bee hath got into my bosom ; out, 
 stranger ! 
 
 Romanzo. Lady ? 
 
 Agatha. I will bestir me now : you shall taste 
 our fruits and cream. [^Lays a table.] Grapes here 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 — bread there — honey — Both ! both through the 
 heart ! — Two birds upon one bough with the same 
 arrow ! — Cupid is a rare sportsman ! — So ; ay — A 
 leaf to garnish these strawberries— Love at first sight 
 is an old adage, but I never thought till now it was a 
 true one. — I must know more of this stranger. 
 RoMANZO. O fairest ! 
 
 Sylvia. O rarest ! 
 
 Both. Creature of no mortal birth ! 
 
 If thou'rt woman, 
 If thou'rt human, 
 Heaven is sure outdone on earth ! 
 Pearly brow and golden hair, 
 Lips that seem to scent the air. 
 Eyes as bright, and sweet, and blue. 
 As violets fill'd with orbs of dew. 
 O fairest ! 
 O rarest ! &c. 
 God-like form, and gracious mien, 
 As he once a king had been ! 
 Glory's star is on his brow. 
 He is King of Shepherds now ! 
 O rarest ! 
 RoMANZO. O fairest ! &c. 
 
 Agatha. Come ! come ! — you are playing the 
 birds' parts, and they will play yours at this fruit- 
 table, if you thus leave it them. — Come ! 
 
 [ TJtey sit down to table. 
 Scene closes. 
 
 Romanzo. 
 Sylvia. 
 Both. 
 Romanzo. 
 
 Sylvia. 
 Sylvia. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 A shadowry dell, from whence arise 
 Fen-pamper'd clouds that blot the skies, 
 
 D 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 And from their sooty bosoms pour 
 A blue and pestilential shower. 
 High in the midst a crag-built dome 
 Ruder than Cyclops' mountain-home, 
 Or that the blood-born giants piled 
 When Earth was with their steps defiled. 
 Lightning has scorch'd and blasted all 
 Within this dark cavernous hall ; 
 Through eveiy cranny screams a blast 
 As it would cleave the rocks at last ; 
 Loud-rapping hail spins where it strikes, 
 And rain runs oft" the roof in dykes ; 
 And crackling flame, and feathery sleet, 
 Hiss in dire contest as they meet ; 
 Tempests are heard to yell around, 
 And inward thunders lift the ground. 
 
 In front a dismal tomb-like throne, 
 Which Horror scarce would sit upon : 
 Yet on this throne doth sit a thing 
 In apish state, misnamed a king ; 
 A ghastlier Death, a skeleton. 
 Not of a man, but a baboon. 
 His robe a pall, his crown a skull 
 With teeth for gems, and grinning full ; 
 His rod of power in his hand 
 A serpent writhing round a wand : 
 With this he tames the gnashing fiends. 
 Soul-purchased to assist his ends ; 
 Yet still they spit, and mouthe, and pierce. 
 If not with fangs, with eyes as fierce. 
 Each other — while behind they seek 
 Their sly revenge and hate to wreak. 
 
 Hear now the Wizard (with a grin 
 Meant for a smile) his speech begin. 
 
SYLVTA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 51 
 
 Ararach. Silence, cursed demons ! — Listen to 
 me, or 
 I'll strike ye dumb as logs ! — Breathe no more flames 
 In one another's faces, but pen up 
 Each one his fiery utterance while I speak ! — 
 Silence, I say ! — and cower before me, slaves ! — 
 I must and will have all this Valley mine ! — 
 
 Demons. You must and shall ! 
 
 Ararach. Silence, and down ! — hear me ! — 
 We've sworn indeed — but what are oaths to us ? 
 Oaths are to bind, where there's some touch of honour. 
 Though not enough. It were a crime against 
 The majesty of Sin, for us to keep 
 An oath ; and honour is dishonourable 
 Amongst the fiends, whose glory is in sliame, 
 We'll break the truce, I say ! 
 
 Demons. We will ! we'll break it ! 
 
 Ararach. Silence ! — 'Tis true, I and that witch 
 Morgana 
 Have battled long about this place : we halved it 
 At our last contest, when her ivory spear 
 Wounded my basilisk, and made him bite me 
 Here in the wrist, or I had crush'd the minion. 
 
 Demons. Vengeance ! — war ! — war ! — 
 
 Ararach. Down with that trump ! — ^not so ! — 
 We must be cunning, for yon queen is wise. 
 I'll first secure the mountain-girl I love ; 
 Sylvia, the shepherdess : who else may fly. 
 Scared by the din of arms : perhaps be scorch'd 
 Or kill'd amid the fray. — Spirits and Horrors ! 
 
 All. Ay ! ay ! ay ! 
 
 Ararach. Which of you loves a mischievous 
 adventure? 
 
 All. I, my lord !— I !— I !— I ! 
 
52 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Ararach. That will hurt men, 
 Please me, and gain great praise? — Who speaks? 
 
 Jill. All ! all ! 
 
 Ararach. But there's some danger in it : you 
 must face 
 Morgana and her imps. What ! does that fright ye ? 
 Cowards ; — Will none leap forward ? 
 
 [Grumiel comes forward. 
 Ha ! brave Grumiel ! 
 
 Mom I EL. (^Coming fonvard) 
 Master, I'll do the mischief; let me, pray thee ! 
 Were it to kill a baby in its play, 
 Ravin a leaguer'd city's corn, or drain 
 The travellers only well i' the sanded wilds, 
 That his dry heart shall crumble ; yea, the beauty 
 Laid warmly in her bridegroom's treasuring arms, 
 Shall turn a corpse-cheek to his morning kisses 
 If thou wilt have it so. — Let me, I pray thee ! 
 
 Ararach. Good ! Good ! — Go both of ye ! — 
 Thou my bold slave ! 
 And thou, my sly one ! — aid him with thy strength, 
 And he will prompt thy dulness. 
 
 Grumiel. Hang him, poltroon ! 
 Must I divide my glory with a knave 
 Who winks at a drawn blade ? — a foul-mouthed cur. 
 That bites the heel and runs ! 
 
 MOMIEL. Master, yon fool 
 Hath no more brains than a cauliflower ; pray 
 Let him not go with me ! — An alehouse board 
 Sets him to spell : he cannot count his fingers 
 Without a table book. 
 
 Grumiel. Curse ye, vile babbler ! — hound ! — 
 Mouse-hearted wretch ! — 
 
 MOMIEL. How wittily he calls names. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 53 
 
 Like an ostler's paraquito ! 
 
 Ararach. Ye will prate, 
 Both of ye in my presence, will ye ? — Take thou 
 
 that— 
 And thou another ? [Sinkes ihetit] Ay, stand there 
 
 and writhe. 
 But whine not, ev'n for pain. Ye'll say, forsooth, 
 What ye would have ! — Listen to my commands. 
 And do them to the tittle, ye were best ! — 
 Go forth, but stealthily : we'll try at first 
 What may be done by craft. I'd rather gain 
 One treacherous point, than win a battle-field. 
 Go forth, I say ; and use all smooth deceit 
 To wile the Maid into our bounds : or, if 
 She is too coy, and fearful, being warned 
 Of our intents by some sly ouphe, then hear 
 What ye shall do. A youth has lately wander'd 
 Into this bourne, whom by my art I know 
 The witch hath for this Nymph selected spouse. 
 Him shall ye seize ; for he is all unversed 
 In these wild paths, and is a hot-brain, too. 
 That loves a deed of peril for its name. 
 If we could grip him, the elf-queen would scarce 
 Make up the loss : at least her present aim 
 Would be thus baffled, and our road left clear. 
 Ye know your business : off ! and do it wisely ! 
 Grumiel, be thou the master ; and thou, sirrah ! 
 Counsel him to thy best. 
 
 MoMiEL. [^Aside] Oh ay, I'll lead him ! — 
 I'll be his Jack with the Lantern I 
 
 Grumiel. Follow me. 
 Thou muttering slave ! 
 
 Ararach. If you do take the youth, 
 
54 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Brain him not : do you hear me ? — We will keep 
 
 him 
 Alive in torture here : perchance the Nymph 
 (Whom they will give love-potions) may be tempted 
 Thus to approach our realm, and lose herself 
 Ere she find him. That were a triumph worth 
 Laying ten plots for. Vanish ! 
 Demons. Way for the King ! 
 
 [ They vanish separately. 
 
ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 jHE homestead of a thrifty peasant, 
 
 Quiet, secure, well-built, and pleasant ; 
 Its eaves are moist and green with age, 
 Its windows wattled like a cage : 
 From out the tell-tale chimney curl 
 
 Blue wreaths of smoke with easy whirl ; 
 
 A huge domestic elder tree 
 
 Shades the dear cot maternally ; 
 
 While the sweet woodbine on its walls 
 
 Sits weaving her fine coronals. 
 
 Dropping betimes a careless gem 
 
 From some loose twisted diadem, 
 
 And looking down as she would stoop 
 
 To pick her fallen jewels up. 
 
 In front a narrow garden blows, 
 
 With formal flowers set out in rows. 
 
 With gravell'd walks, smooth as the sands 
 
 Laid down by Triton's webbed hands ; 
 
 Neater, I ween, though not much ampler, 
 
 Than wee miss works upon her sampler, 
 
 And looking like a cit's parterre 
 
 Amid the mountain grandeur there ; 
 
56 SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 For some bred in the wilderness, 
 By contrast love wild Nature less 
 Than those who gasp within the town 
 To range the hill, and roam the down. 
 Loving wild loveliness alone 
 
 The cottage-back, if you must hear. 
 Shuts out a liquid murmurer, 
 (But you may catch his sullen roar 
 More loud when opes the thorough-door, 
 And see him far a-field betray 
 With shining scales his serpent way. ) 
 Ev'n in that Isle by Vesper fann'd, 
 Which all the world calls " Snug-man's Land, 
 The land of heartfelt, homely bliss. 
 There's not a snugger cot than this. 
 One side leans oldly 'gainst the hill, 
 And t'other props a crony mill 
 That aye keeps clacking, clacking still ; 
 As if it never would have done 
 Its tale to its companion. 
 
 Two smiling lasses (fair Roselle, 
 And Stephania, a village belle) 
 Are seated at an oaken table 
 That scarce to bear the weight is able 
 Of fruits, and roots, and cates, and pies : 
 A flagon of portentous size 
 Stands, like the urn of ancient Po, 
 From whence his sea-bound surges go 
 Bellying, the table-foot beside ; 
 From which a wrinkle-smoothing tide 
 Pours the burnt traveller you see 
 Into his cup right frequently. 
 It is a quaint and humorous wight ; 
 His eye proclaims him : Andrea hight. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 More of his character I could 
 Discover, certes, if I would : 
 But pray let your own eyes and ears 
 Serve as your own interpreters. 
 
 Andrea. O my unfortunate Master ! O my kind 
 — O!— 
 
 Stephania. Another bowl of cream ! 
 
 A^fDREA. Thanks, gentle signorina ! — if it were 
 deep enough to drown me, miserable that I am ! it 
 would be only the more deeply welcome ! — O sweet 
 and excellent [drinks'] master ! 
 
 ROSELLE. Look what a tempting bunch of grapes ! 
 Do pluck one. 
 
 Andrea. Are they good for a hoarseness ? 
 
 RosELLE. Better than a box of lozenges, I war- 
 rant them, 
 
 Andrea. Say you so ? — Then I will consent to 
 devour a sprig or two, for I am hoarse with lamenta- 
 tion and bawling. — O comely youth ! O taper young 
 gentlemen ! O kind, noble, chaste, sweet-spoken 
 vagabond master ! — shall I ever behold — 
 
 Stephania. Such a cheese as the moon was 
 never made of ! I pressed it with my own two hands. 
 'Tis the purest, finest goat's-milk cheese — pray, 
 signior, have a slice of it. 
 
 Andrea. It will strengthen me for whooping and 
 calling, else I would not touch it for diamonds ! It 
 vdll make me 7>ia-a like a he-goat on a rock-top when 
 he misses the beard of his charmer. 
 
 RosELLE. Indeed now, you must try our apricots 
 and walnuts. Here is another loaf hot from the 
 
58 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Stephania. Do not spare the pasty; its fellow 
 is in the larder. Help yourself to another cup of 
 wine : the flagon is beside you. 
 
 Andrea, Alas — I cannot. 
 
 Stephania. Pray be entreated. 
 
 Andrea. I am inexorable ! — No ! I will abstain 
 — mortify — I will make a desperate vow — Hear me, 
 thou adorable flagon ! If ever I drink a single cup of 
 thy contents, while my dear master — 
 
 ROSELLE. Nay, it is too late : you have had some 
 half-dozen already. 
 
 Andrea, The very reason I can take no more ! 
 
 Stephania, Wherefore, dear signior ? 
 
 Andrea. Simply because there is no more to 
 take ! the wine has evacuated its tenement ; the 
 flagon is empty, 
 
 Stephania, Run, dear sister ! Go: fetch out our 
 mother's flasket of cordial. You can guess where it 
 lies. It is better than a hogshead of ordinary wine. 
 — Here it is. 
 
 RosELLE. \Filling out a goblet. ^ Now, bachelor ! 
 
 Andrea. \Takmg the goblet. '\ Do you see this 
 vessel ? Do you mark its capacity and dimensions ? 
 Well : — I have rained the full of this from either 
 flood-gate, three-score of times at a modest computa- 
 tion, since I lost my unfortunate master yesterday 
 morning. Can you wonder if my lachrymatories be 
 in want of a replenishment? ^Dritiks.^ 
 
 Stephania, Alas ! true-hearted youth ! 
 
 RosELLE, Forlorn creature ! 
 
 Andrea. I have drunk nothing but salt water 
 from the brine-pits of mine eyes since my master 
 mislaid himself among these villainous mountains. 
 And that, you know, were sufiicient to make me as 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. S9 
 
 dry as a turnspit in the dog-days ; or the cook of a 
 ship's company on pickled allowance, in the latitude 
 of the line, at noontide, when the sun looks hke a 
 red-hot shot in a furnace, and the air would stew 
 salamanders. 
 
 Stephania and Roselle. True ! true ! 
 
 Andrea. I have spouted as much water through 
 my head as the lion on an aqueduct, or a whale in a 
 fit of sneezing. Verily, I never wept so much for 
 any two of my grandmothers, though the last left me 
 heir to all she had in the world, videlicet: her 
 blessing. Have you no sad verses to suit the occa- 
 sion ? no miserable rhymes ? no ballad about love 
 and murder, or elegy on the death of a favourite lap- 
 dog ? Pray consult your albums. 
 
 [_Sings'] Oh, Sorrow was ever a thirsty soul, 
 As Margery did discover ; 
 For every tear she drank a bowl, 
 That her eyes might still run over ! 
 
 [Drinks. 
 
 The melancholies always give me the poetics : 
 therefore, O sweet hostesses ! pity my hapless situa- 
 tion. 
 
 Stephania. In what respect besides being a 
 melancholy poet ? 
 
 Andrea. Oh, I have lost the most amiable, 
 provoking, excellent, incorrigible whistle-cap of a 
 master that ever poor fellow had since the days of 
 knight-errantry. The guide of my youth ! the 
 protector of my innocence ! the defender of my 
 virtue ! — Here do I find myself like a distressed 
 damosel, or the Wandering Jew, in the midst of this 
 frightful wilderness, without knowing either how I 
 
6 J SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 came into it, or how I am to get out of it : looking 
 as strange and bepuzzled as a flying-fish caught in the 
 shrouds, or a wild-man-of-the-woods in a show-box. 
 I have not even a word to put forth in excuse if a 
 shepherd's cur chose to ask me my business. Where- 
 fore and therefore : — O unfortunate Andrea ! O luck- 
 less Pimpinella ! O miserable Ribobolo ! O un- 
 fortunate, luckless, and miserable Andrea della 
 Pimpinella di Ribobolo ! 
 
 RosELLE. What shall we do with him ? he is 
 again in a fit of the boetics. 
 
 Stephania. Prithee, friend Andrea della Pimpin- 
 ella di Ribobolo, do not frighten the squirrels. 
 
 Andrea. I must give vent to my passion ; I 
 must relieve my oppressed heart with an eflfusion of 
 some sort or other. [Drinks.'\ 
 
 Stephania. Only that the cup has a bottom, you 
 might think it was a spy-glass. 
 
 RosELLE. He is going to balance it on his nose ; 
 stay a little. 
 
 Andrea. Would this bottle were pewter that I 
 might squeeze it ! — Slidikins ! where did that other 
 sun come from ? No ! 'tis the sun and moon shining 
 together : excellent ! — I find this wine begin to ele- 
 vate me. 
 
 \_Andrea in his chair is slowly raised from the 
 ground. ] 
 
 You need not draw away the table, though. — Why, 
 hostesses ! — where are you going ? — Sinking ! — sink- 
 ing ! — Mercy upon me ! do they live in a well ? 
 
 Stephania and Roselle. O strange ! 
 
 Andrea. Have I been singing with Mermaidens? 
 — Down ! down ! — still — Hew ! by Saint George and 
 the Dragon, they are on a mining expedition ! — Out 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MA Y QUEEN. 6i 
 
 upon ye, speculators ! — Alas ! — O ! — Uds my life ! is 
 their father a pump-sinker ? 
 
 Stephania. Wonderful ! wonderful ! 
 
 RosELLE. Hush, sister ! I have heard of these 
 moon-calves. He is one, I am sure, by his roaring. 
 
 Stephania. And his great mouth. Whither is 
 he going ? 
 
 RosELLE. Only to catch larks for his supper. Or 
 may be his dam bleats for him : did you not hear 
 him cry out the moon ! the moon ! this moment ? 
 
 Andrea. Now could I weep pitcherfuls ! 
 
 Stephania. I thought he was a flighty sort of a 
 gentleman. But lo ! where he rises ! — Take care of 
 your hat, sir ! 
 
 RosELLE. Hold on by a tree-top ! 
 
 Andrea. Hold on by a fiddlestick ! — Catch you 
 some root or tuft, or brushwood ! Get astride of some 
 bough, I tell ye ! O sinful pair ! what have ye been 
 doing that the fiend should carry you down in this 
 manner ? 
 
 Stephania and Roselle. O friend Andrea, 
 what can you have done that you should deserve to 
 go to Heaven in such a hurry ? 
 
 Andrea. Take to your marrow bones ; — Kneel 
 — pray — confess, — out with all your iniquities ! — 
 weep, children ! roar ! sing ! — Have you no pater, 
 or ave, or credo ? — What do the fools gape at ? — 
 Begin ! — Beat your breasts ! maul your petticoats ! 
 take down the pride of your tuckers ! — O miserable 
 women ! — Tear your hands ! wring your hair ! — Will 
 ye not ? — Did you ever see such a couple of uncon- 
 verted Magdalens? 
 
 Stephania and Roselle. Alas ! alas ! he is 
 growing as small as a tom-tit ! 
 
62 SVLVIA : OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Andrea. Son of my father ! they look like two 
 white mice at the door of a trap !— Farewell, host- 
 esses ! — good-bye ! — O sad ! O marvellous ! — they 
 are not the size of their noses ! — Phew ! I begin to 
 smell brimstone and pitchforks. 
 
 Stephania and Roselle. Let us pray for his 
 safety. 
 
 Andrea. They are at it ! they are at it ! — Now 
 is there some hope of their perdition from utter 
 salvation ! Obstinate jades ! they would not do so 
 when I told them. Louder ! louder ! — I can scarcely 
 catch a mumble. Who the vengeance, d'ye think, is 
 to hear you at this height? — They are sighing in 
 anguish and contrition. Poor souls ! — deeper and 
 deeper ! — He has them now by the ankles : O kind 
 Satan ! send them a gentle swinging, if thou hast any 
 compassion in thy sooty bosom ! 
 
 Stephania. Poor Andrea. 
 
 Roselle. Poor signior Di Gobble-o ! 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Oh, have you known, fond youth, as I 
 What 'tis to climb the mountains high. 
 With a bright form of beauty o'er you. 
 Lighting the airy path before you ? 
 To see how wastefully the wind 
 Sweeps round and o'er, yet still unkind, 
 Nought but the fine small ankle shows 
 For all it flutters, flaps, and blows ; 
 Clasping indeed the slender knee 
 As smooth as chisell'd drapery, 
 And with its plastic breath pretending 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 63 
 
 To shape a Phidian beauty bending 
 Against it strength— yet leaving you 
 As wise as if it never blew ; 
 For still the envious kirtle dances 
 Just in the high-road of your glances ! 
 
 Something like this sweet agony 
 Haps to my hero, I can see ; 
 The sylvan girl before him glides 
 Like Oread up the mountain-sides ; 
 No finer form on Attic shore 
 Bold-eyed Apelles scann'd of yore, 
 Nor peeping gods, when Jove's free daughter 
 Lavish'd her white limbs on the water 
 With its loved burden proudly swelling, 
 WTiile Dorian caves for joy were kneeling. 
 Triumphant tales of beauty telling. 
 But our young goddess doth exceed 
 This reveller on the ocean-bed ; 
 For, of a loveliness as rare, 
 She is as pure as she is fair : 
 Her snowy mountain-garb reveals 
 The charms alone no garb conceals. 
 Which, spite of that ensphering shroud, 
 Burst forth like moonbeams through a cloud. 
 
 Silent, the rapt idolater 
 Of this fair wood-nymph follows her ; 
 Yet distant, too, which e'er it be 
 Revering her divinity. 
 Or that, perdue, his gleaming eye 
 May some neglectful beauty spy ; 
 Yet still to doubt and wonder given 
 At so much beauty under Heaven, 
 
 She turns, and speaks ! — Around her mouth 
 Breaks a slow smile : as when the South 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAT QUEEN. 
 
 Opens thy lips, O ruby rose ! 
 And thy look brightens as it blows. 
 
 Sylvia. I am too light of foot, I fear, for you. 
 
 ROMANZO. Are you of earth ? I see the bended 
 grass 
 Fillip you off" its shoulders like the dew 
 At glistening up-suntide. You press the herb 
 As tenderly as mist. Sure you have coursed 
 With Naiads after pearls on the quick stream, 
 That you can fleet so deftly : or has Zephyr 
 Lent you his winged slippers ? 
 
 Sylvia. O no ! no ! 
 My sole companions until now have been 
 The wild bird and gazelle : haunting with them 
 Has made me near as buoyant. Pardon me ! 
 Sooth I forgot myself with our sweet talk, 
 And when I should be courteous, and restrain 
 My wonted pace, the music that I hear 
 Makes me dance onward like the thistledown 
 Timing its gait to the wind's eloquence. 
 But you are all to blame ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Oh, I could follow you 
 To the world's bound ! o'er unsupporting seas 
 And snows infirm as light ! Methinks I could 
 Fleet across bottomless gulfs on the thick air, 
 And scale the cliffs that nought but sunbeams climb. 
 Borne up by aspirations towards your beauty. 
 I have oft dream'd 
 
 Of gliding by long leaps o'er the green ground 
 In breathless ecstacy : through plushy lanes, 
 Tree-sided ; and down sloping esplanades 
 
SVLy/A; OR, THE MAY QUEEN, 65 
 
 Battening in sunlight ; along valleys dim, 
 High-terraced rivers, and wild meadow-lands, 
 Bending my easy way : by will alone, 
 And inward heaving, rais'd, I seem to flee, 
 With pleasant dread of touching the near grass 
 That brushes at my feet. But this fine dream 
 Is now as dull as life ! Yon angel sun 
 Swims up the welkin not with half the joy. 
 The silent joy in smoothness, that I feel 
 Soaring up this hill-side so green with you. 
 
 Sylvia. Why do I feel such pain to hear you 
 speak ? 
 Your gentle voice thrills in my happy bosom 
 Like waters trembling in their fountain-cell 
 At hearing the groved nightingale. Speak on. 
 
 RoMANZO. Dear Sylvia — 
 
 Sylvia. I did never think my name 
 So beautiful before ! Have other men 
 Voices as soft as yours ? 
 
 Romanzo. The mountain air 
 Sweetens its tone. 
 
 Sylvia. O no ! it was the same 
 Down in the vale, when you told in mine ear 
 Things that I understood not, though I wish'd. 
 Wilt say them o'er again .'' 
 
 Romanzo. Not now ; I dare not ! 
 When you look back upon me with that brow 
 So golden ; all with curled sunbeams hung ; 
 Brightening above me into that sweet smile 
 Angelical, — I almost think you come 
 From Heaven to lead me thither. That light garb 
 Floating behind you seems to part in wings, 
 And your ethereal form glides up the steep 
 As smooth ajid noiseless as it rose indeed 
 
 E 
 
66 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Spontaneous to its own cherubic sphere. 
 I could even kneel to thee ! 
 
 Sylvia. Nay, sit you down 
 Upon this mossy bank o'er-violeted, 
 And we will gaze upon the vales below : 
 And we will spend an hour of rapturous talk — 
 And gaze — and talk — and read each other's eyes, 
 Blissful as birds : or pluck wild flowers and sing 
 To the hoarse-cadent waterfalls : or hymn 
 A lovely story out, and stop and listen 
 While the wind bears to echo the faint tale, 
 That woos its sweet way back to us again. 
 
 ROMANZO. Oh, I am wrapt in glory ! — Seem we 
 not 
 Like two young spirits stole from Heaven to view 
 This green creation ; who with looks of praise 
 Sit murmuring on the early mountain-tops 
 In close ambrosial converse ? — Oh, look round ! 
 Pleasure lies floating o'er the scenes beneath 
 Dissolved in the warm air ; and gorgeous Noun 
 O'er the ripe fields her yellow veil doth spread 
 So thick, mine eyes scarce pierce it. 
 
 Sylvia. Turn them here 
 And drink fresh wonder. Yon's my favourite haunt : 
 A winding elm-walk, by a silver stream 
 Ambling free-footed down the mountain's side, 
 Weetless of whither : till it falls at last, 
 With gentle wail that it must sleep so soon, 
 Over the rocky shelve into the lake. 
 The glassy-bosom'd lake, so deep and clear. 
 
 ROMANZO. Methinks the boughs that keep it dark 
 and cool, 
 Hang o'er the jetty marge in a fond dream : 
 Even their whispering speaks of sleepiness. 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MA Y QUEEN. 67 
 
 Sylvia. Look on the feeding swan beneath the 
 willows. 
 How pure her white neck gleams against their green 
 As she sits nesting on the waters ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Beautiful ! 
 She is the lady of the reed-girt Isles ! 
 See ! how she swells her navigable wings 
 And coasts her sedgy empire keenly round ! 
 She looks a bird of snow dropt from the clouds 
 To queen it o'er the minnows ! 
 
 Sylvia, Doth she not ? 
 Side-looking, slow, disdainful one ! 
 
 RoMANZO. The bright, 
 The pearly creature! — Lone and calm she rides, 
 Like Dian on the wave when night is clear. 
 And the sleek west-wind smooths the billows down 
 Into forgetfulness, that she may see 
 How fast her silver gondola can boom 
 Sheer on the level deep. 
 
 Sylvia. Behold yon rock 
 Down which a torrent shines afar : the noise 
 Is loud, yet we can't hear it. 
 
 Romanzo. Partial heavens 3 
 Oh, what a splendid deluge thou pour'st down 
 From out thy glorious flood-gates, on this vale ! 
 Thickets, and knolls, slopes, lawns, and bosomy dells. 
 Scarce show their green for gold. Yet, it is strange 1 
 There is a melancholy in sun-bright fields 
 Deeper to me than gloom ; I am ne'er so sad 
 As when I sit among bright scenes alone. 
 
 Sylvia. Perchance your fortunes are not of that 
 hue, 
 And then it seems to mock them. — Come, your eye5 
 Are full of meditation's tears. Come on \ 
 
68 SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAV QUEEN. 
 
 I have a garland still to bind for you : 
 Come ! to the myrtle grove. 
 ROMANZO. The myrtle grove ! 
 Sylvia. I'll teach you too how it behoves you 
 walk 
 This valley. Come ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Sweet ! to the myrtle grove ! 
 
 \Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. 
 Down the bourn-side and up the dale 
 Observe a dim line across the Vale, 
 By sad and sun-green grasses made 
 A boundary of light and shade : 
 This is the running landmark drawn 
 Athwart the deep prospective lawn, 
 Sharing the Valley's length between 
 The Fiend -King and the Fairy-Queen. 
 
 Enter Grumiel and Momiel. 
 MOMIEL. Proceed, master ! — proceed, thou in- 
 fallible vade mecujit ! 
 Grumiel, Goad me not, fleering pest ! with thy 
 long nails. 
 Else I will tear the skin from off thy back. 
 In straps ; or gouge thine eyes out. 
 
 Momiel. But, my lord. 
 We shall not catch our prey else — 
 
 Grumiel. Fogs on him ! 
 And him that sent us ! and thee too, thou zany ! 
 Come on, and thou shalt see there is no means 
 To pass without our limbo. 
 
SYLVIA: OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 69 
 
 MoMiEL. So ! his rush 
 Is out, I think ! 
 
 Grumiel. Feel here ; a sightless plane 
 Of glass stands like a crystal wall, as high 
 As bridgy Heav'n : 'tis thinner than blown soap, 
 Yet strong as adamant to smoky natures 
 Like thine and mine : this is the jealous pale 
 And limit of our realm. We cannot pierce it 
 Without a spell, and that would rouse Morgana. 
 Come hither ; strive to punch thy finger through, 
 Or break thy foot against it. 
 MOMlEL. No, my lord, 
 I'll use a tougher mallet — give me leave — 
 Grumiel. What wouldst thou do ? 
 MoMiEL. Why, take thee leg and arm, 
 And bounce thee 'gainst it like a battering-ram. 
 Till skull or wall should crack : better if both. 
 
 Grumiel. Thou that canst grin so like a wolf, 
 
 howl too ! [Strikes him. 
 
 MoMiEL. I'll get thee plagued for this: I'll be 
 
 revenged ! 
 Grumiel. We must slouch home. 
 MOMIEL. Ay, and be scorch'd to fritters ! 
 That is your wisdom ! — No ; hear my device : 
 Let us creep serpent-wise along the ground. 
 Close by the wall, and trap the younker ranging. 
 Grumiel. Poh ! thou'rt a counsellor indeed? 
 How trap him ? 
 How should we lure him o'er? first tell me that. 
 
 Mom I EL. I have a stratagem. The heat is fierce. 
 And he will rage with thirst. Do thou stand here. 
 With a deep bowl of Lethe in thy fist, 
 A little from the wall : thou hast a face, 
 A good bronze face, and Ethiop limbs to boot. 
 
70 SVLV/A; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 So may'st assume the statue. If he thrust 
 
 A nostril through the wall, the deadly fume 
 
 Will cloud his brain, and through all lets he'll come, 
 
 Like a blind horse, to drink. Stand till he tries 
 
 To bathe his lip in the fresh cup thou hold'st, 
 
 And then we'll seize upon him. 
 
 Grumiel. Good ! I see it. 
 
 Vanish thou when he comes. I will stand fast 
 As the unquarried rock ; and so present him 
 This maple bowl, crown'd with such juicy weeds. 
 And dropping such pure blobs, that he will drink 
 Though angels bid him hold. 
 
 MoMiEL. Lie close ! lie close ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Enter Nephon behind. 
 Nephon. Ho ! ho ! I thought that I should catch 
 ye; 
 Snakes i' the grass, I'll over-match ye. 
 Here comes an instrument that shall 
 Work our advantage and your bale. 
 Hist ! hist ! Floretta ! 
 
 Enter Floretta. 
 Floretta. Ay ! — like you 
 
 I have been eavesdropping too. 
 Now I must like wind away 
 
 To my virgin care. 
 And entice her if I may, 
 From this demon snare. 
 Eve shall hang the clouds with scarlet 
 Ere I rest me ! [ Vanishes. 
 
 Nephon. Here's the varlet ! — 
 
 In the skylark's simple bed, 
 Nephon, hide thy artful head. 
 Enter Andrea. 
 Andrea. I have heard of Pacolet and his horse, 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 71 
 
 that could fly from Constantinople to Rome by the 
 turning of a peg in his neck, and without the turning 
 of a hair on his body : for indeed he had none ; being 
 made, I think, of good dry oak, if it were not rather 
 Spanish mahogany. But, for the most part, I have 
 always set down such matters as nothing better than 
 moral tales ; with no more truth in them than is to 
 be found at the bottom of a well : and of use only to 
 give youth a relish for history and learning. Now 
 do I see the vanity of this age in pretending to cry 
 down such things. What ! have not I been soaring? 
 have not I been taking down a few cobwebs from 
 the "hazy canopy," as we say in rhyme? have not I 
 cut "the starry firmament " hither, on a four-legged 
 stool ? How many minutes is it since I was cheek by 
 cheek with a couple of frolicsome damsels, or rather a 
 still more kiss-provoking double tankard ? — and now 
 — O sorrowful change ! — I am only beside myself, in 
 this hideously beautiful valley ? O Master ! Master ! 
 would I might see the fringe of thy skirt, or pick up 
 one of thy stray belts ! — it would do to hang myself, 
 if I had no other consolation ! 
 
 [An embroidered suit falls in different places 
 about him.l 
 So-ho, there ! — Does it snow by the yard here ? and 
 in summer too ? — Cloaks ! doublets ! indescribables ! 
 — What ! are the clouds woollen-manufactories ! Is 
 Heaven any place for a tailor ? could he soar thither 
 on his goose ? — O fine ! — If the fig-trees in this place 
 grow leaves equal to these, I have found out the site 
 of Adam's paradise. They shall not long be in want 
 of a wearer. 'S life ! they fit me like a new skin. 
 Now if I should meet Signor Romanzo ! No matter ; 
 I would not bend a hair from my altitude : I shall be 
 
72 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY queen: 
 
 as good a gentleman as he in my fourth generation. 
 O grand ! — Now could I lead a troop of horse ? — O 
 magnificent Andrea ! — Wert thou ever a plebeian? — 
 But, alas ! of what use is all this splendour when 
 there is no one but myself to admire it ? 
 
 Nephon, Signior Andrea ! 
 
 Andrea. Ahoy ! — who squeaks ? 
 
 Nephon. Signior Andrea della Pimpinella ! 
 
 Andrea. Santa Maria ! am I pinching the tail 
 of a grass-mouse ? — Where did it get my name, 
 though ? 
 
 Nephon. Signior Andrea della Pimpinella di 
 Ribobolo ! 
 
 Andrea. Andrea della Pimpinella di Ribobolo ! — 
 he has learnt it all as pat as my godfather ! — only that 
 he sings it a little through his nose. Where is this 
 mighty small-spoken gentleman ? — Hilloa, Signior 
 Nobody ! at M'hat point of the compass must I look, 
 to be mannerly ? 
 
 Nephon. Consult your shoe-buckles. 
 
 Andrea. O pupil of mine eyes ! what do I be- 
 hold ? — Art thou Gorgoglio, the son of the giant 
 Gorbellione ? or only a simple Patagonian from the 
 South Pole ? What heathen ogress gave such an 
 enormity birth ? Did Nature cut thee out of a 
 mountain ? — What art thou ? 
 
 Nephon. Look at my mustaches ! 
 
 Andrea. Ay, I might have known thee for an 
 hussar by the ferocity of thy voice, and the stoutness 
 of thy figure : thou art all over tags and bobs too, 
 like an itinerant haberdasher. What is thy name ? — 
 Grimbalduno, or Hurlothrumbo ? 
 
 Nephon. I shall not be loth to declare it upon 
 any gentlemanly occasion. 
 
SVLF/A; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 73 
 
 Andrea. Lud-a-mercy ! I did not mean to send 
 your reverence a challenge ! The very wind of your 
 weapon would make flitches of me : slice me from 
 nape to hip, like two moieties of a pig hung up i' the 
 shambles. No ! no ! I have more wit than to have 
 my skull laid open like a boiled rabbit's, or to die the 
 divisible death of a walnut ! 
 
 Nephon. Will you walk then, — I mean, saunter ? 
 
 Andrea. So as your reverence has no blood- 
 thirsty intentions : I am no dare-devil to encounter 
 such a Goliath. But take care lest my foot happen 
 to light on your reverence ; it might squeeze your 
 reverence into the capacity of a dollar : and by'r lady ! 
 I cannot undertake to distinguish your reverence while 
 dame Earth keeps her beard unshorn. If I should 
 step into a two-inch tuft, it's odds but I commit man- 
 slaughter. Could not your reverence manage to take 
 my heel by the elbow ? We might then trot on 
 brotherly together. 
 
 Nephon, Take care of thyself, Master Andrea : 
 there are man-traps hereabout. Leave me to my 
 own discretion. 
 
 Andrea. Agreed, your reverence : only re- 
 member that if I shall chance, in raising my foot, to 
 kick your worship to Grand Cairo, I shall not be 
 bound to measure swords with you reverence for the 
 insult. 
 
 Nephon. Agreed ! agreed ! [ExeJtnf. 
 
 Scene changes to another part of the ivoodland. 
 
 Ettier RoMANZo and .Sylvia. 
 
 Sylvia. No farther, dear companion ! — where 
 yon stream 
 Tink'es amid the bushes down the vale, 
 
74 SVLV/A ; OH, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 The ground becomes unholy. 
 
 ROMANZO. O sweet Sylvia ! 
 I long to be thy champion, thy true Knight ! — 
 Thy conquering smile upon me, with this sword 
 I'll undertake to blaze destruction 
 Through every demon cave 
 
 Sylvia, Not for the world ! 
 Thou must not be so venturous ! 
 
 RoMANZO. I would do 
 Some deed of high devotion, as of old, 
 Renowned Youths did for their lady-loves. 
 Prithee, assent ! — with Heaven's good aid and thine. 
 Yon half o' the vale, now sable-green, and drear, 
 Shall bloom beneath thy fearless step like this ; 
 And thou shalt range it, as the palmy hind 
 Her forest walks unscared. 
 
 Sylvia. Do it, and make me 
 Fall from my happy state ! — Wilt have me weep ? 
 
 RoMANZO. Nay, kill me with a frown — if thou 
 canst frown. 
 Ah ! strive not ! — on thy candid brow a star 
 Shines cloudlessly, and oh, more constant bright 
 Than e'en the marble tutoress of a cave 
 Holds 'tween her heavy eyelids, when the moon 
 Has stolen upon her beauty. 'Tis in vain ! 
 Thy lips are grave — no more ! Come, thou must 
 smile ! 
 
 Sylvia. Then do not pain my heart by talking 
 thus 
 Of wild attempts : I'm satisfied with thee, 
 And do not wish thee greater ; nor a space 
 More wide for our sweet rambles. Let me show thee 
 Carefully all the fatal bounds, that when 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 75 
 
 Thou walk'st, perchance, alone, thou may'st avoid 
 
 them. 
 Then will we to the bower. 
 
 Enter Floretta. 
 
 RoMANZO. WTiat is here ? 
 Sylvia ! — see ! see ! 
 
 Sylvia. Peace ! 'tis a fairy ! 
 One of the petty angels of this realm ; 
 We must be courteous to the gentle thing. 
 Or 'twill not hum its song. Listen ! Oh, listen ! 
 
 RoMANZO. Oh, Heavens ! I almost weep and 
 laugh at once 
 To hear its silver words ; and see it tipping 
 Every fair-crested daughter of the field 
 With puny hand. — What ! doth it steal their leaves? 
 
 Sylvia. Sweet friend, keep silence ! 
 
 Floretta. I do love the meadow-beauties, 
 And perform them tender duties, 
 So the fair ones let me use 'em 
 For my brow, and for my bosom. 
 
 Follow ! follow ! follow me ! 
 
 And I'll choose a brooch for thee ! 
 
 Here be pansies just a-blowing ; 
 Here be lords and ladies glowing ; 
 What a crowd of maiden blushes 
 Court a kiss on yonder bushes ! 
 
 Follow ! follow ! follow me ! 
 
 And I'll get a kiss for thee ! 
 
 Down the slopy hillocks, sweetest 
 Grows the blue pervinke, meetest 
 
76 SYLVIA ; OK, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 For a garland ; should the wreather 
 Cowslip choose, she may have either ! 
 
 Follow ! follow ! follow me ! 
 
 And I'll show them both to thee ! 
 \_Exit, followed by RoMANZo and Sylvia. 
 
 Enter Grumiel and Momiel. 
 
 Grumiel. Pugh ! I smell villanous mortality ! — 
 Our prey is near. 
 
 Momiel. Is this he striding towards us in seven- 
 leagued shoes, with a whole peacock's tail in his 
 bonnet ? 
 
 Grumiel. Ay ; doth he not strut most wrathfully, 
 like a lobster-nosed alderman, or a new-made lord o' 
 the bed-chamber ? A's a gallant fellow ! It must 
 be he ! 
 
 Momiel. Doubtless it must : he comes of a coach- 
 keeping family, at least ; for the smirk of my lady's 
 footman shines out in his visage : I warrant j'ou now, 
 simple as he walks there, he can trace his pedigree 
 to Adam ! 
 
 Grumiel. Ay, and to popes and emperors; he is 
 scarlet even to the tip of his nostrils. Tell me that I 
 have not the eyes of discovery again, sirrah ! 
 
 Momiel. Faith, yes, to detect the pulp of a melon 
 under the coat of a pumpkin. Are the seven wise 
 souls of Greece clubbed in thy politic person? — 
 [Aside.'] There is nothing of the Narcissus about this 
 swaggerer ; a bulrush bred out o' the mire : he hath not 
 the look of a flower-gentle. Some ass in the hide of 
 a zebra : some highwayman, that hath changed cloaks 
 with a cardinal. But 'twill do ! this sot of a spaniel 
 here will get lugged for his mistake ; setting a scare- 
 crow instead of a woodcock. I'll humour it I 
 
SVLF/A ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 77 
 
 Grumiel. Slink off, thou gibbering ape ! — 
 I'll stiffen into metal, with the cup. 
 
 MoMiEL. Ay, thou'lt brazen it out, never fear 
 thee, like a saint upon a vintner's sign-post. — Here 
 he comes, walking as wide and crop-swollen as a 
 magpie in red spatterdashes. — How naturally that 
 brother of mine looks through glass eyes at nothing ? 
 Enter Andrea ; Nephon behind. 
 
 Andrea. Paugh ! the sun, I think, is very in- 
 decorously hot ; nothing above lukewarm is fashion- 
 able : therefore Apollo is less of a gentleman than his 
 brother Phoebe, as we classically desecrate the night's 
 bright lunatic. 'Slidikins ! I melt like a waxen 
 image in the bodice of a fat landlady, — Oh, for 
 another pull at '* our mother's flasket of cordial ! " 
 — What hoa ! Signior Grasshopper ! — Could'st thou 
 pilot me to some well or stream? I'll set thee on the 
 back of a minnow for it, if thou lik'st such a cock- 
 horse. — The hoinunculus had almost slipped out of 
 my remembrance during the last minute. 'Slife ! 
 'tis vanished out of my sight also ! — Oh lamentable ! 
 Ox that I am, I have trodden his little frogship into 
 a mummy ! his blood is upon my toe ! — This comes 
 of walking with greatness ; this comes of conversing 
 with those that are above thee ; thou wilt be crushed 
 as a grain of wheat by a millstone ! Phial of Saint 
 Januarius ! what have we here ? A noddling man- 
 darin-cup-bearer ! a Hottentot Granny-maid ! — if it 
 be not rather a new!y-cast chandelier walked abroad 
 from the foundery ! Is it the bottom of a brewer's 
 vat he stretches forth so courteously? — Oh, now I 
 have it ! 'tis a charity cup for the wayfarer, posted 
 here by some benevolent monks in the neighbour- 
 hood. I'll be bound for it though, the hospitable 
 
78 SVL VIA ; OR, THE MA Y QUEEN. 
 
 gentlemen have not squeezed the best o' their vintage 
 into it. Nothing, as I live ! more precious than 
 water, and that none of the most fragrant. Waugh ! 
 I hope the spring was not poisoned ; nevertheless my 
 tongue is drier than a camel's hoof, and I must soak 
 it a little, if 'twere only to prevent it growing cloven. 
 So, Monsieur Dumb-waiter, by your leave — 
 Grumiel {seizing hint]. Dog ! I have thee ! 
 MoMiEL. Collar him ! collar him ! with thy 
 brassy talons ! 
 
 Andrea. I am betrayed, like an innocent ! — O 
 thou treacherous mite ! O thou iniquitous atom ! O 
 thou vile thumb of a man ! would that I never — 
 
 MOMIEL. Chuck him under the chin for his brave 
 speech-speaking : grip him fast by his thump-cushion 
 arms, lest he overdo the action. 
 
 Grumiel. Drag him along, the field-preacher ! 
 MoMiEL. Ay, to court with him ! he shall preach 
 before his majesty. 
 
 Andrea. Beseech ye, noble Abyssinians — 
 Grumiel. Shall I cork thee with this mallet ? 
 MOMIEL. Nay, if he will not, let us put a ring in 
 his nose, and haul him along like a bull for the bait- 
 ing. Nudge him on the other side, with the crank 
 of thy elbow, and see how merrily he'll amble. 
 
 Andrea. O miserable son of a weaver ! O 
 unfortunate poet ! O intolerably unlucky, and never- 
 enough - to - be - pitied - for - thy- innumerable - and - inex- 
 pressible -woes - and - unheard - of- misventures, Andrea 
 della Pimpinella di Ribobolo. 
 
 Momiel. Ay, ay, that is your alias; and like 
 every other knave that would conceal himself, you 
 have as many titles as a Spanish grandee : but it 
 sha'n't serve at this turning : no, no, Signior Alias ! 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 79 
 
 Grumiel. Whirl him along, thou accursed stone- 
 chatter ! thou soul of a spinster ! 
 
 Andrea. I am getting addled as a nest-egg. Am 
 I an animal or a Mameluke ? 
 
 [Exeunt the fiends, dragging Andrea. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 The dreary halls of the enchanter 
 Lengthen in antre after antre : 
 Between the yawning jambs of which 
 Strong-ribbed portcullises do stretch. 
 Enormous Powers, on either hand, 
 Some of the old Titanian band. 
 With misty eyes and downcast looks 
 Stand dozing in their hollow nooks, 
 Club-shapen oaks beneath their arms 
 To guard the House of 111 from harms : 
 The dun lords of the feline race 
 From side to side pass and repass ; 
 And brinded forms with cruel eyes 
 Glistening at one another's cries. 
 Scourge their own sides for ire ; a brood 
 Kept fierce for war by lack of food 
 And red repast of luscious blood. 
 Ten griffins torturing round their stings, 
 Coil their mail'd lengths in crackling rings. 
 That ever as their nostrils blow 
 Sulphury flames, illumined grow, 
 As if their steely faces shone 
 With passions, instant come and gone. 
 
8o SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN 
 
 See'st thou a funeral canopy 
 Hang in the black air dismally 
 Its flaggy curtains? — there doth moan 
 In easeless sleep the Evil-One : 
 And there, his painful cockatrice 
 Lulls him with close incessant hiss, 
 If lull he may ; for Terror still 
 Keeps him awake against his will. 
 
 Upstarts the regal mockery ! — now 
 Flashes the blue spite of his brow. 
 And now he thrills the batty walls 
 Of his dull palace, as he calls. 
 
 Enter Fiends. 
 Ararach. No word ? — no sign ? — no messenger ? 
 Fiends. None, lord ! 
 
 Ararach. O ye shall freeze, ye slugs ! in lakes of 
 ice 
 For this ! — ye shall ! What ! none ? — For ages, ay, 
 Till roaring conflagration seize the world, 
 Ye shall stand oozing blood from either eye, 
 With bitter pain ! — 
 
 Fietids. Hark ! the resounding floors ! 
 Thunders the echoing porch, and clang the barry 
 doors ! 
 
 Enter Grumiel and Momiel, with Andrea 
 
 prisoner, 
 Ararach. W'hat'she? You staring fool ! Speak, 
 ye torpedos ! 
 Where have ye slept your time ? 
 Grumiel. Master, we bring 
 Thy victim-rival, the spruce lord — 
 Ararach. That charlatan? — 
 Ho ! — bear these dormice instant to the torture. 
 
SVLF/A : OR, THE MA V QUEEN. 81 
 
 Let them be lashed to strips inch-broad ! let both 
 Trudge blistering o'er a fiery-sanded plain, 
 While ye on wing do scourge them ! 
 
 Grumiel. Howl I howl 1 howl ! 
 
 Mom I EL. Ha ! ha ! — I care not what I suffer, 
 while 
 I see him get the lashes ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! — 
 Thou'lt find a springy Oasis in the desert. 
 Eh, thou discoverer ? or a North Pole 
 To cool thy feet ? 
 
 Grumiel. I'll grind thy head for this. 
 If ever we get free ! 
 
 \^Exeunt Grumiel and Momiel ^oith the torturers. 
 
 Ararach. Who art thou, idiot ? 
 
 Andrea. I know no more of my parents, your 
 worship, than a foundling tied to a knocker. When 
 I was alive, if I can collect my scattered faculties, 
 I might, please your worship, have been (without 
 pride be it spoken ! ) the only hope of a tailor : but 
 indeed I have not the boldness to maintain it ; for 
 within these few minutes, I have, with pure fear 
 and exaggeration, forgotten all my geography. — Oh, 
 will these teeth wear themselves round, like a parcel 
 of jackstones ? — Shall I ever crack a filberd again ? 
 — Chatter ! chatter ! chatter ! 
 
 Ararach. What have they brought me here ? 
 A half-brain'd loon ! 
 A mimmering driveller ! — Shove him without ! 
 He's not worth torments. Stay : thou shalt not go 
 Without one mark upon thee. — Hence stupidity ! 
 
 \Str iking him tvith his wand. 
 Trot on a cloven heel away, and satyr-like. 
 As Nature should have made thee ! — Stretch his ears 
 
 F 
 
82 SVLy/A; OR, THE MAV QUEEN. 
 
 Into a Panic size ! — Go ! scare the wilds, 
 Thou bungle of a man ! — Hoot him away ! 
 
 Andrea. I do most verdantly beseech our Lady 
 To grant your worship long life and propriety ! 
 
 \Exit running. 
 
 Ararach. I'll send these tortured slaves trooping 
 again 
 Upon mine errand : 'twas that yellow fiend 
 Perplexed his brother. But I'll promise him 
 Pains that will make his spirit sob to hear them, 
 If he do so again. I have no choice ; 
 They are my best of servants. Call those fiends ? 
 
 The scene closes. 
 
ACT III. 
 
 Scene I, 
 
 jHE Myrtle Grove : — O gentle Power ! 
 
 Psyche's aye-blooming bachelor 1 
 
 Thou in whose curls fell strength abides, 
 
 Whose baby hand the lion guides, 
 
 I think, with all thy other claims, 
 
 Thou'st a sweet choice in very names ! 
 
 Oft have I dwelt upon thine own ; 
 
 Love ! — 'tis a most /Eohan tone ! 
 
 So soft, the lips will scarcely meet, 
 
 Almost afraid to fashion it ; 
 
 And mark our deepest votaries, — they 
 
 Sigh it most silently away ! 
 
 Was never seen an artless Maid 
 
 But smiled to say, or hear it said, 
 
 Ev'n though her heart can scarcely tell, 
 
 What's in the sound she loves so well : 
 
 Was never seen a generous Youth 
 
 But vow'd — 'twas a sweet word in sooth ! 
 
 A simple syllable, 'tis true, 
 
 Yet born in Heaven like balm and dew ; 
 
 In Heaven alone it could have birth, 
 
 No child of miserable Earth ! 
 
 It dropt from the harmonic spheres, 
 
 A manna-sound to starving ears. 
 
84 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Name we Love's flowers : The Rose ! the Rose ! 
 Sounds it not queenly as it blows ? 
 And Lily ! — this is even yet 
 More inly fine and delicate I — 
 Thy murmuring bosom-bird, the Dove, 
 Chimes not its name to thine, O Love ? 
 And could the wit of wisest man 
 Find a much statelier name than Swan ? — 
 How many an eye beams slyly coy ; 
 How many a heart trembles with joy ; 
 How many a cheek doth sudden glow ; 
 How many a bosom heaves its snow ; 
 How many a lip, raised in delight, 
 Just shows the pearl, a line of white ; 
 How many a sigh is breathed, when none 
 May hear the heart's confession ; 
 How many a throb Hybloean Love ! 
 Wakes, at these words — the Myrtle Grove ? 
 Ay, the pale, wedded, widow'd dame, 
 Pensive recalls the long-lost name ; 
 A hectic, — one faint wave, — no more ! — 
 Passes her marble beauty o'er ; 
 She smooths the braid upon her brow, 
 Remembering — Ah ! what recks it now ? 
 
 Within the grove a bower you see 
 Of this same lover-loving tree ; 
 Veil'd in its dim recess, and warm, 
 A Youth still gazes on a form 
 That stands a-tiptoe, plucking there 
 Boughs, and green leaves, and blossoms faii; : 
 Wreathing them round her veined wrist, 
 By none but such entwiner kist. 
 Our Sylvia binds, with many a gem 
 And costly spray, her diadem. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 8; 
 
 Sylvia [Singing as she binds]. 
 
 Sweet the noise of waters falling, 
 
 And of bees among the flowers, 
 Wild-birds their companions calling, 
 
 Summer winds, and summer showers ! 
 
 This lily ! I must put her next the rose ; 
 They always go together. 
 
 ROMANZO {Aside]. Even in rhyme ! 
 
 Sylvia. 
 
 Say, why does that young rose redden ? 
 
 And why is that lily so pale ? 
 
 O — she is a new married-maiden, 
 
 And she — a maid left to wail ! 
 
 How " left " ? — did her lover die ? — It is a song 
 I've heard my mother sing. — O me ! how soon 
 This tall Sweet-William faded ! — Ay ! 'tis the way ! 
 
 The streams that wind amid the hills. 
 
 And lost in pleasure slowly roam. 
 While their deep joy the valley fills, — 
 
 Ev'n these will leave their mountain-home : 
 So may it, love ! with others be, 
 But I will never wend from thee ! 
 
 The leaf forsakes the parent spray, 
 
 The blossom quits the stem as fast, 
 The rose-enamoured bird will stray, 
 And leave his eglantine at last ; 
 So may it, love ! with others be. 
 But I will never wend from thee ! 
 
86 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Come ! it is done. I never weft before 
 So beautiful a chaplet. 
 
 RoMANzo. It might wreathe 
 
 A brow most godlike ! 
 
 Sylvia. Ay, and shall do so ! 
 
 Else I would strew the weeds under my feet, 
 And break my heart with weeping ! 
 
 I've pluck 'd the wild woodbine, and lilac so pale, 
 And the sweetest young cowslips that grew in the dale, 
 The bud from the flower, and the leaf from the tree, 
 To bind a rich garland, young Shepherd ! for thee. 
 
 O look how the rose blushes deeper with pride, 
 And how pretty forget-me-not peeps by its side ; 
 How the high-crested pink in brave plumage doth fall. 
 And look how the lily looks sweeter than all ! 
 
 My beautiful myrtle ! — I think thou dost know 
 Upon whom this rich garland I mean to bestow ; 
 For thou seem'st with a voice full of fragrance to sigh — 
 " Should I wreath that young Shepherd, how happy 
 were I ! " 
 
 Come, bend me thy brow,, gentle youth ! and I'll twine 
 Round thy temples so pure this rich garland of mine; 
 
 thou look'st such a prince ! — from this day, from 
 
 this hour, 
 
 1 will call thee nought else but the Lord of my Bower ! 
 
 RoMANZO. Would I were so, indeed ! — Look ! I 
 have knelt 
 That I may feel thy soft hands in my hair, 
 Like winds in autumn leaves. Around thy form 
 
5 VL VIA ; OR, THE MA V Q VEEN. t^ ~ 
 
 I'll close my suppliant arms, and like a shrine, 
 Press it to smile on my devotedness ! 
 
 Agatha. lBeAtnd'\ 'Tis as I feared ! O these 
 
 soft myrtle bowers ! 
 Sylvia. Now, it is trim as may be. I would keep 
 Thee ever kneeling thus ; and still would find 
 Some flower awry to settle : but yon cushat 
 'Gins her lone widow-note at evening hour ; 
 That is my warning home ! 
 Agatha. Still 1 still my daughter ! 
 Sylvia. 
 
 Amid the valleys far away, 
 A mother-bird sits on a tree, 
 
 And weeps unto her long-astray— 
 " O come my little bird to me !" 
 So " long-astray " 
 Must now away 
 Unto its parent tree ! 
 Romanzo. As light the day, 
 Or love the May, 
 Sweet ! — I will follow thee ! 
 Agatha. They are both innocent : Love's taper 
 burns 
 Brightest in purest bosoms. — Yet I'll task him ; 
 It is a mother's right. — So ! I have met ye ! 
 What a wild pair of ramblers ye have been ! — 
 The whole, whole morn away ! 
 
 Romanzo. Nay, we were going 
 Straight to the cottage ; and the birds' way too, — 
 The shortest we could see. 
 
 Agatha. Let go my neck, [TJ? Sylvia. 
 
 Thou fondler ! — murmuring about my Hps 
 With thy bee kisses. What should I care for thee,^ 
 A bird that leaves thy summer-cage, whene 'er 
 The wicket opens ? 
 
88 SYL.VIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Sylvia. Aye, but comes again 
 
 To feed upon its mistress' hand, and hide 
 Its softness in her bosom. 
 
 Agatha. There 's no chiding thee ! 
 
 Hie home ; my Hmbs are weary. It is time 
 Our guest should taste refreshment : to prepare it 
 Has been my morning's work, while you were roam- 
 ing. 
 Go : all is spread ; but still, I think, it wants 
 Your garnishing : go, deck it with fresh flowers. 
 As you are wont when we sit all alone. 
 
 Sylvia. Then do not ye stay long ! I'll have it 
 deckt 
 Ere ye could pluck the blossoms. \^Exit. 
 
 Agatha. Sir, your crown 
 
 Becomes you bravely ! 
 
 Romanzo. O it has taken all 
 
 Its beauty from the wreather ! — her sweet touch 
 Has lent it a new perfume, and a lustre 
 It never had before ! — Now, she is gone, 
 I will be king no longer. [Takes off his cro2un. 
 
 Agatha. O, sir ! sir ! 
 
 If you, who are a stranger, can speak thus, 
 How should another, who has seen this flower 
 Bud, bloom, and hallow its wild parent-home 
 With smiles no garden knows ! — Forgive me. Youth, 
 That I speak thus of her : forgive me, too, 
 This foolish, beating, mother's heart of mine, 
 That fain would question him who has reveal 'd 
 So much, and yet no more. 
 
 Romanzo. I have no secret ! 
 
 None ! — What you ask, I'll answer. — Or, perchance, 
 You'll hear my life's short story ? I am a bachelor ; 
 The lord of some few acres ; whom the love 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 89 
 
 Of scenes by Nature's wandering pencil drawn, 
 Has led among these solitudes : with this, 
 My death, were I to die as I am speaking. 
 Were all, I ween, that friend or foe could grave 
 Justly upon my tomb. 
 
 Agatha. 'Tis frankly spoken 
 
 And I should mourn to think that Youth had grown 
 So cunning in the world since I have left it, 
 To wear a brow so clear as yours, the while 
 One spot was on the heart. 
 
 RoMANZO. I do confess. 
 
 If you would have more witness of my truth 
 I scarce could give it : being come so far 
 From Padua, where I studied, and am known, 
 With but one servant. He, poor slave, I lost 
 In the deep gorges of these purple hills 
 But yesterday. If we may chance on him, 
 He will confirm the story you have heard. 
 And then you must believe. 
 
 Agatha. I do already : 
 
 But still — We mothers ! — O, we are such cowards ! 
 
 RoMANZO. Put me to trial : I'll submit myself 
 To a whole year's probation : I will do 
 Any thing you can ask, if so I may 
 Win my sweet mistress. — 
 
 Agatha. Well — well — well 
 
 Re-enter Sylvia m terror. 
 
 My child ! 
 What ails my love ? my daughter ? 
 
 Sylvia. Oh ! I have seen 
 
 So wild and strange a creature 1 
 
 Romanzo. What ! a wolf? 
 
 Sylvia. No, some uncouth resemblance of a man, 
 But not like thee. As I approach'd the cottage, 
 
go SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 From a green nook out-started this rough thing, 
 And brush'd me swiftly by. I could not move, 
 Or cry, with sudden terror ; but stood there 
 Fixt like a tree, how long I do not know. 
 Till sense return'd, and scarcely so much strength 
 As bore me hither. 
 
 RoMANZO. Let it be man or beast 
 
 I'll scourge it from this vale ! 
 
 {Tears down a branch, and exit. 
 Sylvia. O ye kind powers ! 
 
 Save him, Morgana ! save him ! 
 
 [Exit after ROMANZO. 
 Agatha. Sylvia !— rash girl !— 
 
 [Exit after her. 
 
 The Scene changes to the front of the Cottage^ where a 
 table is laid with refreshments. 
 
 Enter Andrea. 
 Andrea. TVm/ sin! wheel reel — Whether I 
 have been sun-stricken or no, I cannot tell ; but 
 my head sings like a boiling kettle. I think — and 
 yet I think I don't think. I remember — and still, 
 I forget what I remember. Now would I give a 
 natural philosopher, Prato the Grig, or Julia Scissars 
 of Rome, a very handsome douser if he would ab- 
 solve me whether my feet stand under me, or I stand 
 under my feet. — Stay : what was I at the time of the 
 Deluge ? — Oh ! a mandrake, swimming about merrily, 
 and was drowned like the Dutch-skipper with my 
 hands in my breeches-pockets. After that I had 
 the convoy of a whole fleet of sea-calves, with which 
 we peopled the famous Island of Bulls. I remember 
 it as well as my breakfast to-morrow : we multified 
 prodigiously there, and should have been lords of 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 91 
 
 the creation, only that we had some cannibal qualities 
 about us ; great beef-eaters ! fast-hating fellows ! — 
 Hilloah ! what's here to be seen ? By the mass, 
 here is as soft a carpet of clover as ever I cooled my 
 heels on ; good ! set that down, commentator ! item : 
 " an acre of green baize for a sky-coloured parlour." 
 Here, too, is a — Bless me ! I totally forget the name 
 for a house — good ! no matter ; call it a pigeon-box. 
 Finally and firstly of all, I see trenchers to be muncht, 
 and bowls to be quaffed : so will proceed no further 
 in the decalogue, but content myself with this humble 
 shoulder of mutton, 
 
 [Sits dcnvn and helps hitnselfto fruit. 
 Admirable ! — tastes a little racy or so ; it must have 
 had the run of a fruitery. [Drinking off a bowloft)iilk. ] 
 Nothing like your creaming Champagne, after all ! — 
 Comfort thyself, poor Gandrea ! it is now exactly 
 the best part of a fortnight since thou didst swallow 
 a single granary of nutriment . Thou canst not always, 
 man ! live upon air, like a camel-leopard. — Sir, you 
 are welcome to Tartary ! 
 
 Enter Romanzo. Sylvia and Agatha 
 following. 
 
 Romanzo. Who — what art thou that dar'st — 
 By all that's strange, 
 This is my servant, Andrea ! but so alter'd 
 I scarce could know him. Sirrah ! where have you 
 
 been. 
 That you are thus transform'd ? 
 
 Andrea. Indeed I have been spending an hour 
 or two with my old friend, clerk of the kitchen to 
 Ancient Nicolas ; so I hope am good company 
 
92 SVLy/A ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 for any one of the cloth, under a Jesuit or Holy 
 Inquisitor. 
 
 Sylvia. It talks strange reason ! 
 
 Agatha. Servant ! — O we are lost ! 
 
 What may the master be, if such the man ? 
 Pray Heaven he be no demon in disguise ! 
 
 RoMANZO. Hast thou left off thy reverence with 
 thy shape ? 
 
 Why dost thou not rise up and bow to me ? Who 
 am I knave ? 
 
 Andrea. You? — The man from the moon, I 
 think, by your crazy appearance. What a magnifico 
 you are ! Where's your fur-cloak and your poodle ? 
 — You, indeed ! — Orson might have been your great- 
 aunt by the mother's-side, for all I know of the mat- 
 ter. — Do the people in this quarter dangle such canes 
 at the wrist as that you are switching your boots 
 with ? — Oh ! lack-a-day ! lack-a-daisy ! now I re- 
 member you ! — Let me hear you grumble. 
 
 RoMANZo. Well ! art thou still a stranger to this 
 frown ? 
 
 Andrea. Verily I do entertain some oblivious 
 recollection that I may have seen such a frizziognomy 
 before : Or is it one from a dream of ugly faces? — 
 Stop : Odso, now I have it ! You are the bravo that 
 robbed my unfortunate master, threw him into a mill- 
 dam hard by, and made me hold my nostril over a 
 cauldron of deadly night-shade, till I am grown as 
 dizzy as a beetle. The same ! I'll swear it before this 
 Madonna herself ! — And these are his very garments, 
 of which, with sacratitious hands, you have stripped 
 and deluded his body. O thief ! burglarer ! fortune- 
 hunter ! kidnapper ! 
 
 Agatha. What do I hear ? 
 
SYLVIA : OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 93 
 
 Sylvia. There is no truth in him : 
 
 Believe not that rude thing ! 
 
 Andrea. I'll take it on my life he is a capital 
 fellow ! — a murderer ! a committer of fo-paws, and 
 every other crime that deserves a halter ! — He cannot 
 deny it ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Slave ! liar ! devil ! 
 My rage unnerves me ! 
 
 Andrea. Will you abscond ? — or must I have you 
 laid by the heels for a common tax-gatherer? 
 
 RoMANZO. Down to the dust, to which I'll crumble 
 thee! 
 
 Andrea. O, fool ! fool I fool ! — you have demol- 
 ished at one blow a feast that might have tempted St 
 Anthony himself! — That pitcher will never recover 
 the thwack you have given it, if it lived to the age of 
 Methusalem ! — You have injured, O lamentable ! the 
 rotundity of that cheese beyond redemption ; spoiled 
 the shape of that pie for ever and long after ! — Oons ! 
 he will make a whipt-syllabub of me if I stay any 
 longer. Roo-roo-roo ! 
 
 \Exit pursued by ROMANZO. 
 
 The Scene closes. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Boots it to tell what all have seen ? 
 A Maybush on a village green ! 
 Its turban'd head with garland wound, 
 Its rich skirts spreading on the ground ; 
 Like a sultana of the East. 
 In all her gay apparel drest. 
 Emerald, turkis, ruby rare. 
 Beryl, tourmaline are there ; 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Pearl, and precious chrysolite, 
 
 Sapphire blue, and topaz bright ; 
 
 With every gem that ever shone 
 
 A Tartar's belt or bonnet on. 
 
 But fresher in their different lustres, 
 
 Our dew-besprent-festoons, and clusters ; 
 
 Purer of tint, and with perfume 
 
 Filling wide Nature's boundless room. — 
 
 What is a jewel-dropping tree, 
 
 O May-bush ! when compared to thee ? 
 
 Stephania, Roselle, Jacintha, Geronymo, 
 and Peasants assembled. 
 
 Chorus. 
 O May, thou art a merry time, 
 
 Sing hi ! the hawthorn pink and pale ! 
 When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, 
 
 And summer-flowers to sow the dale. 
 
 When lasses and their lovers meet 
 Beneath the early village thorn. 
 
 And to the sound of tabor sweet 
 Bid welcome to the Maying-morn ! 
 O May, thou art, &c. 
 
 When gray-beards and their gossips come 
 With crutch in hand our sports to see, 
 
 And both go tottering, tattling home, 
 Topful of wine as well as glee ! 
 O May, thou art, &c. 
 
 But Youth was aye the time for bliss. 
 So taste it. Shepherds ! while ye may : 
 
 For who can tell that joy like this 
 Will come another holiday? 
 O May, thou art, &c. 
 
SYLVIA : OR, THE MA V QUEEN. 95 
 
 First Peasant. Ha ! ha ! ha ! — Now ! who's for 
 ninepins ? 
 
 Secotid Peasant. Who's for ball ? 
 
 Third Peasant. I ! 
 
 Fourth Peasant, And I ! 
 
 Fifth Peasant. I'm for the bowling-green ! 
 
 Sixth Peasant. For ball ! for ball ! — Pins are only 
 for women and tailors ! 
 
 Geronymo. Stay your feet, lads ! — and your 
 tongues, ladies ! — they are both running without 
 reason. Will you hear me ? 
 
 All. Hear him ! hear him ! hear him ! 
 
 Geronymo. Plague on't ! You make more noise 
 in keeping silence than the town-criers. Will you 
 stop your bawling ? 
 
 All. Ay, stop your bawling ! stop your bawling ! 
 
 Geronymo. Mercy upon me, what a set of peace- 
 makers ! — Then you will not listen to me ? — You 
 fellow here, with the bull-neck, roar me down these 
 rascals ! — only, pray, do not gape so wide, else there 
 is some danger your head may fall off by the ears. 
 
 First Peasant. Silence ! Let no man say another 
 word, or I'll make him cry peccavi t 
 
 Geronymo. Well said, Hircoles ! — you might 
 play Hircoles, without his club, for your fist falls 
 like a weaver's beam. — Now be quiet ! Hear what 
 I have to bring forth ! This it is, lads ; this it is, 
 fellows : or, as it were, this is the tot of the matter ; 
 that is to say, in short and briefly to complain the 
 whole business — We have forgotten to choose a May 
 Queen ! — Shall I be heard in this land hereafter ? 
 
 All. A May-Queen ! a May-Queen ! who shall we 
 choose? Who is she to be ? Which is the handsom- 
 est ? And the prettiest ? Ay, and the most beautiful 
 too ? Which is she ? 
 
96 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Geronymo. Shall I be heard agahi, I say ? 
 
 Fi7-st Peasant, Silence ! 
 
 Geronymo. Thanks, thou stertorean fellow ! — 
 If Wisdom would be heard she must always keep a 
 swaggerer like this at her elbow. I say, my friends : 
 I humbly repose, that is, I succumb to your better 
 judgments, whether, in this case — mark me ! — thus it 
 stands, or, as I may say, here 'tis : There are so many 
 of these lasses who are the handsomest, and prettiest, 
 ay, and most beautiful one of them all, that I think it 
 would go hard with us to choose her who is the most 
 so. Therefore I humbly assent, and maintain, and 
 suspect, that it is better to let it go by straws. 
 
 All. Ay ! ay ! let straws end it ! 
 
 Geronymo. Why come then ! see what it is to 
 have a noddle. Here is my hat to hold the lots. 
 Mistress Stephania, a straw for you ; another straw 
 for you, Mistress Roselle ; another, 'nother, 'nother, 
 — straws apiece for the prettiest six among ye. Now 
 listen to me : this is the case, and thus it stands, or 
 as may be delivered in one word, here 'tis : Whoever 
 of ye pulls the longest straw is to be May-Queen. Do 
 I speak like a wiseacre or no ? 
 
 All. Like a very Salmon ! Spoke like a very 
 Salmon ! 
 
 Second Peasant. Should we not take the senses 
 of the assembly upon it ? 
 
 All. No ! no ! no !— Come, lasses ! draw ! draw ! 
 draw ! 
 
 Stephania. Very well. \Pulls a straw.] 
 
 Roselle. Ay, very well. [Pulls.] 
 
 First Girl. [Pulls.] O lawk ! such a pudget of 
 a thing ! 
 
 Second Girl. Now for me ! [Pi/ lis.] 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 97 
 
 Third Girl. [Pjilling.'\ I vow I am the longest 
 of you all ! — I vow so it is ! 
 
 Enter OsME above, playing on a ly7-e. 
 
 Stei'HANIA. Hark! hark! O hark ! what measures 
 play, 
 So sweet ! so clear ! yet far away ! 
 RosELLE. Whence is the music ? who can say ? 
 Jacintha. 'Tis like the crystal sound of wells, 
 
 Betrampled by the sparkling rain ! 
 Stephania. Or dew-drops fall'n on silver bells 
 That tingle o'er and o'er again ! 
 First Girl. 'Tis in the air ! 
 
 Second Girl. 'Tis underground ! 
 
 Third Girl. 'Tis everywhere ! 
 
 Fourth Girl. The magic sound ! 
 
 All. Hush ! O hush ! and let us hear : 
 
 'Tis too beautiful to fear. 
 
 OsME sings and plays. 
 
 Hither ! hither ! 
 
 O come hither ! 
 Lads and lasses come and see ! 
 
 Trip it neatly, 
 
 Foot it featly, 
 O'er the grassy turf to me ! 
 
 There are bowers 
 
 Hung with flowers, 
 Richly curtain'd halls for you ! 
 
 Meads for rovers 
 
 Shades for lovers, 
 Violet beds, and pillows too ! 
 G 
 
98 .SYLVIA : OR, THE MAY QUEE.X. 
 
 Purple heather 
 
 You may gather 
 Sandal-deep in seas of bloom ! 
 
 Pale-faced lily, 
 
 Proud Sweet-Willy, 
 Gorgeous rose, and golden broom ? 
 
 Odorous blossoms 
 
 For sweet bosoms. 
 Garlands green to bind the hair ; 
 
 Crowns and kirtles 
 
 Weft of myrtles, 
 Youth may choose, and Beauty wear ! 
 
 Brightsome glasses 
 
 For bright faces 
 Shine in ev'ry rill that flows ; 
 
 Every minute 
 
 You look in it 
 Still more bright your beauty grows ! 
 
 Banks for sleeping. 
 
 Nooks for peeping, 
 Glades for dancing, smooth and fine ! 
 
 Fruits delicious 
 
 For who wishes. 
 Nectar, dew, and honey-wine ! 
 
 Hither ! hither ! 
 
 O come hither ! 
 Lads and lasses come and see ! 
 
 Trip it neatly, 
 
 Foot it featly, 
 O'er the grassy turf to me ! 
 
 \Exeicnt Peasants led hy the music. 
 
SVLV/A ; OK, THE MAV QUEEN. 
 
 Scene III. 
 A bosky woodland near the bounds 
 Of Queen Morgana's sunny grounds. 
 Under a spreading maple tree 
 Sits a rude Swain, as rude may be, 
 With canes, and marsh flags on his knee ; 
 Seven hollow pipes his artless hands 
 Strive to conjoin with rushy bands ; 
 And with a grave, yet smirking air. 
 He trolls satyric ditties there. 
 Forgetful of the form he wore, 
 And almost all he was before. 
 
 Andrea. I have grown wondrous 'rithmetical of 
 late, being, indeed, most lamentably given to poesy 
 and numbers. But chiefly of all I aff"ect the pastoral, 
 the fal-lal, or as it may be very opprobriously 
 described, — the lambkin style of farcification. Let 
 me see : what can I do in this way ? 
 
 'Tis sweet among the purling groves 
 
 To sit in sunny shade, 
 And hear the frisky turtle-doves 
 Skip o'er the 'namelled glade. 
 The amorous sheep go coo-oo ! 
 The birds go baa-aa too ! 
 And I upon my crook do play 
 While o'er the fields I take my — steps ! 
 
 The dappled daisy — No ! — 
 
 When hairy morn — Pize on't ! — 
 
 Where meadows full of fishes be, 
 And streams with daisies dight. 
 
loo SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 My dappled goats do pipe to me 
 From Night to airy Morn. 
 
 The fragrant goats sing faa-Iaa, 
 
 The Shepherd he goes maa-aa ! 
 
 Till both are tired of food and play, 
 
 And then he drives his flock astray. 
 
 Such is the peaceful Shepherd's strife — 
 
 And here be two of his black sheep — 
 
 Enter Grumiel and MOMIEL. 
 
 MOMIEL. Didst thou not mark them winding 
 down the glen 
 Flaunting their quickset crowns ? 
 
 Grumiel. Ay, what of that ? 
 
 MOMIEL, What of it ? humph ! — this fellow hunts 
 as keen 
 As a blind grayhound ; cannot scent his prey 
 Though rubb'd to 's nose. 
 
 Grumiel. What 's to be made of clowns 
 
 And country-queans ? 
 
 MOMIEL. Ingenious Mischief turns 
 
 The clumsiest tools into brave instruments 
 When work is to be done. Leave all to me : 
 I '11 save thy back a drubbing. — Ho ! thou knave ! 
 
 Andrea. The same to you, sir ; and may you 
 long deserve the title ! 
 
 MoMiEL. Put on this ivy skirt, this gown of leaves 
 To hide thy shaggy limbs : and here ! — this too — 
 This bulrush bonnet, that thy horns and ears 
 May perk not out. 
 
 Andrea. It fits me like a bee hive, or an old hat 
 on a broomstick, to fright crows in a corn-field. 
 What a farthingale too ! — Now if I were only simple 
 
SVLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. loi 
 
 enough, I might pass for a wild Indianness, and ex- 
 hibit myself as a pattern of unsophisticated nature. 
 MOMIEL. Listen to me dull beast ! — Thou hast 
 but smell'd 
 The oblivious liquor, yet art drunk as though 
 Thou hadst been soak'd in it. Hear what I say, 
 And what thou hast to do. If thou forget'st it, 
 I '11 bend four pines to earth, whose strong recoil 
 Shall fling thee piece-meal o'er their whistling backs 
 To where the great winds rise ! 
 
 Andrea. Sir, I will not regret a tittle of it, if it 
 were even as long and tedious as a curtain-lecture to 
 a tired courier. 
 
 MOMIEL, Thou wert best not. Come hither to 
 this knoll ; 
 See'st thou yon troop of villagers ? 
 Andrea. I do. 
 
 Mom I EL. They 're seeking a May-Qneen : dost 
 
 hear. 
 Andrea. Why, ay. 
 Catching May- flies you say. 
 Mom I EL. A May-Queen, fool ! 
 
 [Strikes him. 
 Grumiel. Good ! rap it into his skull ! 
 MOMIEL. What was 't I said? 
 
 Andrea. Eh ? — Oh ! — Ay ! catching a May- 
 Queen. 
 Momiel. So ! — well ! — 
 
 Thou hast no more to do, but take this wreath 
 And cast it in their path. Dost hear me, idiot ? 
 Andrea. With my two eyes. 
 Momiel. Begone then, to thy service ! 
 
 Look thou perform it, or I'll strangle thee ! 
 
 {Exeunt Grumiel and Momiel. 
 
102 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Andrea. Fear not ; I will do it most ingenuously. 
 The Scene changes to another part of the Glen, 
 
 Enter the Peasants. 
 
 RosELLE. This will-o'-the-wisp of a musician hath 
 stopt in time ; I am weary almost to fainting. Pro- 
 ceed, neighbours ; I must sit down a moment on this 
 bank. 
 
 Stephania. Nay, I will bear you company. 60 
 on, friends ; we '11 follow you towards the cottage, 
 when my sister is able to walk. 
 
 Feasants. Very well. Trudge on, Geronymo. 
 You are the head gander in this wild goose exhibi- 
 tion. [Exeunt Peasants. 
 
 The Scene changes again. 
 
 Enter the Peasants. 
 
 Geronymo. Where are we now, can any body 
 tell? 
 
 Second Peasant. In a maze, that 's certain. 
 
 Geronymo. Thank ye, for the discovery : What 
 a treasure thou would'st be to a map-maker ! 
 
 Third Peasant. We are all astray, like the Babes 
 in the Wood, and therefore I see nothing better we can 
 do but innocently sit down upon the ground, and kiss 
 one-another. 
 
 Geronymo. Stay ; who 's there ? — Hollo ! neigh- 
 bour in the green petticoat ; a word with ye ! 
 Enter Andrea. 
 
 First Girl. Lawk ! such a fright ! 
 
 Second Girl. Prithee, good woman, from what 
 pedlar do you buy your millinery ? 
 
 Geronymo. I remember seeing such another face 
 
SVLyjA : OR, THE MAY QUEEN. loj 
 
 upon a city-fountain, with a cap of reeds like a floating 
 island. 
 
 first Feasant. Haw ! haw ! haw ! haw ! — 'A looks 
 as if 'a was carrying off a bed of turnips ! — haw ! haw ! 
 haw ! haw ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Excellent ! — Or crying jonquils liy 
 the hundred ! 
 
 Fourth Feasant. Who are you ! — Whence come 
 you ? — What 's your business ? 
 
 Andrea. 'T is more easily told than yours to ask it. 
 But no matter : Stand round, and I will unlighten 
 you with a clear exploration. 
 
 Fifth Feasant. I '11 warrant you she 's a basket- 
 maker, by these rushes. 
 
 All. Well ? — What is't ? — Speak ! — Now !— 
 Begin !— Out with 't ! 
 
 Andrea. Why then, if you will know, the long 
 and the short of the matter is this, videlicet : I am 
 come to elect myself unanimously your May-Queen ! 
 
 All. A May-Queen ! ha ! ha ! ha ! — You a May- 
 Queen ! — O good ! — O the monster ! — 
 
 Andrea. Monster! — do ye select me for a mon- 
 ster ? — Perchance there are others in the company 
 who have as good a right to the honour, if there were 
 a fair show of horns for it. But here ! ye ungrateful 
 plel)eians ! take this hdliex—lthroiaing down the 
 wreath'] and hang yourselves in it, verbatim et 
 literatim every one of ye ! I have done with such 
 vagabonds ! \Exit, but returns. 
 
 Fifth Feasant. I knew she was a weaver of some 
 sort or other, by her pestilent tongue ? 
 
 First Girl. Lawk ! what is this ? 
 
 [ Taking np the wreath. 
 
 Second Girl. O beautiful ! 
 
I04 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Third Girl. Let me see it ! 
 
 Fourth Girl. We '11 all see it ? — let it go round I 
 
 Fifth Girl. What a precious — Lo ! here 's a scroll, 
 too, stuck in the middle ! — Where is Jacintha ? — She 
 is a scholar — Let her read the intents of it. She can 
 say her a, b^ ab, as quick as nobody. 
 
 Jacinth. \_Reads.'\ 
 
 This wreath by fairy fingers twined, 
 One brow, and one alone, will bind : 
 Her whom it suits let all obey, 
 And choose her as their Queen of May. 
 
 First Girl. Lawk ! I'm sure it will just fit me : it 
 is just my size. 
 \_Piits on the -wreath, "which enlarges and falls about 
 
 her on the ground. 
 Andrea. By Saint Bridget, then, you must be 
 just the cut of a landlady ! 
 Second Girl. Let me try it ! 
 
 \^It contracts to a single tuft on her head. 
 Andrea. She wears it as a hen sparrow does her 
 topping. It will come to me after all ! 
 
 [ The Girls all try it, but without success. 
 All. Nay, we must look farther. Where is 
 Stephania ? Where is Roselle ?— Here they come ! 
 Show it ! give it them ! 
 
 Enter Stephania, and RosELLE. 
 
 Fourth Girl. Whoever this fits is to be May- 
 Queen. 'T is a fairy garland. Read here ! 
 
 Stephania. \_Trying it.'\ Pooh ! it has slipt off 
 me — 
 
 Andrea. Like a cat down a cottage-eave ! 
 
 Roselle. Then it must be mine !— Come ! I'll 
 be chaired ! \^Trying it on,'\ Plague on 't ! 't is be- 
 witched ! I '11 none of it. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 105 
 
 Andrea. Well said, Mistress Magnanimity. 
 
 Stephania. Wiiere did ye get it ? 
 
 RosELLE. How did you come by it ? 
 
 Geronymo. Why, let me speak — here 't is : From 
 this smooth cheeked damsel before ye ; this Water- 
 goddess ! 
 
 Stephania. As sm-e as sure, I see our friend 
 Andrea in disguise ! hid beneath these flags and 
 rushes, like Love amongst the Roses ! 'T is he ! 
 What say you, Roselle? 
 
 RosELLE. I would almost swear to that leering 
 eye of his, with the crow's-foot stepping into it ! But 
 he has grown as barbarous as an ape since we last saw 
 him. It is ! it is the self-same gentleman ! Does he 
 come in this habit to frighten us? Hang him, scare- 
 crow. 
 
 Geronymo. An imposthume ! An imposthume ! 
 He is an imposthume, neighbours ! 
 
 All. Ho ! a wolf in sheep's clothing ! — Tear off 
 his rushy cap there ! Off with it ! 
 
 [ They pull off his cap. 
 
 Stephania and Roseli.e. Ah ! — Save us ! 
 deliver us ! 
 
 Andrea. What is the matter with the gipsies ? — 
 Do they take me for the ghost of some young man 
 whom they have seduced to commit homicide ? 
 
 Roselle. O now indeed unhappy Signior 
 Pimplenose ! 
 
 Stephania. Miserable Ribobolo ! Mercy upon 
 us ! what a pair of ears he has got ! 
 
 Andrea. Why, what fault have you with my ears, 
 little Mistress Red Riding-Hood ? — Am I going to 
 swallow you ? 
 
 Stephania. What new mishap has overtaken 
 
io6 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 you ? — Have you been in the pillory since we saw 
 you, that your ears are stretched to such a size ? 
 Have you been hectoring in a tap-room, and been 
 pulled out by the ears, that they are lengthened so 
 prodigiously ? 
 
 Andrea. Prodigiously ! — Why, what would you 
 have of them ? — I' m sure they are better than those 
 half-crown pieces of yours with holes punched i' the 
 middle ! You have no more ears than a fish ! Me- 
 thinks it is ye who have been in the pillory, and have 
 had your ears cropt for perjury, like a holly-bush. 
 Show me any beast upon earth but yourselves with 
 such apologies for sound-catchers, and I '11 pare mine 
 down to the heel like an old cheese. — No ! these, 
 indeed, are something like ears ! these are respectable 
 hearing-leathers ! But yours ! — I would as soon 
 think of listening through a couple of penny whistles ! 
 ■ — Perchance you will say my horns, too, are a little 
 branchy or so ? 
 
 Stephania. Horrible ! horrible ! 
 
 RosELLE. Ave Maria ! santa purissima ! 
 
 Geronymo. Et secula seculoi-uni ! — O for a priest 
 to conjure him ! 
 
 Andrea. Well, come, this is good now ! as if 
 they never saw horns before ! 
 
 Stephania. Never on you ! never on j'ou! D'ye 
 think I 'd keep company with a rhinoceros ? 
 
 Roselle. Some wicked fairy has charmed him 
 into this shape ! he is enchanted ! 
 
 Andrea. Charming and enchanting ! — Why ay, 
 they always said these ornaments became me. 
 
 Roselle. O dreadful ! — had you these budders 
 when we knew you at the mill .? 
 
 Andrea. These?— Bless you, I should take cold 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 107 
 
 without them ! — I never was without horns in my 
 life ! I was born with them, hke a young snail. My 
 horns and ears grew together, one behind the other, 
 like mushrooms. 
 
 RosELLE. Nay, 'tis false ! you had them not ! — 
 we should have seen them ! 
 
 Andrea. O effrontery ! what will the world come 
 to at last ? — They will begin to persuade me just now 
 that I never wore hooves either ; but that these feet 
 are no better than theirs, letter L's turned under 
 them. — [Shcrwiiig his feet. 
 
 Peasants. The devil ! the devil in a bottle-green 
 petticoat ! — Fly, neigbours ! run for it, countrymen ! 
 — Ofif ! off ! — Let us break our own necks rather than 
 be eaten alive by this goat-footed heretic ! 
 
 [They run away. 
 
 Andrea. As I'm a person, I never saw such ill- 
 bred people in my life ! — They were never at court, 
 as I was, that 's plain as the face upon my nose ! — 
 Let them die in their simplicity, ignorants ! — I wash 
 their hands of me for ever ! {Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 Lost in a fit of meditation 
 
 RoMANZO takes his sullen station 
 
 Fast by a rock, from which a stream 
 
 Tumbles its little waves of cream 
 
 Into a basin, whence it wells 
 
 Clearly and calmly through the dells. 
 
 The spot is lone, I grant, but then 
 
 So is the whole Enchanted Glen ; 
 
 And though our Youth would seem to roam, 
 
 'T is not ten steps from Sylvia's home. 
 
io8 SVLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 RoMANZO. Her mother shuns me, and with eyes 
 
 averse, 
 Hardly endures my sight. What she may think, 
 I cannot tell ; but that denial strange 
 Of my fool servant, gave her cautious nature 
 Reason to doubt I am not what I say. 
 Yet I will not forsake them : — Some dark storm 
 Seems to make heavy the dull air about us. 
 Although the sky is clear. I '11 see it down ; 
 Perchance I may have leave, if it do come, 
 To stand between the thunder-bolt and them : 
 This is a hope ! — My Sylvia, too, is kind, 
 Still kind ! and with yet dearer, sweeter smiles, 
 Endeavours to repair her mother's frowns. — 
 What noise is here ? 
 
 Enter the Peasants. 
 Some villagers a-maying : Who are ye ? 
 
 Geronymo. Why here 't is, your worship : We 
 are the most harmful people in the world ; and 
 indeed would not tread upon a worm if it sought our 
 mercy. Yet have we been assailed here in this woodj 
 b^ — saving your worship's worship ! — no less a per- 
 sonage than Satan himself, in the form of a mountain- 
 goat, only that he stood on 's hind legs, bolt upright ; 
 with eyes like two red-hot warming-pans, ten horns, 
 each as tall as a young oak-tree, and whisking a long 
 tail over his head as if he was going to thrash us with 
 it. — In short — 
 
 RoMANZO. Be you at peace ! — I have expell'd him 
 hence. 
 It is no devil, but a mortal wretch 
 Whom the elves sport with, and have thus trans- 
 
 form'd, 
 To make them merriment. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 109 
 
 Geronymo. We huml)Iy thank your worship for 
 exercising him from this place. Can your worship 
 detect us to a little green cottage, that bubbles over 
 the stream somewhere here about ? 
 
 RoMANZO. Here come the owners ; they will best 
 direct you. \Retires. 
 
 Geronymo. A very personable sort of person, I Ml 
 assure ye, for a person of these parts ! — O lud ! here 
 is a most preternatural creature ! 
 
 Enter Sylvia, and Agatha. 
 
 Peasa7its. Huzza ! huzza ! — This is she ! This 
 is she whom we have been looking for ! — Not such a 
 beauty in all the Earth, nor in the New World either ! 
 — Welcome to our Queen ! welcome ! welcome ! — 
 Huzza ! 
 
 Sylvia. Good people ! wherefore do ye come 
 with shouts 
 To break the holy silence of this vale ? 
 Would ye aught with us ? 
 
 Peasants. To it, Geronymo ! 
 
 Sylvia. Why do you call me "Queen"? and 
 throw your wreaths 
 At my unworthy feet ? — By my simplicity ! 
 I do not love the title ! 
 
 Peasants. Plague on 't ! will nobody out with a 
 speech? — I could as soon look at the sun in his bright- 
 ness ! — My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth, like 
 the hammer to an old bell ! — She 's a rare pretty one, 
 that's certain ! — Geronymo ! where is thy 'ration? — 
 Where have we lived that we have never seen her 
 before? — Geronymo! plague take him, where is his 
 speech ? where is his 'ration ? — Begin ! 1 '11 second 
 thee, man ! I '11 stand behind thee ! 
 
no SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Geronymo. Most mightiful ! and most beautiful ! 
 and most dutiful princess ! We do most passionately 
 design and request that — And — so — hum! — that — 
 hem ! — In a word, and as I may say, thus it stands, 
 or here 't is, most lovely flower of this flowery loveli- 
 ness ! We have been tickled hither in the ear by an 
 indivisible singing-bird, through dangers and demons, 
 over precipices and watercresses, in spite of quagmires 
 and quicksands, by numberless out-of-the-way short- 
 cuts, and straight-forward roundabouts, from our 
 village to this place — 
 
 Peasants. Bravo ! bravo ! 
 
 Geronymo. Mar me not ! I am in the very 
 passion of it ! — And so, to include my narration, thou 
 paradox of beauty ? thou superlatively superexcellent 
 and most sweet creature ! we come in a body to offer 
 you our loves and submissions ; for 't is only looking 
 at your pretty face for one moment to see that you, 
 and none but you, are she whom Destiny has cut out 
 with her shears for our May-Queen ! 
 
 Peasants. Huzza ! — the wreath ! the wreath ! — 
 Crown her ! — Huzza ! 
 
 Sylvia is crowned as May-Queen. 
 
 Sylvia. 'T is all so sudden that I cannot strive — 
 Nay, choose some other — It will not become — 
 Agatha. Would every crown were worn as 
 peacefully ! 
 
 Sylvia is carried by the Peasants to ajioivery bank 
 xvhere she is installed as May-Queen. 
 
 Peasants. The song ! the song that our pastor 
 taught us for the 'casion ! — Come ? — the roundel ! the 
 roundel ! — Take hands, and sing it as we dance 
 about and about her. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. in 
 
 There 's a bank with rich cowslips, and cuckoo-buds 
 strewn, 
 To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the 
 May ; 
 Here 's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon, 
 And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay ! 
 
 Here's a garland of red maiden-roses for you, 
 Such a beautiful wreath is for beauty alone ! 
 
 Here 's a golden king-cup, brimming over with dew, 
 To be kiss'd by a lip just as sweet as its own ! 
 
 Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the dale, 
 That the Nymph of the wave on your wrists doth 
 bestow ; 
 Here 's a lily-wrought scarf, your sweet blushes to 
 veil, 
 Or to lie on that bosom like snow upon snow ! 
 
 Here 's a myrtle enwreath'd with a jessamine band. 
 To express the fond twining of Beauty and Youth : 
 
 Take this emblem of love in thy exquisite hand. 
 And do THOU sway the evergreen sceptre of Truth ! 
 
 Then around you we '11 dance, and around you we '11 
 sing ! 
 To soft pipe, and sweet tabor we '11 foot it away ! 
 And the hills, and the vales, and the forests shall 
 ring 
 While we hail you our lovely young Queen of the 
 May ! 
 
 Geronymo. I am taken ! I am quite taken ! — 
 
112 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Venus, the God of Love, has shot me through the 
 breast with his quiver ! My heart falls asunder like 
 a cleft apple ! — Madam Agatha, I would have some 
 words with you. 
 
 Agatha. With me, friend ? 
 
 Geronymo. Ay, Madam.— Now to break the ice 
 in delicate manner ! — You must know, Madam ; the 
 case is thus, or thus it stands, or in other terms and 
 insinuations, here 't is, and this is the tot of the matter : 
 I am over head and ears with Mistress Sylvia, your 
 daughter — in short, I love her to destruction — and 
 so, if your politics happen to suit, I hope we shall 
 have your dissent to our marriage. 
 
 Agatha. (Aside.) What should I say now? — 
 My mind misgives me about this Traveller, as he calls 
 himself : and even were he what he pretends, is he a 
 fit husband for my lowly daughter ? This honest 
 villager would make my Sylvia a homelier, but per- 
 chance a happier mate. 
 
 Geronymo. Well? — What say you. Madam 
 Quietly ? 
 
 Agatha. How now ? What is the matter ? 
 
 Sylvia. O me ! a heavy slumber seals mine eyes ! 
 Vapours as thick as Night curtain me round 
 With herse-like folds ; and the moist hand of Death 
 Laid coldly on my brow presses me down 
 Upon the dreary pillow of Oblivion. 
 Mother ! — where art thou } Fare thee well, my love ! 
 Good-night for ever ! — ever ! — 
 
 Agatha. Alas ! what strange disorder ? — These 
 changes and surprises have wrought too much upon 
 her tenderness. Bear her within, my friends, to her 
 green chamber. This way — gently — so — 
 
 [She is borne in. 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MA V QUEEN. tr3 
 
 Secottd Peasant. This joy hath a sorrowful end- 
 ing. Let us go home, and return to-morrow by day- 
 light to enquire after her. 
 
 Feasants. Let us do so. Alas ! poor maiden ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Geronymo, Marry, I'll not stir a foot! I'll 
 wait. Heaven willing ! though 't were a thousand 
 years : that I 'm dissolved upon ! 
 
 Stephania. Ho ! ho ! my weathercock is incon- 
 stant, I see. But he shall not shift his tail without 
 a breeze, or I 'm no daughter of a true woman ! So, 
 Mister Geronymo ! you are going to 
 
 Geronymo. I am, incontinently. [Exit, 
 
 RoSELLE. Follow him, sister; follow him. 
 We '11 give him no more peace than a kettle at a 
 dog's tail. We '11 make him wish himself deaf and 
 us dumb ; we '11 speak knitting-needles into his ear, 
 till his head grows all miz-miz and infusion. 
 
 Stephania. The ungrateful fellow !— After all 
 my pains to tangle him ! 
 
 RosELLE. The saucy jackanapes, rather ! Come ! 
 he shall neither eat, drink, nor be merry, with any 
 comfort, till he gives us satisfaction : We too can be 
 dissolved upon this matter. Follow me ! 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 Within the Sorcerer's dread domain 
 Behold poor Andrea again ! 
 Hither the wily fiends decoyed him ; 
 Being too simple to avoid 'em. 
 Whatever more beseems you know, 
 The characters themselves will show. 
 H 
 
114 ■SVL VIA ; OR, THE MA V QUEEN. 
 
 Grumiel, Momiel, and Andrea. 
 
 Grumiel. Well, brain-spinner ! 
 What fly is this fine web of thine to catch ? 
 Plague on thy sleights and stratagems ! ne'er used 
 But when the arm lacks power. — Deeds ! deeds ! 
 
 deeds ! 
 'T is sleight of hand that suits me best ! 
 
 MoMiEL. Tall soul ! — 
 
 Where'er he comes are blows, and blows enough ; — 
 But then he gets them ; that he calls his courage ! 
 If courage were esteemed by what it bears 
 No Pantaloon were ever half so valiant. 
 For he stands kicks like compliments ; and bangs 
 Too hard for Punchinello's wooden cheek. 
 He takes like fan- taps, ladies' punishment ! — 
 I '11 no such courage ! 
 
 Grumiel. Well ? what mutter'st thou ? 
 
 Momiel, Let me work on, I tell thee, or thou 'It 
 rue it : 
 
 Spoil me this scheme and I '11 undo thy doings ! — 
 Come hither, block ! [ To Andrea. 
 
 Stoop down, and hold thy head 
 Under this weed I wring : the juice of it 
 Dropt in the winding channel of thine ear 
 Will reach the brain, and like a chymic drug 
 Precipitate the thick and muddy film 
 That now hangs dully, as a cloud in air. 
 Between the light and sense. Be thou again 
 The natural fool we found thee, but no more ! 
 
 Andrea. Thank ye, most considerate gentlemen ! 
 — ye do not pinch my collar so wofully as at first. 
 As I'm a person ! it shall do ye no disservice. Come ! 
 speak the word ; if ye are ambitious for office, say 
 it ! I will recommend ye as the most tender-hearted 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 115 
 
 catchpolls : the most worthy to be thief-catchers and 
 bumbailiffs, that any honest man would like to have 
 to do withal. 
 
 MOMIEL. Peace, gabbler ! — Look at thy feet ! 
 
 Andrea. O marvellous ! 
 
 MOiMiEL. Stoop o'er this green reflector, and 
 behold 
 Within its shivering mirror, what thou art. 
 Wilt bend, and kiss thine image ? 
 
 Andrea. That's not me ! 
 
 Eh ? — let me feel ! — 'Tis true ! — O lack ! O trans- 
 migration ! Why my own father, wise as he is, 
 would not know me again ! — When did these sprouts 
 put forth ? — I am furnished like a two-year old 
 buffalo ! — they will slay me shortly for my hide and 
 horns ! — There is enough upon my head to set up a 
 dozen dealers in tortoise - shell combs and knife- 
 handles : — Ears too, into which you might thrust your 
 hands like hedging-gloves ! — O lamentable ! lament- 
 able ! 
 
 Grumiel. Knock him o' the head ! 
 
 MoMiEL. No ! — Listen, thou wretch : 
 Our art which has deformed thee, can re-form 
 As easily. But thou must earn with pains 
 Thy disenthralment from this bestial shape. 
 Wilt thou, on promise to be re-made man — 
 
 Andrea. I will ! — Turn out your Ogres and your 
 Green Dragons ; I'll put them to flight like crows ! — 
 Where be these Anthropophagi ? — Show 'em to me ! 
 — Anything but the old Lady of Babylon herself, 
 I'll undertake for ; and even with her too, I would 
 venture to cross a horn ! — Give me a cudgel, if you 
 love me ! and let me be doing — 
 
 Grumiel. (Strikes him). There ! — is 't not a 
 tough one ? eh ? 
 
ii6 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Andrea. This is giving me the cudgel with a 
 yengeance ! — He is an orator, I suppose, and speaks 
 to the feelings ! an indelible-impression-leaver, hang 
 him ! 
 
 MOMIEL. Wilt not have done ? 
 I'll crack thy neck if thou speak'st one more word ! — 
 List what I say : Follow this creeping stream 
 And it will lead thee to a hut, where live 
 An old dame and her daughter. Live, I say, 
 Though now I guess thou'lt find the younger one 
 Laid on a flowery bier, with doleful clowns 
 Trooping around it. Her thou must contrive 
 To bear off hitherward ; and fetch her safe 
 To where I will appoint. Do this but featly 
 And thou shalt be restored by our great Art, 
 To thy old shape. What answer ? Is 't agreed ? 
 
 Andrea. Say no more 1 — I will carry her off as 
 a lion does a lamb. What ! did I not belong to the 
 honourable fraternity of conveyancers ? — Did I not 
 lie for a whole summer, among the Lazzaroni, on the 
 steps of the Transport Office, at Naples ? She shall be 
 translated hither as softly as a bishop to a new bene- 
 fice ; as dexterously as if I had served an apprentice- 
 ship to an undertaker, or been purveyor to an anato- 
 mist. There are, to be sure, sweeter occupations 
 under the moon than body-snatching ; but the old 
 proverb sanctifies it, on this occasion, for "Needs 
 must " — the rest might be personal — Mum ! 
 
 MOMIEL. Come, we will show thee where we '11 
 take our stand, 
 To watch thy enterprise, and see the issue, 
 That we may give, receiving ; or perchance, 
 If need be, to rush out and help thy weakness. 
 Follow the clue I gave thee : we '11 be near. 
 
 [^Exetmt. 
 
ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 jORNING : 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 oHj 
 
 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, 
 
 that the gentle girl would rise. 
 
 Glad my fond heart, and greet mine eyes ! — 
 Come in, come in, thou loitering lover ! 
 
 1 bum till this suspense be over. 
 
ii8 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Enter Romanzo. 
 
 ROMANZO. The dawn springs, yet no day-light 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 ! 
 
 Behold how the early lark 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Apollo's wing'd bugleman 
 
 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 ! 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 119 
 
 No Stir ? — no word ? — what should this silence be ? — 
 
 she is dead i' the night !— Sylvia ! What, Sylvia ! 
 Away, false ceremony ! I '11 enter here ! 
 
 [Bursts in through the lattice door ^Sylvia's 
 
 chamber. 
 
 Enter AGXvaxfrom the door of the cottage. 
 Agatha. Alas ! what noise was that ? — 
 My child ! — Geronymo I — 
 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, Ste- 
 PHANIA, RosELLE, Jacintha, and the other 
 Feasants. 
 ROMANZO. Peace, good woman ! peace ! — 
 She sleeps like marble on a monument. 
 As cold and soundly — But not dead 1 — not dead ! — 
 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, 
 
 1 'd teach thee croak — 
 
 Agatha. SyJvia — She 's gone ? — she 's dead I — 
 She stirs not ! — breathes not ! — 
 Romanzo. Dead ? 
 
 Geronymo. Aye, dead as clay ! 
 
I20 SYLyjA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Geronymo. 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 folloaving, 
 
 Agatha, Stephania, and Roselle bear Sylvia 
 to the cottage. 
 
 The Scene closes. 
 
 Scene IL 
 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 solemness of shade. 
 
SYLVIA; VB, THE MAY QUEEN. i; 
 
 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. 
 But now the Sun with dubious eye 
 Measures the downfall of the sky. 
 And pauses, trembling, on thy brow. 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 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. 
 
 But look ! — who rides before you now, 
 Light cavalier ! upon a bough ? — 
 Awake, and hear the merry elf 
 Say what he comes about himself. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QVEEN. 123 
 
 Nephon astride upon an elm-branch swinging himself 
 up and down. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 But I, forsooth, must work by day 
 Because I am a cunning fay ! 
 'Ads me ! I 'm sorry I 'm so clever, 
 Else I had nought to do for ever. 
 But mingle with the moon-light elves, 
 That catch the spray on river shelves, 
 
124 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 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 my own profundity. — 
 Ay ; we have matters grave to do : 
 So with a short corant, or two, 
 Ere I begin, — around yon flower, 
 I '11 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 ? 
 
 Pretty lily ! pretty lily ! 
 
 Are you lover-lorn ? 
 That you stand so droopy-headed. 
 
 Weeping night and morn. 
 
 [A voice from the flower. ^ 
 
 Idle fairy ! idle fairy ! 
 
 Prattle here no more, 
 But be gone, and do your bidding 
 
 As you should before. 
 
SYLVIA : OR, THE MA Y QUEEN. 125 
 
 Nephon. Ha ? — ha ?— that 's Osme !— 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 j 
 And made by deep 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, 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ROMANZO muffled in a cloak, sohts. 
 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 grounds. Young heralds twain 
 Have deckt the place already. — I '11 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 etiters. Six Maidens strewing flowers. 
 The Dirgers. Then four Youths with a bier, on 
 ■which Sylvia is laid beneath a virgin pall. 
 
S YL VIA ; OR , THE MA Y Q UEEN. 127 
 
 Agatha supported by Stephania and Roselle. 
 Geronymo, Jacintha, and Feasants 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 ! 
 
 Strew ! strew ye, Maidens ! strew 
 
 Sweet flowers and fairest I 
 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 ! 
 
 Wail ! wail ye, &c. 
 
 Raise, raise the song of wo. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Wail ! wail ye, &c. 
 
 Geronymo. Cease ! — we must bear her on. 'T is 
 a long way to the village, and she must lie there a 
 
123 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAV QUEEN. 
 
 time before the priest will give her viaticum. Take 
 up the bier ! 
 
 Jacintha. 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 '11 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 lusiim natururn! — Yet, after all, I do not 
 know that a pair of neatly-twisted antlers are such a 
 runaway 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 ele- 
 gantly 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 Andrea ! 
 tizzy voo ! look what is before you. As I live, here 
 is a dead virgin ! It is she whom I am to elope with. 
 'Adad ! she *s a tender one ! I shall feel her no more, 
 than the flying horse Packasses (so they most asininely 
 call him) does a starved poet. Now then for an act 
 of regeneration — [App'oacliing the bier, 
 
SVLl^IA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 129 
 
 ROMANZO. [Darting forzoard.'\ 
 Miscreant, forbear ! Hold off thy impious hands ! 
 
 Andrea. \_Falling on his knees, '\ 
 O lud ! the ghost of my unfortunate master ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Slave, thou 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. 'S life ! 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 aivay, 
 
 Agatha. 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 ! 
 I 
 
I30 SVLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Floretta. Where can my young beauty be 
 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 ! 
 
 [ Takes off the viagic wreath. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Hark, she sighs ! the Maiden sighs, 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Still she sits in wonder so, 
 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 ! 
 
SVLyiA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 131 
 
 Kiss her, and press her, 
 Caress her, and bless her, 
 The sweet Maiden-Rose ! the Sun's Darling ! 
 Nephon. [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 : 
 
 could my bosom clasp thee all — close ! close ! 
 ROMANZO. This hand's enough for me. 
 Sylvia. Dear Mother ! — Friend ! — 
 
 Anon I '11 say how much I love ye both : 
 
 1 '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. 
 And, as they shall rue, 
 Cheat the demons' too. 
 But I first must grow 
 Some five feet or so. 
 And swell out my span 
 To the size of man. 
 
132 Sy'LV/A ; OK, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 \_Takes the shape <?/' 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 crumb, 
 
 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 ■tvithout.'\ A miracle ! a miracle ! 
 Nepiion. Here the boobies come, 
 Pat as A, B, C. 
 So behind the tomb 
 
 I will nestle me. \_Hides himself. 
 
 Enter the Peasants. 
 
 All. 'T is true, 't is certain, 't is 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 tivitches 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 head- 
 gear ? Have you been using the invaluable corn- 
 and-horn-rubber of little Beppo, the pedlar, that 
 you have gotten rid of your monstrosities ? 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 133 
 
 Nephon. Pooh ! 't was only a disguise to see if 
 you had love enough to remember me. — Ah ! Mistress 
 Roselle, you know by my 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 
 simperer wear this beautiful chaplet, while my lovely 
 Roselle deserves so much better to be May-Queen. 
 
 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 won't 
 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. \_Piitting 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, incompar- 
 able, 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 
 
134 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 o' the species ! I should not like to be the miller, 
 your father, pretty maiden, if all my sacks were so 
 weighty, [Lajfs her upon the stone. 
 
 Now, ye malicious couple ! spend your spite upon 
 this. I have had a hint of your doings. 
 
 Like a mist 
 kist 
 By the matin ray, 
 Or a shade 
 frayed, 
 Thus I wane away, [ Vanishes. 
 
 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, 
 
 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 
 
SVLVfA; OR, THE MAV QUEEN. 
 
 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. 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 your woods I deem 
 War, like a couchant lion, waits to spring 
 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 bird-like wings into the woody Vale, 
 Full of her errand. It is featly done. — 
 Fall midway to the Earth, sweet Lark ! I pray. 
 
 T/ie Scene closes. 
 
136 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEM. 
 
 Seme 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. 
 'T is 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. 
 
 * The Arabians seem by this oriental assertion to have esti- 
 mated fully the value of their delicious moiety of Old Spain. 
 
SVLy/A; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 137 
 
 O shut the eye, ancTope 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 wind 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, light-bobs, inch-people all, 
 
 They come ! They come ! with martial blore 
 
 Clearing a terrible path before ; 
 
138 SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 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 stalwart sons of war ! 
 Hurrah ! the buff-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. 
 
 Hard on the prancing heels 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 flowers they go, 
 That laugh within their greeny breasts 
 To feel such light feet on their crests. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 And ev'n themselves a-dancing seem 
 Under the weight that presses them. 
 
 But hark ! the trumpet's royal clangour 
 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 fail off in showers ; 
 So strong the blast, the voice so dread, 
 ' T would 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. 
 
 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, 
 
SYLVIA ; OH, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 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. 
 
 We the Sun's bright daughters be ! 
 As our golden wings may show ; 
 Every land, and every sea. 
 Echoes our sweet horan 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. 
 
 Through the desert valley green, 
 
 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. 
 
 By the many tassell'd bowers, 
 
 Ho-ran, hi-ran, ho-ran ho ! 
 Nimming precious bosom flowers, 
 
 Round, and round, and round we go. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 141 
 
 Dimpling o 'er the grassy meads, 
 
 Ho-ran, hi-ran, horan 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Fint Elve. 
 
 Sweet ! sweet ! 
 
 Second Elve. 
 
 how finely. 
 
 
 They do spark their feet ! 
 
 Third Elve. 
 
 Divinely ! 
 
 
 I can scarcely keep from dancing. 
 
 
 'T is so wild a measure ! 
 
 Fojcrth Elve. 
 
 E'en the heavy steeds are prancing 
 
 
 With uneasy pleasure ! 
 
 Second Elve. 
 
 Smooth the cadence of the music. 
 
 
 Smooth as wind ! 
 
 Fifth Elve. 
 
 me ! — I 'm dew-sick ! — 
 
 All. 
 
 Glutton ! glutton ! you 've been 
 
 
 drinking. 
 
 
 Till your very eyes are winking ! 
 
 Fourth Elve. 
 
 Put him to bed in that green tuft. 
 
 Second Elve. 
 
 He should not have a bed so soft ! 
 
142 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 First Elve. Let him be toss'd into a thistle ! 
 Third Elve. We '11 tease his nose with barley- 
 bristle ! 
 Sixth Elve, Or paint his face with that ceruse 
 Which our fine bella-donnas use, 
 The sweet conserve of maiden- 
 blushes. 
 First Elve^ Or cage him in a crib of rushes ; 
 There let him lie in verdant jail 
 Till he out-mourns the nightingale. 
 Fourth Elve. Sad thing ! what shall become of 
 thee, 
 When thy light nature wanes to something new ? 
 Say'st thou, sad thing ? — 
 
 Fifth Elve. O let me, let me be 
 
 A gliding minnow in a stream of dew ! 
 Second Elve. The sot ! 
 First Elve. The dolt. 
 Sixth Elve. The epicure ! 
 
 '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. 
 
 In violet blue 
 
 He pokes for dew. 
 And gapes at Heaven for starry tears ; 
 
 Till Phcebus laughs. 
 
 He crows and quaffs. 
 Frighting the lark with bacchant cheers. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 143 
 
 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. 
 Second Elve. Hi ! hi ! 
 
 Fourth Elve. Whither ? whither ? 
 Second Elve. I must try 
 
 To'get that feather 
 Floating near the stilly sun. 
 Fourth Elve, Now you have it, clap it on ! 
 What a gallant bonnet-plume, 
 Ruby-black with golden bloom ! 
 Second Elve. It must have belonged, I swear, 
 
 To some gaudy bird of air ; 
 One of the purple-crested team 
 who fly 
 With the Junonian curricle ; 
 Or he that with rich breast, and 
 tawny eye, 
 Flames at the Sminthian 
 chariot-wheel. 
 First Elve, But where is Nephon ? who can 
 
 tell? 
 Seventh Elve. How wondrous grand he 's grown 
 
 of late ! 
 Eighth 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. 
 
f4 S-yLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Third Elve. And takes such mighty airs upon 
 him 
 As I can witness : 'T was 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 ! 
 
 First Elve. He has not talk'd 
 
 Of any body but himself 
 This mortal day. 
 
 Second Elve. Conceited elf ! 
 
 Would he were bottled on a 
 shelf ! 
 
 OSME. Fay-ladies be not scandalous, 
 
 Ah, speak not of poor Nephon thus ! 
 
 Third Elve. Then wherefore should he sneer 
 at us? 
 
 Seventh Elve. He grows more haughty every day 
 'Cause he 's the queen's factotal fay. 
 And scorns with other elves to play. 
 
 Fourth 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. — 
 
 Seventh 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 ! 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 145 
 
 OSME. I 
 
 Will mount a crowback to the sky, 
 Morgana waits for nie on high. 
 \Laiightcr without. 'X 
 
 All. Hist ! hist ! 
 
 lWithoiit.'\ 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.'l Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Enter Nephon with his lap full of flowers. 
 Nephon. Lady and gentlemen fays, come buy ! 
 No pedlar has such a rich packet as L 
 
 Who wants a gown 
 
 Of purple fold, 
 Embroidered 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, 
 'T is 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 ! 
 K 
 
146 SYLVIA; OR.. THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Who wants — (hush ! hush ! ) 
 
 A box of paint ? 
 'T will give a blush. 
 Yet leave no taint : 
 This Rose with natural rouge is fiU'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 broo?n falls at his feet.'\ 
 
 Nephon. Bow ! wow ! 
 Florrtta. 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 ! 
 
 Leap, skip, hop, jump, bounce, fly, 
 
 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, 
 
SVLy/A; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 147 
 
 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. 
 
ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 NCONSCIOUS Andrea once more 
 Passes the shadowy border o'er ; 
 For though each opening glade, along 
 The wild, war-blasted marches, throng 
 With slow-paced elfin sentinels, 
 
 Wo be to him who makes or mells, 
 
 By word or deed, with man's condition 
 
 But in the way of his commission ! 
 
 Ev'n to be heard or seen at all 
 
 Is held a crime most capital ; 
 
 And therefore comes it that so few 
 
 Spirits have met our mortal view, 
 
 Although such things, beyond a doubt. 
 
 Exist, if we could find them out. 
 
 Andrea. 'T is with me, only out of the frying- 
 pan into the fire : I live the life of a flying-fish : no 
 sooner do I 'scape this shark than that cormorant 
 pounces upon me ; when I dive for safety from the 
 beak of the air-devil, I find the jaws of the water- 
 devil most hospitably open to receive me. — Saint 
 Bridget be my protector ! here come my old friends, 
 the Moorish ambassadors ! — just in the nick of time 
 to give my speech a new proof and illustration ! — 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 149 
 
 Again, I say, miserable ! thrice miserable Ribobolo ! 
 — It is not two skips of the sun since thou wert on the 
 point of being cut down like a flower of the field, in 
 all the pride of thy beauty, and now, to crown thy ill- 
 fortune, here are two devils come to possess thee. — 
 Save ye, gentlemen ! 
 
 Enter Grumiel and MOMIEL with Roselle. 
 
 MoMiEL. Ha ! ha ! thou scape-goat ! — art thou 
 caught again ? 
 Stir not a pace, but tremble where thou stand'st. 
 
 Andrea. With all my might, sir I — I shake where 
 I grow, as if I were about to turn into an aspen. 
 
 Mom I EL. See 1 we have done thy duty, thou 
 forsworn. 
 Contemptible wretch ! This is the maiden-prize 
 Thou should 'st have brought us, and been man again. 
 
 Andrea. Lud-amercy ! here is one of my moun- 
 tain landladies ! Mistress Roselle, as I 'm a person, 
 the miller's daughter ! 
 
 MoMiEL. This ? 
 
 Andrea. This ! Ay this ! I '11 stake my ears 
 on 't ! — Odso ! Now that I call the matter to mind, 
 Satan was guilty of her abduction : he gathered her 
 and her sister as they were growing, posy-fashion, 
 beside the mill-pond, to sweeten the air of his roaring 
 kitchen. Where is t'other pullet ? has he spitted her 
 already ? 
 
 Grumiel. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! heie was a strata- 
 gem ! 
 
 Momiel. Curse thee, vile oaf ! Dost laugh at 
 me ? I '11 tear thee ! 
 
 Grumiel. Come on ? I '11 writhe about thee as a 
 snake, 
 And twist thy bones like gristle — 
 
ISO SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Mom I EL. Help ! help, king ! 
 
 Andrea. Well done, my chickens ! To 't, boys ! 
 Excellent ! Five to one upon Spitfire ! — At him. 
 Snap-dragon !— To 't ! — Bravo ! — Now if they would 
 only eat each other up, after the precedent of the two 
 cats in the saw-pit, ' twould be a desideratum much to 
 desired. — Hilloah ! are heaven, earth, and purgatory 
 coming together ? 
 
 Ararach descends amid thunder and lightning. 
 Attendant Fiends, 
 
 Ararach. Bunglers again ! — Hurry them to the 
 flames 
 As I commanded : .Sweep them from my sight. 
 Rebels ! that serve their passions and not mine ! 
 
 [Exeunt fiends 2i>ith Grumiel and MoMIEL. 
 Myself, I find, though sore against my will, 
 Both chief and actor must be in their business. 
 Come hither, clown ! — Take thy man-shape again, 
 See what thou ow'st my pity. Get thee gone ! 
 There is thy road ; 't will lead thee to thy friends, 
 Whom thou may'st hither fetch, if they will come. 
 To bear this maiden grave-ward. We '11 depart ! 
 See that yon corse Ijurden not long our realm. 
 Or thou, and all thy rout, shall lie as cold ! 
 
 \_Auetids. 
 
 Andrica. My stars ! what a — phew ! he has left 
 after him : like the last sighs of ten thousand expiring 
 candles. It is enough to smother all the hives in 
 Sicily. Now if he would be only satisfied to live 
 like a man of reputation, he might earn an honest 
 livelihood by travelling as a sulphur-merchant to the 
 North (where, I am told, there is a great demand for 
 that article), or by selling matches through the streets. 
 
SVLy/A; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 151 
 
 — two bundles for a half-penny. But ods bobs ! why 
 do I stand here lecturing on commercial affairs when 
 I don't know but his pestiferous majesty may descend 
 in another cloud of such frankincense, and I shall be 
 smoked to the flavour of Westphalia bacon ? Well, 
 if it were only from one feature in my face, videlicet, 
 my tongue, I would even swear that I was the identi- 
 cal son of my mother ! — Fly, Andrea, as fast as thy 
 legs can carry thee ! \Exit. 
 
 Ararach descends again. 
 Ararach. Now let me use my skill. Thou sleep- 
 ing earth, 
 Take thou the form of Sylvia, the May-Queen ! 
 And lie there in that thicket, till one comes 
 Whom I would lime for a decoy, to bring 
 The bird I love about her. So ! — 'tis done ! — 
 
 \Ascends again. 
 The Scene closes. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 Peasants, in simple conclave met. 
 Are round the wake-stone gravely set, 
 Perplext to guess what chance befell 
 Their lost companion, young Roselle. 
 
 Stephania. O sister ! sister ! what has become 
 of you?— I will never go home without you, if I were 
 to seek a thousand years ! — What should I say to my 
 mother when she asked for her pretty Rose ? 
 
152 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Geronymo. Nay, weep not so heartily, I pray 
 you : be not in such woful contrition. The case is 
 not so bad, by a hundred miles, as you think it : for, 
 look you now, it stands thus, or in other words, 
 here 't is : You have lost your sister beyond recovery ; 
 good— 
 
 Stephania. Begone, fickle-hearted turncoat ! — 
 If I could even forget your treachery, I. am not in the 
 mood now to hear such a prig discoursing. 
 
 Geronymo, Why, very well, there 't is : I am a 
 prig. Bear witness to that : she calls me — prig, and 
 refuses to hear condolement. 
 
 First Feasant. Go to ! you are ejected, and may 
 wear the willow, 
 
 Geronymo. No matter ! 't is all very well ! very 
 well indeed ! — I will hang myself some of these fine 
 mornings, and then, mayhap, she will see what it 
 is to wound the heart of a sensible-plant like me, by 
 calling him a prig and turncoat. Cruel Mrs Ste- 
 phania ! I thought your soul was as tender as a chicken, 
 but now I find it is harder than Adam's aunt or 
 marble ! 
 
 vStephania. If you wish to soften it again, you 
 will find out my sister. I can think of nothing else 
 till she be discovered. 
 
 Geronymo, Say no more, but put your trust 
 in my zigacity. Above ground and beneath sky, 
 I '11 ferret her out, though she were hid in a blind 
 nutshell. 
 
 Second Feasant. So, friend ! whither are you going? 
 
 Enter Andrea. 
 Andrea, Indeed I cannot particularly say : but 
 going I am ! — I have taken up the trade of a water- 
 wheel lately, and am always going ! moreover betoken 
 
SVLV/A; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 153 
 
 that, like it, I cannot get out of the pickle in which 
 the malice of my enemies has placed me, but am con- 
 tinually soused over head and ears by a flood of mis 
 fortune. However, time cures all sorrows, and philo- 
 sophy, the remainder. — Saw you any peasants about 
 here? clowns, clodpoles, popolaccio, dregs, that is to 
 say, honest, foolish kind of persons ? 
 
 Feasants. Why, I hope we be such : what else do 
 you take us for ? 
 
 Andrea, By this light, now that I observe it, so 
 ye are. Ye answer the description exactly : no hue- 
 and-cry ever gave the dimensions of a banditti more 
 precisely. Well ; and wherefore in the dumps, my 
 honest, foolish kind of neighbours ? 
 
 Geronymo. Why if it so please you, here 't is now — 
 
 Andrea. This is a logicizer : you may always 
 know a logicizer, by his laying down the law with his 
 forefinger. Save thy invisible bellows, thou oracular 
 fellow ; I know all thou wouldst say, better than if 
 there was a glass window in thy stomach. Ye are 
 seeking for one of your lost lambs, my pastors ? 
 
 Peasants. By the mass, so we are ! He must be a 
 witch, neighbours, to tell us this without knowing it. 
 
 Andrea. Follow your noses, and I will under- 
 take to lead you by them to where she is : I owe her 
 as much gratitude as would fill a wine- flagon, pie-dish, 
 brandy-flask, et cetera, nappercyhand, nappercyhand. 
 She and her sister made a cramm'd fowl of me, I 
 thank them. Indeed, if a stone could melt, I had 
 poured out my heart at her feet, in expression of love 
 and affliction. But this is irreverent ! Come along : 
 't is not five-score yards beyond the bowsprits I have 
 promised to tow ye by. 
 
 Peasants. Willingly, and thank you. {Exeunt. 
 
154 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Scene changes to another part of the Glen. 
 Enter Andrea and the Peasants, 
 
 Andrea. There ! in that thicket, that bramble- 
 bush ; if your eyes be not scratched out by leaping into 
 it, you will see her there. 
 
 Peasants. Well, come with us, and show it more 
 catacullycully. 
 
 Andrea. Ay, to be sure I will ! — Go on ; I '11 be 
 whipper-in of your whole pack. Proceed, I tell ye ! 
 it is all before you, as a pedlar carries his knapsack. 
 
 Peasants. Lead away, then ! 
 
 Andrea. Right ; you are in the very track of it : 
 I shall cry out ' ' roast-beef ! " when you are about to 
 tumble upon her. 
 
 Peasants, Good ! Proceed, Geronymo. Our 
 guide will come after us. 
 
 Andrea. O, doleful ! woful ! racks ! torments ! 
 thumbscrews ! — O my great toe ! my great toe ! 
 
 Peasants. What is the matter ? 
 
 Andrea. My great toe, I say ! — O, now are the 
 sins of my ancestors coming against me ! — The gout ! 
 the gout ! — I cannot stir an inch farther, if I got the 
 bribe of a secretary ! — Go on, go on : if you stay here 
 making mouths at my foot it will only grow the more 
 angry. 
 
 Peasants. Well, remain here for us, while we 
 search the bushes, 
 
 Andrea. Speed ye; neighbours! — Hark'ee ! 
 
 Peasants. What ? 
 
 Andrea. Ye will be here when ye come back, eh ? 
 
 Peasants, Ay, certainly. 
 
 Andrea. Why then, meantime, I will put my 
 foot in a sling, and prepare to hop off with ye. Good- 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 155 
 
 bye ! — Oo ! such a twinge ! as if the fiend's claw and 
 my foot struck a bargain for ever ! Oo ! 
 
 Peasants. On, folks ! on ! — He must be sorely 
 afflicted to make such a piteous howling, and such 
 heinously ill-favoured grimaces. How he lolls his 
 tongue out at us, like a mad dog ! We are well rid of 
 him. [£xewtf. 
 
 Andrea. 'Slife ! why was I not a politician ? a 
 Machiavelian ? — I would overreach his Spanish ma- 
 jesty himself, who, they tell me, is the very flower of 
 dissimulation, the pink of hypocrisy. — Those empty- 
 pates ! those human ostriches ! that run their heads 
 into a bush and think themselves hidden from danger, 
 because it is hidden from them ! — I know more of 
 jurisprudence than to play at blind man's buff with 
 Mephistopheles and his convent of Black Friars. 
 Well, he may enlist them all under his pitchy ensign, 
 but he shall not have me for a fugueman, I will 
 rather be a fugitive ! £xit. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 Tell one, young Prophetess ! that now 
 Lean'st o'er my arm, thine anxious brow. 
 The while my cheek delighted feels 
 Thy rolling curls, like little wheels 
 Course up and down that swarthy plain, — 
 Tell me, young Seer ! I say again. 
 What does my flying pencil trace 
 To tinge with doubtful bloom thy face ? 
 W^hy should thy breast suspicious heave ? 
 What doth thy glistening eye perceive ? 
 Can thy shrewd innocence divine 
 The mystery of this sketch of mine ? 
 
is6 SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Two graceful forms beneath a shade 
 Through its green drapery half survey'd : 
 An arm stolen round a slender waist, 
 Lips to a white hand gently prest ; 
 A manly brow that wants not much 
 An alabaster one to touch, 
 'Neath it pure-flushing ; in repose 
 Laid, almost like a fainting rose, 
 That turns her with a secret sigh ■ 
 To some boy Zephyr whispering nigh, 
 And in his airy breast doth seek 
 To hide her deeply blushing cheek, 
 Or, lest she swoon, reclineth there 
 Her red cheek on his scented hair. 
 
 Half-smiling Maiden ! whose pink breast 
 Peeps like the ruddock's o'er its nest. 
 Or moss-bud from its peaked vest. 
 What to thy simple thinking is 
 Th' interpretation of all this ? 
 I '11 tell thee, if thou say'st amiss : 
 A youthful pair, met in a grove. 
 Arm-intertwined : What should this prove ?- 
 Maiden. " I think it must be — Love ! " 
 
 RoMANZo and Sylvia. 
 
 ROMANZO. After the Night how lovely springs 
 the Morn ! 
 After the shower how freshly blooms the green ! 
 After the clouds and tempest of our fate, 
 How sweetly breaks the beauty of the sky, 
 And hangs its rainbow ev'n amid our tears ! — 
 Now Mercy joins us in her circling arms, 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 157 
 
 And, like a beauteous mother, wishes us 
 All joy that can betide ! — Is not her blessing 
 Already come upon us ? Is not this 
 Perfect beatitude ? 
 
 Sylvia. O, but I fear 
 
 It will not last for ever ! — 'T is too sweet. 
 
 ROMANZO. What should Heaven find in either of 
 us two 
 That should provoke its shaft ? — No ! we will live, 
 Bosom to bosom thus, like harmless doves, 
 And so be spared for our great innocence ! — 
 Look up and smile ! 
 
 Sylvia. Nay, I am of thy mind — 
 
 Ecstasy is too deeply-soul'd to smile. 
 I am more near to weep ; but such fond tears 
 As flow'rets, ill-intreated of the night. 
 Shed, when the morn-winds sing i' the Eastern gate 
 That father Sun doth rise. 
 
 Romanzo. Is not this love 
 
 A happy thing ? a fountain of new life, 
 Another win of blood within the heart 
 That floods the ebbing veins ; and teems new life 
 Through all those ruby channels ? — Oh, it is 
 Warmest of bosom-friends ! — Joy'st not to feel 
 This downy bird rustle within thy arms. 
 Choosing his fragrant bed ; as fond as he, 
 The nectar-bibbing fly, who doth disturb, 
 With most uxorious care, yon rose, the while 
 He settles in her breast ? 
 
 Sylvia. Is Love a bird ? 
 
 Romanzo. A boy ! — with curls of crisped gold, 
 like thine : 
 Lips like the fresh sea coral : in his cheek 
 The sleepless Laughter cradles ; and above 
 
158 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Perpetual Sport rides in his humorous eye. 
 This guest of man halh to his use beside 
 A quiver, and light arrows, and a bow ; 
 With which he stings his votaries' willing hearts, 
 Aiming from, beauty's hills, or vantage-ground, 
 Where he can light : then flies (for pinions he 
 Fleeces the wand'ring gossamer) to tend 
 The wounds his bolt hath made ; and often there. 
 Like a good surgeon, pillows till they heal, 
 Or sweetly cruel makes them bleed again. 
 This is Love's picture ; and his page of life 
 Writ in Time's chronicle. 
 
 Sylvia. Sure it must be 
 
 A marvellous child ! 
 
 ROMANZA. O, 't is a winsome boy ! 
 
 And tells such pleasant tales, and sings such songs. 
 With harp gay-tinkling like a Troubadour, 
 That icy nuns through charitable grates 
 Thrust forth their lovely arms to pamper him ; 
 And so he often wounds them, while they leave 
 Their bosoms undefended. 
 
 Sylvia. I would hear 
 
 Some of his minstrelsy. 
 
 ROMANZO. Why so thou hast : 
 
 He speaks through various lips ; even now through 
 mine. 
 
 Sylvia. Ah ! thou deceiv'st me : thou art he ! 
 but clothed 
 In shape more godlike. 
 
 ROMANZO, No ! his deputy. 
 
 Teaching thee his pure doctrine, and sweet truths, 
 How wilt thou e'er repay me ? O, will all 
 Thy heart be half enough, for making thee 
 So wise a scholar in this book of joy? 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. i 
 
 I've taught thee Love's sweet lesson o'er, 
 A task that is not learn'd with tears : 
 
 Was Sylvia e'er so blest before 
 In her wild, solitary years ? 
 
 Then what does he deserve, the Youth, 
 Who made her con so dear a truth ! 
 
 Till now in silent vales to roam, 
 Singing vain songs to heedless flowers, 
 Or watch the dashing billows foam. 
 Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers, 
 
 To weave light crowns of various hue, — 
 Were all the joys thy bosom knew. 
 
 The wild bird, though most musical, 
 Could not to thy sweet plaint reply ; 
 
 The streamlet, and the waterfall. 
 Could only weep when thou did'st sigh ! 
 
 Thou could'st not change one dulcet word 
 Either with billow, or with bird. 
 
 For leaves, and flowers, but these alone, 
 Winds have a soft discoursing way ; 
 
 Heav'n's starry talk is all its own, — 
 It dies in thunder far away. 
 
 E'en when thou would'st the Moon beguile 
 To speak, — she only deigns to smile ! 
 
 Now, birds and winds, be churlish still, 
 Ye waters keep your sullen roar, 
 
 Stars be as distant as ye will, — 
 Sylvia need court ye now no more : 
 In Love there is society 
 She never yet could find with ye ! 
 
i6o SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 " Then what does he deserve, the Youth ? " — 
 Might he but touch that moist and rubious lip, 
 Ev'n Dian could not frown ! — the wind-kist rose 
 Is not less pure because she's bountiful 
 When Zephyr wooes her chastely. Be thou, then, 
 Who art as fair, as kind ! — [JiTisses /ler. 
 
 O !— O ! a kiss ! 
 Sweeter than May -dew to the thirsty flower, 
 Or to Jove's half-clung bird, his clamorous food 
 From minist'ring Hebe's hand ! — 
 
 Sylvia. Would it were sweeter, 
 
 For thy sake, than it is ! — We are betroth'd. 
 And so I hold my petty treasures thine, 
 My lord and husband. 
 
 ROMANZO. Therefore in their use 
 
 I will be frugal, since thou 'rt generous. — 
 
 Sylvia. Hark ! hark ! a cry ! — 
 
 ROMANZO. Fear not ! — thou 'rt in my arms. 
 
 Andrea without. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! — Help ! help ! — Do I live amongst 
 Saracens or Turkies ? — No pity ? no assistance ! — 
 The good dame ! the excellent old lady ! Kidnapt ! 
 transposed ! elevated ! — She who saved me from that 
 mad-pated fellow my master ! 
 
 Sylvia. My mother ! 
 
 RoMANZO. What 's this ruffian hurly ? Speak ! 
 
 Enter Andrea. 
 Help, I say ! — Rescue ! rescue ! — If ye have 
 hearts the size of queen-cakes, let your swords 
 leap from your scabbards, and cut down these 
 sans-culottes ! these Carbonari ! sons of the Black 
 Prince ! whelps of Belzebub ! — O master ! Master ! 
 turn away the eyes of your wrath from me upon those 
 
SVLy/A: OR, THE MAY QUEEN i6i 
 
 dingy freebooters ! — Lamentable ! O lamentable ! 
 lamentable ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Speak ! Who ? — who ? — 
 
 Sylvia. If thou hast pity, speak ! 
 
 Andrea. Pity ! — Am I not weeping my eyes 
 out? — What can I do more? — Are either of ye half 
 as pitiful a fellow ? — Do I stand nonchanically here 
 like a statue, as if I were gasping for bob-cherries, or 
 had set my mouth for a fly-trap ? — Pity, indeed ! — 
 Am I not shouting, ranting, and calling down 
 vengeance upon the heads of these nefarious women- 
 stealers as fast as tiles in a storm ? What call you 
 this but pity ? — active, stirring, practical, — I say, 
 practical pity ? — Oons ! I should have been president 
 of some humane society, or an overseer of the poor 
 at the least, had I remained turnspit to the Sardinian 
 ambassador in England. 
 
 Sylvia. Agony chokes me ! — O I shall go 
 mad ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Dastardly hound ! I '11 shake thy 
 story out of thee ! 
 
 Andrea. Pray do not ; it would discompose me 
 much in the telling of it, I assure you. Mark me 
 now — " Here 't is ! " as neighbour Geronymo says ; 
 or thus it stands, or this is the tot of the matter. We 
 proceeded on our excursion, or incursion (to speak 
 critically, for we were about to enter the preserve of 
 a Nabob, though, indeed, we had a special licence from 
 his diabolical lordship) — Well ! — Take your knuckles 
 off my throat, I beseech you, sir ; my words come out 
 pip ! pip ! like bullets from a popgun. Well — as I 
 was saying — the peasants and I, or, in other words, I 
 and the peasants, which you will, — proceeded on our 
 progress to seek for young Mrs Roselle, the miller's 
 
 L 
 
i62 SyLV/A; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 daughter, in the wood, just there, ever your worship's 
 nose, where the grass is so thin, it would hardly 
 fodder a goose. Well ! so far, so good — A little 
 more vent, if you please, sir ! I shall never run out 
 else. Well ! — When we had come thither, lo and 
 behold ye ! no Mrs Roselle ; not the print of her 
 shoe upon the moss, though she wore beechen ones 
 an inch thick, and clouted from heel to toe with six- 
 penny hobnails. Well ! — no maid o' the mill, as I 
 told ye, was to be found there, but in her stead the 
 shapes and figures of one Mrs Sylvia, as the peasants 
 entitled her : some country-hoyden, I surmise, that 
 purls a little through an oaten-pipe, and infests these 
 parts in a sheep-keeping character, — a "dear Pastora," 
 as one might say, a Mrs Simplicity — O ! your wor- 
 ship ! do not tuck that thumb so inexorably under 
 my gizzard as if you were nailing up wall-fruit — 
 You '11 spoil my story ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Would I could strangle thee, and 
 hear thee after ! 
 
 Andrea. Why, indeed, hanging is almost too 
 good a death for an informer ; but it is considered 
 more politic to reward him. However, to proceed as 
 we went on : I being foremost, that is foremost in 
 the rear, I debotiche towards dame Agatha, who, 
 indeed, was coming by hasty marches to warn us 
 of some danger, and I communicate to her my 
 intelligence — 
 
 RoMANZo. Well ? — What did she ? — what ? — 
 what ? — speak it 
 
 Andrea. Fell all of a heap like a haycock, your 
 worship ; and thereupon darted immediately into the 
 wood as if her heels were loaded with quicksilver ; 
 from thence bolted into the arms of a couple of Black 
 
5- YL VIA ; OR , THE MAY Q UEEN. 1 63 
 
 Hussars, who carried her off to perdition. And so, if 
 they don't live happy, I hope — 
 
 Sylvia. Fly, fly, and save her ! — O your mercy 
 Heavens. [Swoons, 
 
 ROMANZO. Hear me, thou villain ! — On thy hopes 
 of life, 
 Here and hereafter, guard this lovely one. 
 Sustain, restore, and tend her, while hard fate 
 Keeps me from that dear office, — or as sure 
 As lightning blasts, thy doom is fixt. [Exit. 
 
 Andrea. Indeed, so it appears : to be ever 
 surrounded and o'erwhelmed by innumerable and 
 indescribable miseries and mischances, accidents and 
 offences, dreadful calamities and singular occurrences ! 
 — They come as thick upon me as if they were 
 showered from a dredging-box ! I am powdered with 
 sorrows and afflictions ! Salted, peppered, pickled 1 
 roasted, baisted, stewed, fried, crimped, scarified, 
 tossed like a pancake, and beaten like a batter, upon 
 all occasions ! Finally, I have been cooked up into 
 a devil, and may perhaps be buried alive in a minced- 
 pie to be served up at a Christmas-feast among the 
 Cannibals. Nevertheless, I will endeavour to revive 
 this lovely maiden according to the prescriptions of 
 Galen and Hippocrypha — 
 
 [Raises Sylvia in his arms. 
 
 Truly, my adventures follow one another with 
 marvellous dexterity : if they were only printed I 
 might string them together like ballads, and sell them 
 by the yard as they do popular songs, or Bologna 
 sausages : I should have every mob-cap in the neigh- 
 bourhood peeping out of the attics, and have copper 
 jingling about me as if I were playing the triangle, — 
 could I only bring myself to chant my own deeds for 
 
i64 SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 remuneration. — Here now am I, without ever having 
 studied more of the Healing Art than a farrier's dog, 
 — here am I installed as physician-general of this 
 uninhabited district, and condemned under the 
 penalty of bastinado and carbonization, to raise this 
 mortal from the dead, as if I had invented an universal 
 restorative ! — 'Sbodikins ! it is too much ! were my 
 shoulders as broad as Mount Hatless, I could not 
 long bear this load of negotiations that is laid upon 
 them ! — If I were anything less than the most 
 tender-hearted Samaritan in all Christendom, I would 
 leave this pretty faint-away here to get well as she 
 could, by the study of " Every man his own physi- 
 cian," and take to my heels like a dancing bear when 
 I am threatened with such a flagellation. But no 
 matter ! — the heart of man was made for misfortune 
 as an ass's back for a packsaddle. We must all be 
 stocks and philosophers ! — I '11 run for a capful of the 
 limpid to baptize her. ^Exit. 
 
 Scene closes. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 Slowly as Twilight lifts her veil 
 To show her wintry forehead pale, 
 Unto the frore Antarctic world, 
 A lurid curtain is upfurled. 
 Disclosing the huge pedestals 
 That prop the necromantic walls ; 
 But still so heavily it looms. 
 Clouds under clouds with volumy wombs. 
 That scarce it seems indeed to rise, 
 Too ponderous for the fleecy skies. 
 At length, by inch and inch appear, 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MA Y QUEEN. i6S 
 
 The portals of the Sorcerer ; 
 
 And yawning like a charnel-gate 
 
 Ope to admit a corse of state, 
 
 The bossy valves scream as they swing 
 
 On brazen hinge, scarce opening 
 
 Their slothful jaws for their own king. 
 
 Enter Ararach atid Fiends with ROMANZO 
 prisoner. 
 
 Ararach. Enter before us ! — 
 I will not have him torn with thongs, nor pierced 
 With barbed instruments ; nor pincht, nor crampt ; 
 These are but laughing pains to such wild tortures 
 As I '11 afflict him with : he shall not bellow 
 His furnace pains shut in an ox of brass. 
 Like him whose craft was proved upon himself ; 
 Nor shall his lopt or lengthen'd form be stretch'd 
 On iron bed, accommodately fill'd 
 By every guest, pygmy, or stout, or tall. 
 Trite code of agonies ! that writhe the frame, 
 But hardly wring the mind. Peasants who have 
 Their feelings in their flesh, and none more inward, 
 Shrink at the bloody pincers : but high natures 
 Who feel not in their clay, despise all pangs 
 That reach no deeper. — I will plague him there ! 
 In a refined, imaginative way ; 
 And work upon his sensibility. 
 Not on his senses, which he 'd reck as much 
 As the wild Indian at the stake, or he 
 Who burnt his hand for bravery. — What ho I 
 Is the stage rear'd ? 
 
 Fiend. Dismiel, the machinist. 
 
 Is hard about it, lord : you hear the clang. 
 
i66 SVLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 And music of his anvil, which doth sing 
 At every, stroke, like a cathedral bell, 
 And every iron tingles in the hand 
 Of his accomplices. 
 
 Ararach. Go ! quicken him 
 
 With a few stings i' the elbow. — And thou, too. 
 See if my quaint device go smoothly off, 
 Ere the Phantasma pass before his eyes, 
 Whom we would entertain with feats and shows 
 As such a guest deserves. If one particular 
 Fail in the presentation, even by chance, 
 I '11 hold thee punishable : Mark it well ! 
 
 [Exit. The Fiends vanish. 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 A winding walk of moss, between 
 
 Two hedge-rows of sweet aubepine. 
 
 With English White-thom, much the same 
 
 Both shrub and its Provencal name. 
 
 Yet still I think our homely word 
 
 Is much, — ay much ! — to be preferr'd, — 
 
 Except it more convenient be 
 
 In rhyme, as it was now to me. 
 
 I love this racy northern Land, 
 
 And think its tongue both sweet and grand, 
 
 Though mongrel authors may abuse it. 
 
 Because they know not how to use it. 
 
 Green Albion, shake him from thy breast, 
 
 The renegade ! who thinks not best 
 
 Both thee, and thine, of all the sun 
 
 Looks with his golden eye upon ! 
 
 As she who gave us human birth 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 167 
 
 Is dear, — why not our parent-earth? 
 
 Shallow pronouncers may call this 
 
 Poorness of soul, and prejudice ; 
 
 Why then, 't is weak to love our mothers 
 
 Better, one whit, than those of others ! 
 
 If this philosophy be sound. 
 
 By no one tie is nature bound ; 
 
 We have free warrant to disclaim 
 
 All laws of kindred, blood, and name, 
 
 Like Spanish kings, despite of taunts, 
 
 Marry our nieces or our aunts. 
 
 And by the same licentious rule 
 
 Tell our grave father he 's a fool. 
 
 Scoundrel, or liar, — call him out. 
 
 Or cuff him in a fistic bout. 
 
 Owing no more in such a case 
 
 Than bankers do to Henry Hase ; 
 
 All home-affections are absurd, 
 
 And duty is an old-wife's word : 
 
 Who feels a brave indifference 
 
 For natural bond, or natural sense. 
 
 Is, in our modern Teucer's sight. 
 
 The only true Cosmopolite ! 
 
 No more ! no more ! — I neither can. 
 Nor would I, write — " Essays on Man ; " 
 Here are some Maidens to assay, 
 A matter much more in my way : 
 With yon sweet Girl I 'd rather speak 
 Than him the Academic Greek, 
 Or wander with this pensive maid. 
 Than Tully in his classic shade ; 
 One smile from those dear lips, I vow, 
 Sylvia ! would make me happy now ! 
 For I do fear some inward ail. 
 
SYLVIA ; OR. THE MA Y QUEEN. 
 
 Thou look'st so deadly still, and pale. 
 O grief ! what can it — can it be ? 
 Is there no end to Misery ? 
 
 Enter SYLVIA, Stephania, Roselle, Jacintha, 
 and Peasant-girls following. 
 
 Stephania. Alas ! alas ! she is distract — 
 
 Jacintha. Ay, truly : you may know it by her 
 hands locked so ; and her streaming hair ; and her 
 eye fixed upon the ground as if she were choosing her 
 steps over a bridge not a hair's breadth. Oh, it is a 
 piteous condition. 
 
 Roselle. Sweet Sylvia ! Gentle maid ! — Go not, 
 we pr'ythee, towards that haunted wood : do not, 
 we beseech thee ! — She looks at me, but speaks not 
 — O her eyes ! her eyes ! 
 
 Girls. Go not, our queen ! our beauteous sovereign ! 
 — We will kneel to thee, if thou wilt stay. 
 
 Stephania. 'T is vain ! —she heeds us not. 
 
 Third Girl. She seemed to love Jacintha, because 
 she could talk more gentle folk than we : let Jacintha 
 pray her not to go. 
 
 Jacintha. ^Embracing Sylvia.] O gentle 
 friend ! by this entreating and affectionate kiss — 
 
 Sylvia. No comfort ! no ! — they are ta'en ! they 
 are ta'en ! 
 
 Jacintha. I but offend her. 
 
 Sylvia. Is he not dead, answer me that ?- — Is not 
 my mother ta'en ? — Why trouble ye me thus ? — 
 Forgive, but leave me ! — 
 
 Jacintha. Sweetness, even in her moods and 
 wilfulness. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 169 
 
 Girls. Let us fall clown about her on our knees. 
 Sylvia. Prevent me not, I say ! — I will proceed ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 Peasants. 'T will make her fractious : she will go. 
 Let us follow her to the extent we dare, and persuade 
 her back if possible. 
 
 \_Exeuni after Sylvia. 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 In murky dungeon round and wide 
 
 And coped with clouds from side to side, 
 
 Behold a wild, dishevelled form 
 
 With eyes like stars in winter storm. 
 
 Athwart whose flashing light the rack 
 
 Scuds in long wreaths of massy black ; 
 
 Behold this form, once noble, and 
 
 Even in its mute distraction grand : 
 
 Its breast heaves with enormous ire, 
 
 Its very nostril teems with fire ; 
 
 Its clenched hands are tossing high, 
 
 And seem to threat the lowering sky ; 
 
 Brain-pierced, heart-stung, and mad as foam, 
 
 It paces the infernal dome. 
 
 Like an indignant God of Wind 
 
 To cloister'd mountain-cave confined. 
 
 In guise so fierce who could discover 
 Sylvia's once kind and gentle lover ? 
 But cast your wondering eyes above, 
 And see within a proud alcove 
 Two figures seated : this one bears 
 A crown and sceptre ; this appears 
 A shepherdess : the monarch, he 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Toys with her wanton curls, and she 
 Repays the courtship of her tresses 
 With amorous looks, and light caresses. 
 This is the mystic cause, I ween, 
 Of all our Youth's distracted mien, 
 The Phantom revelry deceives 
 His visual sense ; and he believes 
 Sylvia doth here a recreant prove 
 To Faith, to Purity, and Love. 
 
 What outward grief, what corporal pain, 
 Could touch a lover's heart and brain 
 Like this sharp visionary wo 
 That wings the tortured fancy so ? 
 Then, shall we blame the sufferer? — No ! 
 High though the waves of passion brim, 
 Pardon we must, and pity him. 
 
 ROMANZO. Endure ! O heart ! endure ! — 
 
 strings of passion, break not ! — Hold but firm 
 Till I have sealed this iron tomb : burst then, 
 Fountain of life, and let me choke with blood ! — 
 Thou fair iniquity ! I '11 reach thy locks, 
 
 And strangle thee in their twisted goldenness ! — 
 Might, double-thew my limbs ! Knot the great 
 
 sinews, 
 That my tough, boughy arms curl with their strength, 
 Like the prodigious elm : I would pull down 
 To dust these riotous lovers ! — Foul abortion ! — 
 
 1 will — O words ! — For thee, young treachery ! 
 Beautiful sin ! fair hypocrite ! I '11 paint 
 
 Thy cheek a bloodier hue ! — O is this earth 
 Limed to retain me ? — Though my feet do move, 
 Weights, huge as millstones, seem to clog their steps. 
 Locking me to this goal — Torture of sight ! 
 
SVLyiA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 171 
 
 What ! wilt thou wind thy passionate arms about 
 
 him ? — 
 Kiss him not, wanton ! 
 
 Phantom ^Ararach. Fairer than fair ! 
 Phaniotn ^Sylvia. Sweet king ! 
 
 ROMANZO. O scorpion words ! — Vile pair ! — 
 Must I yet storm 
 Like the fixt oak with idly threatening arms, 
 Uttering loud tempest-talk, swung with blind rage, 
 But spur-bound to a spot ? 
 Phantom ^Sylvia. Look, here 's a wreath : 
 
 [7b the Phantom-king. 
 I 'II twist it round thy brow. 
 
 RoMANZO. Cruel ! oh cruel ! 
 
 That was my crown ! my garland ! 
 
 Phantom o/"Ararach. Come and claim it. 
 
 Knock off his miry fetters there ! 
 
 Phantom of S\hXl\. Poor fool ! 
 
 RoMANZO. Vengeance ! I 'm free ! — Now, you 
 luxurious pair, 
 Have at your hot alcove ! — In war, in war 
 I 've leap'd a battlement Alp-high to this. 
 
 Phantom of Ararach. Work up ! work up ! — 
 
 Dismiel, thou art too slow ! 
 ROMANZO. Ha, what is this?— O grief! — the 
 dungeon sides 
 Arise like murky clouds at thunder-call. 
 Hanging a rocky ciel above my head, 
 Ready to crush me if I breathe ! — 
 
 Phantom ^Ararach. Let down. 
 
 Let down our shafted stairs ! — Mount, worshipper 
 Thine eyes must ache with lowly adoration. 
 Courage, and knee our throne. 
 
 \.A golden staircase is let down. 
 
172 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 ROMANZO. Where lead these steps ? — 
 Or how do they come here ? — Ah ! Pity stoops 
 Half out of Heaven, and to her bracelet links 
 This stair, that I on earth may groan no more, 
 But creep along her arm into her bosom. 
 And, like a hurt babe in its mother's breast. 
 Lament myself to peace ! 
 
 Phantom <?/" Sylvia. Sir brideman, come ! 
 We can not tarry longer for thy torch 
 To light us bedward. 
 
 Phantom (J/'Ararach. Raise the nuptial song ! 
 Music may draw him, though our love do not. 
 
 RoMANZO. Am I spell-stricken, now ? — Now are 
 my feet 
 Riveted ! bolted ! chained ! that I forbear 
 To mount to my revenge ? — Hold fast ! hold fast, 
 Ye silver-clouted stars ! — Afford me still 
 This pendulous step-inviter to your sphere, 
 I '11 up as swift as soaring Victory 
 To clap at Heaven-gate her triumphant wings I — 
 I come ! I come ! 
 
 {As he approaches, the steps fade away. 
 Sdeath ! do mine eyes melt at the flaming gold ? 
 
 [Phatitomsof AViAKkcn and&\l.vik. Ha! ha !— 
 the rainbow-grasper weeps to see 
 His vision — air ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Justice ! justice, ye gods ! 
 Is this your equity ? — [ The stair vanishes entirely 
 
 I '11 pray no more 
 The absent Powers. Justice long since, now Hope, 
 Ev'n Hope, hath left this planet !— Blank Despair, 
 Thou only dost abide !— Lend me a sword ; 
 'T is all I crave, and what thou lov'st to proffer : 
 A sword, kind deity of the miserable ! 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAV QUEEN. 173 
 
 Let fall a sword, and I will swear thy name 
 Sweeter than Mercy's to the wretch in dread 
 Of everlasting pain ! 
 
 [A stvord falls upon the groutid. 
 Thanks ! — Now farewell, 
 Earth, and its woes for ever ! 
 [Phantoms of KKK^hCH and S\t.viK. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 [Laughter above, 
 RoMANZO. Nay, let me pause ! 
 There 's something dread and horrid in that joy ! — 
 'T is said the fiends laugh where the angels weep : — 
 I will not do 't ! — O all-disposing Heaven, 
 Pour down thy sorrows as thou wilt, I '11 drink them 
 In patience, though in tears ! 
 Phantoms of Ararach and Sylvia. Ill done ! 
 O rage ! [Murmurs above. 
 
 RoMANZO. Now may I know Heaven smiles upon 
 
 my deed, 
 For Hell is most unhappy. 
 
 Phantoms of Ararach and Sylvia. Let's provoke 
 him ! 
 [The Canopy, with the Phantom- lovers descends. 
 Phantom of Ararach. Behold ! 
 Phantofn <?/" Sylvia. Thy rival ! O behold ! 
 Phantom ^Ararach. Thy love ! 
 
 ROMANZO. To death and darkness, with one 
 lightning-sweep 
 Of this blue thunderbolt ! 
 
 [His sword divides the Canopy, 7ohich vanishes with 
 the Phantoms, displaying the Enchanted Vale and 
 Sylvia beside her lover. 
 Sylvia. [Leaping to his bosoin.] My life ! my 
 lord !— 
 Take me into thine arms ! take me ! — 
 
174 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 RoMANZO, Avaunt ! 
 
 By what reed nature dost thou only bow 
 Beneath my stormy hand ? Dares thy slight insolence 
 Brave me again ? 
 
 Sylvia. Nay, I will kneel for death, 
 
 So my lord wills it ! [Aneels. 
 
 RoMANZO. Good ! O art o' the sex ! 
 
 How well she does it ! 
 
 Sylvia. Come ! I '11 bind mine eyes, 
 
 Or cast them on the ground, lest their fond looks 
 Persuade thee into pity. I would die ! 
 In sooth, I would ! now I have lost thy love. 
 
 RoMANZO. Perfidiousness ! — 
 
 Sylvia. Kill me ! O kill me first 1 
 
 And name me after ! — Let me die believing 
 I am thy dear one still — the simple thought 
 Would make me kiss the weapon. Gentle love ! 
 One agony — one agony ! Kill me not twice, 
 With sorrow, and the sword ! 
 
 RoMANZO. Were I not staunch 
 
 As Murder, I would melt at this ! — Wilt strive ? 
 Wilt talk ? Wilt question with me ? 
 
 Sylvia. I will be dumb — 
 
 I '11 cross my patient hands upon my breast. 
 And wait my death as meek as the poor lily 
 Whose head falls smiling at h«r slayer's feet. 
 Or I will clasp thy knees, — thus — thus ! And if 
 Tears through my blinding hair will come at all, 
 'T is for thy misery when I am slain. 
 Now ! while I kiss thy gentler hand — 
 
 ROMANZO. Thus then, [Raising his szwrd. 
 
 Die! die, thou traitress — Now, by heavens, she clings, 
 Clings to me like a babe ! — Whate'er she be, 
 O God ! how pitiful are woman's tears ! 
 
SFLV/A ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 175 
 
 Sylvia. No ! — No ! — they are not for myself ! — 
 
 RoMANZO. Go, wretch ! 
 
 That seem'st so innocent, but art not, — go ! 
 I cannot murder thee : 't is like infanticide ! 
 
 Sylvia, Where shall I go? — wretch as I am ! 
 
 RoMANZO. I care not ! — 
 
 Anywhere — anywhere ! — so it be from me ! 
 Go to thy paramour ; thy sceptred love ; 
 Thy demon wooer ; whom my sword dispei"sed, 
 But slew not : him thou didst caress but now — 
 
 Sylvia. Him ? him ? the Sorcerer ? 
 
 RoMANZo. Ay, thou false one ! ay ! 
 
 With cheeks as flagrant as the sun's in June, 
 Smiles broad and liberal as she bestows 
 Whose blush is wine-engender'd ; with such hands 
 As smooths the unshorn Satjn: when he loves. 
 Or weave his drunken crowns ! — Follow him, go ! 
 He '11 perk thee by his side, I dare be sworn. 
 On his mock throne ; call thee his florid queen ; 
 While roars that bring down all the vaulted clouds 
 To quench the clamor, shall proclaim your title 
 As wide as Shame can hollo ! After him, go ! 
 
 Sylvia. 'T is a most hideous dream ! — W^ould I 
 had waken'd ! 
 
 Romanzo. For me, — O that some violent bolt 
 would fall, 
 And make me ashes ! — some oak-bending storm 
 Lap me in its wild skirt, and swirl me down 
 Precipices footed in the raging waves 
 Where thunder learns to bellow ; where leviathan 
 Tosses his foam abroad, and to the sands 
 Sucks down the shrieking mariner ! plunged there, 
 Ten thousand fathoms deep amid the billows, 
 I would find out an ever-stunning grave 
 
176 SYLVIA: OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Where voice of man could never hail me more ! 
 O my brain seethes witli fire ! — Death ! death ! O 
 death ! [Exit. 
 
 [Sylvia 7-etires, and sits doitm beside a rock with her 
 head leaning against it. 
 Sylvia. " Wretch ! "— " False-one ! "— " Preci- 
 pices ! "— " Grave ! "— " Death ! death ! "— 
 What is all this ! — O, I am crazed ! I 'm crazed ! — 
 Mother ! — Romanzo ! — help me ! — Fool ! Fool ! 
 
 silence ! — 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha !— No ; I '11 not laugh ; I '11 sing. 
 
 " I 've taught thee Love's sweet lesson o'er, 
 A task that is not learn 'd by tears : 
 Was Sylvia e'er so blest before 
 In her wild, solitary years ? 
 
 Then what does he deserve, the Youth, 
 Who made her con so dear a truth ? " 
 
 Why, the key to her happiness, that he may rob 
 her of it, and begone ; leaving her to live on her 
 scholarship. Ah, deceiver! 
 
 ' ' Pearly brow, and golden hair, 
 Lips that seem to scent the air ; 
 Eyes as bright " — 
 
 yes, indeed ! 
 
 " Eyes as bright, and sweet, and blue, 
 
 As violets " — 
 "Violets!" what next? Pah! I forget— "violets!"— 
 " Eyes as bright, and sweet, and blue. 
 
 As violets, weeping tears of dew ! " 
 
 1 have no better words : but they go pat enough ; 
 and would be sweet, sweet indeed, could the flower 
 sigh them over my grave ! — O that it were bed- 
 
SVLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 177 
 
 time ! I am a-weary of this sun ; and long to sleep 
 beneath the fresh-green turf, with a sweet-briar at 
 my head to entice the nightingale, and a streamlet at 
 my foot to join in the lullaby. 
 
 Lullaby ! lullaby ! there she sleeps. 
 
 With a wild streamlet to murmur around her : 
 
 Lullaby ! lullaby ! still it keeps 
 
 That the pale creature may slumber the sounder ! 
 
 Lullaby ! lullaby ! wake no mo ! 
 
 Says the sweet nightingale toning above her : 
 Lullaby ! lullaby ! life is wo 
 
 When a poor maiden is left by her lover ! 
 
 At least if all maidens be like me ! — and pray 
 Heaven, I die ere night of this thorn in my bosom ! 
 
 They told him that his love was dead, 
 
 And slept beneath a willow ; 
 He turned him on his heel, and said, — 
 
 " She chose a roomy pillow ! " 
 
 So she wept till the very shroud was moist with 
 her tears ? Oh, what a kind shepherd ! Would I had 
 such another ! — But no ! Who thinks of Sylvia? — 
 Not even Sylvia, though she is beside herself ! ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! — the first jest I ever made iu my life, and, 
 without another, it is a most miserable one ! — In- 
 deed, indeed, I am not very happy, though I do sing. 
 Where did I end ? 
 
 Enter Floretta behind. 
 Floretta. O happy sight ! O happy hour ! 
 
 I 've found my beauteous lady-fiower 1 
 Arise, arise, and come with me. 
 Thou 'rt in the realm of perfidy, 
 M 
 
178 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Sylvia. Ay, that 's true ; it rhymed to me — 
 
 They told him that his love was laid 
 Beneath a sullen cypress tree : 
 
 Smiling, quoth he, " The silly Maid, 
 They say she died for love of me ! " 
 
 There was a swain for you ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Floretta. Oh, see ray tears ! Oh, hear my cries ! 
 My love ! my beauty ! rise ! arise ! 
 Sit not, I pray thee, chanting there 
 Wild ditties to the ruthless air, 
 Like the lost Genius of Despair ! 
 Two fiends are hither winging fast 
 To seize my lovely-one at last. 
 Sylvia ! — Dost hear me ? — 
 
 Sylvia. Bird ! 
 
 Floretta. O come ! 
 
 Return to thy forgotten home ! 
 
 Hear ye not how the valleys mourn — 
 
 " When will our Shepherdess return ? " 
 
 Return ! return ! the rocks of gray 
 
 And murmuring streams and hollows say ! 
 
 Sylvia. Ay, when I have sung my song, indeed ! 
 — when I have sung my song ! 
 
 Was Lubin not a generous swain 
 
 To give his love her heart again ? 
 
 He sent her back the sweet love-token, 
 
 The heart ; — but then, indeed— 't was broken ! 
 
 What does your fairy-hood say to that ? — Do your 
 little goodies spin thread fine and strong enough to 
 bind up a broken heart ? — If so I will buy it of them 
 for a silver penny cut out of the moon. Bear them 
 my offer : I will sing here till you come back. 
 
sylvia; or, the may queen. 179 
 
 Floretta. 
 Ah, stay not ! stay not ! lily mine ! 
 Come o'er, come o'er the demon line ! 
 One moment, and the line is crost ! 
 One moment, and my flower is lost ! — 
 Wilt thou not listen to my wo ? 
 Would I neglect my Sylvia so ? 
 Once when I was thy favourite ouphe 
 Thou could'st not pet me half enough ; 
 But now to any nook I may. 
 And weep myself to dew away ! — 
 Ah ! thou wilt come ! — in faith thou must ! — 
 I '11 strew thy path with petal-dust, 
 And brush thy soft cheek with my wing, 
 As round thee merrily I sing 
 A gay, light-tripping, frolic song, 
 To lure thy charmed steps along. 
 
 My Lady sweet ! O come with me 
 To where the springs of nectar flow. 
 
 And like a cunning cuckoo-bee* 
 Before thee, I will singing go, 
 With cheer ! cheer ! cheer ! 
 When flowery beds or banks appear. 
 
 * The Moroe, Cnculus Indicator, Cuckoo-bee, or Honey- 
 guide, is a little bird of the African deserts, gifted with a most 
 peculiar tact for discovering the nests of wild bees, and a still 
 more remarkable one for participating in their contents. When 
 it has gotten the wind of such a treasure, it allures by a per- 
 petual cry resembling the words cheer ! cheer ! any traveller 
 or honey-loving animal it can meet towards the nest ; sits 
 trembling with avidity in a neighbouring bush, while its com- 
 panion sacks the magazine ; and finally obtains as a remunera- 
 tion for its services the relics of the booty. — Vide Linnieus, 
 Spar>-jiia,n. 
 
i8o SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN: 
 
 I 'II lead thee where the festal bees 
 
 Quaff their wild stores of crusted wine, 
 From censers sweet, and chalices 
 With lips almost as red as thine. 
 And cheer ! cheer ! cheer ! 
 I '11 cry when such a feast is near. 
 Sylvia ! O hapless maiden ! Come ! 
 
 To fairer scenes and brighter bowers 
 
 Than bloom in all the world beside. 
 Where thou shalt pass Elysian hours, — 
 
 I '11 be thy duteous Honey-guide. 
 And cheer ! cheer ! cheer ! 
 Shall be my note through all the year. 
 
 Terror ! O terror ! hither they 
 
 Bend them with all the might they may 
 
 To bear my shepherdess away. 
 
 The demons ! — Oh, unhappy one ! 
 
 Art thou enchanted to a stone ? 
 
 Up ! up ! or thou art all undone ! 
 
 Oh, come ! Oh, come my lady-dove ! 
 My peerless flower ! my Queen of May ! 
 
 Enter Grumiel and MoMiEL. 
 I 'II call thee every name of love. 
 If thou wilt wend with me away ! 
 But wo ! wo ! wo ! 
 She will not answer ay or no ! 
 
 Grumiel. Ila ! ha ! have we caught thee at last ? 
 
 MoMiEL. Napping, i' faith ! like a wildcat, with 
 her eyes open. Come ! bring her along. 
 
 Floretta. O my lost flower ! my flower ! 
 
 MOMIEL. Ay, Trip-Madam is her name : see 
 how kindly she comes to it ! 
 
SYLVIA: OR, THE MAY QUEEN. i8i 
 
 Grumiel. What is that hizzing thing there ? 
 
 MOMIEL, Why, nothing less than three barley- 
 corns' length of woman-kind, in a huge petticoat 
 made of a white thumbstali, and having wings as 
 long as a brown hornet's or a caterpillar's after con- 
 version. A pocket-piece ! — She, too, has a name. 
 Busybody. Wilt come with us, Gad-about ? 
 
 Grumiel. No ! we have more of the sex by one 
 than is welcome. 
 
 MOMIEL. Nay, thou may'st flutter and squeal 
 and ricket about, like an old wren (as thou art ! ) 
 when the schoolboy filches thy young one. Adieu, 
 mistress ! and bear my respects to AJonsicur Saint 
 Vitus, thy dancing-master. 
 
 Grumiel. Come on, thou gibbering ape ! 
 
 MOMIEL. Then, I may say, like one of my kindred 
 in the fable, putting my hand upon this wig-block of 
 thine, — " Bless me ! what a fine head were this, if it 
 only had brains ! " 
 
 Grumiel. I'll — 
 
 MOMIEL. Go ! go on ! — Take a graybeard's 
 advice : never open thy mouth but to eat thy porridge. 
 Though thou didst live upon garbage, nothing would 
 ever go into thy throat that was not better than aught 
 that came out of it. Go on, pray thee ! — Despise not 
 the use of thy trotters, — Good-bye, little Mistress 
 Hop o' my thumb ! — warm work for an afternoon. 
 Mistress ! Thou look'st for all the world like a 
 humming-top on the wing ; and indeed wouldst 
 make a most lively representation of the proverb — a 
 reel in a bottle. Go on, buzzard ! 
 
 \Exeunt Fiends tvith Sylvia. 
 Floretta. Now may I to some covert creep, 
 And like the secret bird of sorrow 
 
1 82 SVLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 In darkling tears for ever weep, 
 Nor bid again the sun good morrow ! 
 And wo ! luo ! wo ! 
 Shall be my note where'er I go. 
 [ Vanishes. 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 The fairy camp, with tents displayed, 
 
 Squadrons and glittering files arrayed 
 
 In strict battalia o'er the plain : 
 
 Gay trumpets sound the shrill refrain ; 
 
 From field to field loud orders ring, 
 
 And couriers scour from wing to wing. 
 
 On a soft ambling jennet- fly 
 
 And girt with elfin chivalry 
 
 Who mingle in suppressed debate, 
 
 Rides forth the pigmy Autocrat. 
 
 Her ivory spear swings in its rest, 
 
 Close and succinct her martial vest 
 
 Tucked up above her snowy knee, 
 
 A miniature Penthesilee ! 
 
 Her Amazonian nymphs beside 
 
 Their queen, at humble distance ride ; 
 
 Encased in golden helms their hair. 
 
 In corslets steel their bosoms fair. 
 
 With trowsered skirt loopt strait and high 
 
 Upon the limb's white luxury. 
 
 That clasps so firm, yet soft, each steed 
 
 Thinks himself manfully bestrid, 
 
 And snorts and paws with fierce delight. 
 
 Proud of his own young Maiden-knight, 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAV queen: 183 
 
 Whose moony targe at saddle-bow 
 Hangs loose, and glimmers as they go. 
 
 Now breathe your fifes and roll your drums, 
 'T is the Queen's Majesty that comes ! 
 
 Morgana. Look out ! — look out ! — Floretta 
 should be here ; 
 Or Osme whom we sent. [Exetnit scouts. 
 
 Nephon, droop not, 
 Thou didst perform thy careful duty well ! 
 Rash and presumptuous youth ! he merits all 
 The punishment he suffers : To neglect 
 The warning that thou gav'st him ere he past 
 Insolent o'er the hounds, where his perdition 
 Gaped for him, like the monster of the Nile, 
 In every brake and jungle ! 
 
 Nephon. Madam, indeed, 
 
 I told him 't was a fiendish stratagem, 
 To lure him over, but he would not hear ; 
 Stampt when I pluckt his skirt, and swung his sword 
 Round by the wrist, so that I 'd lost my hold 
 And hand together, but I let him go. 
 
 Morgana. I know, I saw it ; thou art not to 
 blame, 
 Proud of his azure weapon, he would cope 
 With those who scorn it, as they do the edge 
 Of bladed feather, or those grassy swords 
 Which our soft tourneyers wield — 
 
 \Cry without.'] A messenger ! 
 
 E}7te}- Osme. 
 Morgana. Where is thy sister ? hast thou seen 
 her, say ? 
 
i84 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 OsME. Here comes the elve, weeping her silent 
 way : 
 Some dreadful news I wot she brings 
 So lost in grief the wretch appears, 
 Her head she hides between her wings, 
 And cannot tell her tale for tears ! 
 Morgana. The Maid is lost ! — Arm ! arm, ye 
 warlike elves ! 
 With potent virtues now endue yourselves ; 
 Lay by your puppet words and spears and shields, 
 We must prepare for other fights and fields. 
 Mount ! mount with me in clouds the blackening 
 
 sky ! 
 War be the word, and Battle be the cry ! 
 
 Scene VIII. 
 
 O thou dread Bard ! whose soul of fire 
 Moved o'er the dark-string'd Epic lyre 
 Till brightening where thy spirit swept 
 Lustre upon its dimness crept, 
 And at thy word, from dull repose 
 The Light of heavenly Song arose ! 
 O that this lyric shell of mine 
 Were like thy harp. Minstrel divine ! 
 With thunder-chords intensely strung, 
 To chime with thy audacious song 
 That scorned all deeds to chronicle 
 Less than the wars of Heaven and Hell 
 O that this most despised hand 
 Could sweep so beautifully grand 
 The nerves Tyrtaean ! — I would then 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN: 
 
 Storm at the souls of little men, 
 And raise them to a nobler mood 
 Than that Athenian master could 1 * 
 But no ! — the spirit long has fled 
 That warmed the old tremendous dead, 
 Who seem in stature of their mind 
 The Anaks of the human kind : 
 So bright their crowns of glory burn, 
 Our eyes are seared ; we feebly turn 
 In terrible delight away, 
 And only — " Ye were mighty ! " say. 
 We turn to forms of milder clay. 
 Who smile indeed, but cannot frown. 
 Nor bring Hell up nor Heaven down. 
 One gloomy Thing indeed, who now 
 Lays in the dust his lordly brow. 
 Had might, a deep indignant sense, 
 Proud thoughts, and moving eloquence ; 
 But oh ! that high poetic strain 
 Which makes the heart shriek out again 
 With pleasure half mistook for pain ; 
 That clayless spirit which doth soar 
 To some far empyrean shore. 
 Beyond the chartered flight of mind, 
 Reckless, repressless, unconfined. 
 Spurning from off the roofed sky 
 Into unciel'd Infinity ; 
 Beyond the blue crystalline sphere 
 Beyond the ken of optic seer. 
 The flaming walls of this great world, 
 Where Chaos keeps his flag unfurled 
 
 *Tyrtaeus, the Attic pedagogue, before the sound of whose 
 lyre the wal's of ltho:tie fell. 
 
SYLVIA : OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 And embryon shapes around it swarm, 
 Waiting till some all-mighty arm 
 Their different essences enrol 
 Into one sympathetic whole ; 
 That spirit which presumes to seize 
 On new creation-seeds like these, 
 And bears on its exultant wings 
 Back to the earth undreamt-of things, 
 Which unseen we could not conceive, 
 And seen we scarcely can believe ; — 
 That strain, this spirit, was not thine, 
 Last favour'd child of the fond Nine ! 
 Great as thou wert, thou lov'dst the clod, 
 Nor like blind Milton walked with God ! 
 Him who dared lay his hand upon 
 The very footstool of Jove's throne, 
 And lift his intellectual eye 
 Full on the blaze of Deity : 
 Who sang with the celestial choir 
 Hosanna ! to the Eternal Sire ; 
 And trod the holy garden, where 
 No man but he and Adam were ; 
 Who reach'd that high Parnassian clime 
 Where Homer sat as gray as Time, 
 Murmuring his rhapsodies sublime ! 
 Who from the Mantuan's bleeding crown 
 Tore the presumptuous laurel down, 
 And fix'd it, proudly, on his own ! 
 Who with that Bard diviner still 
 Than Earth has seen or ever will, 
 The pride, the glory of the hill, 
 Albion ! thy other deathless son, — 
 Reigns ; and with them the Grecian one. 
 Leagued in supreme tri-union ! 
 
SVL VIA ; OR , THE MAV Q UEEN. 1 87 
 
 Then why should I, whose dying song 
 Shall ne'er be wept thy reeds among, 
 Lydian Cayster ! — I, no bird 
 Of that majestic race which herd 
 Upon thy smoothly-rolling surge, 
 And sing their own departing dirge ; 
 But one who must, O bitter doom ! 
 Sink mutely to my sullen tomb 
 Amid this lone deserted stream, 
 Whose sands shall pillow my death-dream, 
 And for my hollow knell shall teem 
 Its dittying waters over me ! 
 Why should I so adventurous be 
 With imitative voice to pour 
 One strain Cayster heard before ? 
 
 To stretch that bow should I pretend, 
 Which none but thou, dread Bard ! could bend. 
 Well might the uncheck'd thunder speed. 
 Full volley, to avenge the deed. 
 And blast me, impious : but I keep 
 Dread finger still upon my lip. 
 And inly to Suggestion say — 
 "Lead not that high heroic way ; 
 Where Milton trod few mortals may ! " — 
 The war of Fiends and Virtuous Powers, 
 Sing thou in thy celestial bowers, 
 And charm the bright seraphic throng 
 Who crowd to hear the rapturous song, 
 And at their old recorded fame 
 Glow doubly bright. Not mine the same 
 High audience, nor a theme so high, 
 Nor oh ! such passing minstrelsy ! 
 
 Wise in my weakness, I forego 
 The deeds of fell contest to show, 
 
SYLVIA : OK, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 When Demon power met Godly host, 
 And battlefield was won and lost. 
 This has been sung in higher strain 
 Than ever shall be heard again ! 
 I only tell ye to behold 
 A scene in sulphury volumes rolled 
 And hear within the clang of arms, 
 With shouts and dissonant alarms : 
 There came a mighty crash ! — a pause 
 As dread succeeds — O righteous cause ! 
 Be thine that note of victory 
 Which shakes the pillars of the sky 
 With loud symphonious melody ! 
 
 Chorus of Spirits •within. 
 
 Victory ! — 
 Victory ! — Lo ! the fight is done ! 
 Victory ! — Lo ! the field is won ! 
 
 Victory ! O victory ! 
 Rejoice, ye glorious harps ! rejoice ! 
 Proclaim with one harmonious voice 
 Victory ! Victory ! Victory ! 
 [Enter the Fairy Host in triumph.\ 
 
 Victory ! — 
 Victory ! — Lo ! the fiends are fled ! 
 Victory ! — Lo ! their king is dead ! 
 
 Victory ! O victory ! 
 Pronounce it with your silver tones 
 And shining mouths, sweet clarions ! 
 Victory ! Victory ! Victory. 
 
 Victory ! — 
 Victory ! — Lo ! the welkin clears ! 
 Victory ! — Lo ! the sun appears ! 
 
 Victory ! O Victory 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. i?9 
 
 The Powers of Darkness yield the glen, 
 So breathe sweet harp and trump again — 
 Victory ! Victory ! Victory t 
 
 [Exeunt rejoicing. 
 
 Scene IX. 
 
 The smoothest greensward, dry and shorn, 
 Where glowing siindrops seem to burn 
 Like ardent tears from Phoebus' eye 
 Fallen in golden showers from high. 
 Primroses, king-cups, cuckoo-buds, 
 And pansies cloakt in yellow hoods, 
 And splendid, bosom-button'd daisies 
 With grandam ruffs, and saucy faces : 
 The moss is hoar with very heat 
 And crisp as frost-work to the feet. 
 Oh, such a place to dance a round 
 To the hot timbrel's dingling sound ! 
 And when the booming finger runs 
 Around its orb, — to hear the tones 
 Of shrill pipe speaking in between. 
 Like high-voiced woman 'mid hoarse men. 
 Tossing the head from side to side 
 To suit the humorous tune applied. 
 And stamping with uneasy glee 
 Till the wild reel has come to thee. 
 Then how the buxom lass is swung, 
 Scarce knowing why or where she 's flung ? 
 The kerchief dropt, and bosom glowing 
 Over its silken border flowing. 
 And the trim kirtle whirling high 
 Shows the wrought garter's rainbow tie. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 But oh ? — oh, whither do I stray 
 From sense and scope so far away ! 
 Thou syren Girl, with flowing hair, 
 Hymne ! how sweet thy pleasures are ! 
 Let me but hear thy trancing lyre 
 Sing " Come away ! " — no foot of fire. 
 Burning with messages to Jove, 
 Transcends my haste to her I love. 
 Thee, thee I follow, half unseen. 
 Through endless vales and forests green, 
 O'er wilds and browy mountains stern, 
 Lone heaths and pastures red with fern, 
 From rock to cave, from lake to stream, 
 Fast fleeting like a noiseless stream 
 Where'er I see thy beauty beam : 
 Ev'n though thy most seductive smile 
 Leads me erroneous all the while ! 
 As the bee mourning tracks the flower 
 That winds bear off'ward from its bower, 
 So, murmuring all my way, I roam 
 To find thy sweetness in some home. 
 Some verdurous nook, where tiptoe I 
 Put back the froward greenery. 
 To hear the attraction of thy tongue 
 Bowing the woods to drink its song. 
 Oh ! well for me thou art not one 
 Living in the green deeps alone, 
 Or banding with the Sisters three, 
 Who drown men with their melody : 
 For did'st thou call me through the roar 
 Of wild waves on a clifiy shore, 
 Where billowy Ocean's lion trains 
 Shake into surge their hoary manes. 
 My knell should that same day be rung 
 Blind Nereus' chapell'd caves among. 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAV QUEEN. igr 
 
 Then leave, ah I leave me to my story ! 
 Begone thou with thy crown of glory ! 
 Unless thou drop one wreath on me, 
 What should I care, slight Nymph ! for thee ? 
 
 Stephania, Roselle, Jacintha, Andrea, 
 Geronymo, and Feasants, assembled. They 
 perform a dance; Andrea, between Stephania 
 and Roselle as partners. 
 
 Stephania. Nay, I can foot it no longer. 
 
 Roselle. Nor I, in faith ! I cannot feel my legs 
 under me. Signior Andrea, you must dance to that 
 oaken stump, if you will not sit down with the rest 
 of us. O my heart bounces so, it will break my 
 girdle ! 
 
 Jacintha. Well, all is happy now. Our beauti- 
 ful Queen and her partner are restored. 
 
 Second Peasant. Ay, and here is an entertainment 
 the hospitable dame has provided to welcome us all. 
 Would the hostess were now at the head of her 
 table ! 
 
 Third Peasant. Ay, would she were ! — ^Jollity has 
 set in for the evening. 
 
 Roselle. If it would only last till doomsday, we 
 might be satisfied ! 
 
 Geronymo. We are, we are satisfied ! We are 
 all blessed ones, that is the tot of the matter ! 
 
 Stephania. And our unlucky friend there is the 
 happiest of us all. He has not yet finished his setting- 
 step to his stumpy partner. 
 
 First Girl. Lawk ! what a skip-jack ! what a 
 bounce-about ! — How he cuts ! 
 
192 SVLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Second Girl. How he capers ! He must have 
 been a rope-dancer, as sure as sure 
 
 Fourth Peasant. Was he ever on the stage, think 
 ye? 
 
 Geronymo. Absolutely he was, absolutely : I saw 
 him myself there ; namelessly, or, that is to say, on 
 the top of a barrel. 
 
 Third Girl. Is this he I have heard of under the 
 name of Merry Andrew ? 
 
 RosELLE. No wonder if it was, for he is the 
 merriest rogue — Oh ! I do love that impudent smock- 
 face of his ! 
 
 Jacintha. I thinks he looks as if he were about 
 to jump out of his skin with joy. 
 
 Stephania. All his afflictions are at an end. He 
 has not even a bone in his foot to complain of. 
 
 Andrea {stopping short]. Oh, misery of miseries ! 
 Oh, unspeakable misfortune ! 
 
 Roselle. Mercy upon us ! what new calamity? 
 
 Andrea. Oh, that a man cannot have two wives at 
 a time ! — I could find it in my heart to turn Turk for 
 the privilege. 
 
 Roselle. Ho ! ho ! Signior Doleful ! — is it this 
 that afflicts you ? 
 
 Stephania. I thought there was another face 
 under that hood. 
 
 Andrea. What say you, Cherry bud ? would you 
 have me? — And you, Sweet lips? 
 
 Stephania. By your leave, signior : either or 
 neither. 
 
 Roselle. Come, tell us honestly now : what kind 
 of a husband should you make? How should you 
 behave were you married to either of us simple 
 maidens ! 
 
SYLVIA : OR, THE MAY QUEEN: 193 
 
 Andrea. Hang myself incontinently. 
 
 Stephania. O pretty ! — hang yourself if married 
 to either ! 
 
 Andrea. Ay ; in despair for the other. But if 
 I were only married to both — ye Graces! what a 
 tiio we should make ! what a picture for a painter ! 
 ^Would there be anything, do you think, on this 
 side of the sky to compare with us ? 
 
 RosELLE. No, certainly ; unless it were a white 
 goose between a couple of grey ones. 
 
 Andrea. Holla ! 
 
 Stephania. Or an ass between two thistles. 
 
 Andrea. O gemini ! 
 
 RosELLE. Or the likeness would be more like if 
 we said, a crab-apple between two cherries. 
 
 Stephania. Or, as it is in the church, a figure of 
 Death between two angels. 
 
 Andrea. Astonishment ! — I profess the women 
 have tongues ! — Tongues apiece, as I live, to do 
 evil. 
 
 Stephania. Ay, and more than that — 
 
 Andrea. What ! more than one tongue apiece ? 
 — O monstrous ! 
 
 Stephania. No, signior ; but we have the use of 
 that we possess, as you shall find if you please to set 
 it a-going. 
 
 Andrea. By that bunch of keys at your girdle 
 I know you to be a housekeeper, and therefore a 
 person worthy of credit ; I will take your word in 
 this matter. — [To Geronymo.] Well, friend! — 
 What a bowing dost thou keep there ? as if thou 
 wast upper man of a saw pit ! — Is this what you call 
 scraping an acquaintance ? 
 
 Geronymo. [To .Stephania.] O imperious 
 
 N 
 
194 SVLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN: 
 
 mistress of my heart ! — Suffering-queen of my affec- 
 tions ! — I cannot say what I could say, nor will I 
 speak what I would speak ! 
 
 Andrea. Write it then, write it ! If your 
 tongue is bound to keep the peace on this ground, 
 take her on some other. Inscribe her a billet-doux, 
 and let it be as full of compliments as if it were her_ 
 epitaph ; let it breathe professions like the air of a 
 minister's levee-room ; stick it all over with sweet 
 words, as a pastry cook does a tart with comfits ; 
 and, in the end, let me advise you, as one that knows 
 the fashion, to subscribe it — "yrs. faithfully;" 
 yours faithfully, which is as much as to say — Put your 
 whole trust in me, and fear not ! 
 
 Geronymo. I will ! I will do so ! And I will 
 take care, as you say, not to admit — "yours 
 faithfully ! " it has a most porpoise-like air with 
 it ! 
 
 Stephania. O Geronymo ! you need not be 
 porpoise-like to gain me : you are already a melting 
 creature ! 
 
 Andrea. Pooh ! have we been conjuring up a 
 whirlwind to blow gossamer ! This is a quail, 
 indeed I that comes, fat and foolish, at the first pipe 
 of the sportsman. Well ! the vanities of this life are 
 enough to make any man a crying philosopher. — 
 Hark ye, ladies ! [To Jacintha and Roselle.] 
 What say you to a glee, or catch, or chorus ? — Li ! 
 ti ! lirra ! tirra ! — Eh, temptresses ? eh, you pair of 
 wild pigeons ? 
 
 Jacintha. Roselle chants like a green linnet ; 
 buti— 
 
 Andrea. No, you cannot sing at all : I 'd swear 
 it, from the shape of your neck. It is made like an 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 195 
 
 ivory pipe, only to be played upon with the fingers ; 
 and a man must put his lips to your mouth if he would 
 produce sweet music. Come, I '11 charm it out of you. 
 
 Jacintha. Not so free, brother. 
 
 RosELLE. Not quite so free, Signior Rolypolillo! 
 
 Andrea, Bless me ! have I got into a mountain- 
 nunnery ? — Well ; it is all one to me ; I have my 
 kisses, and you have your lips. If you will not 
 embrace your good fortune when it offers, 't is your 
 own loss. I know there will be biting of nails for it 
 in private : but never come with your tilly-vally to 
 me ! never presume even to blow me a favour ! I had 
 rather kiss, ay, a thousand times, the brim of this 
 delicious goblet, than the lips of the Empress of 
 Morocco herself, though they say her mouth might 
 be taken for a bee hive. \_Drinks. 
 
 Second Peasant. He should have gills like a fish, 
 to let all he gulps pass out behind his ears. 
 
 Andrea. Come, lasses, a glee ! a glee ! My pipe 
 is as mellow as a French horn. Come ; you have 
 nothing to do but say hem ! hem ! — put your right 
 hand under your left breast to show that your heart 
 is beating — and then, with an interesting droop of the 
 head, thus, as if you offered your neck to a scimitar, 
 and, indeed, la ! had much rather die than exhibit 
 your faculty,— begin expressive e amabile, raising your 
 voice by degrees till it bullies the echo, and almost 
 breaks your sweet heart-strings as short as maccaroni. 
 Allans ! " Tirra lee ! " 
 
 Two sweet Maidens sang together 
 
 Tirra lirra ! tirra lee ! 
 Comes a Swain, and asks them whether 
 He might join their tirra lee ! 
 O how happy, happy he. 
 Might he join their tirra lee 
 
196 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 To his prayer the nymphs replying — 
 
 Tirra lirra ! tirra lee ! 
 Kept the silly shepherd sighing 
 
 Still to join their tirra lee ! 
 O how happy, &c. 
 
 Nought they said unto his suing, 
 
 Nought but — tirra lirra lee ! 
 For they loved to keep him wooing, 
 Still to join their tirra lee ! 
 O how happy, <S:c. 
 Looking sad while they were laughing. 
 
 What the silly clown ! does he ? 
 Takes, in mere despair, to quaffing 
 Sweeter far than tirra lee ! {Drinks, 
 RosELLE. A good excuse ! 
 Jacintha. His modesty had some need of it. 
 Andrea. O how happy, happy he 
 
 Pouring out his tirra lee ! 
 
 Enter Agatha, Sylvia, and Romanzo. 
 
 As I live, madam, your wine-merchant is an honest 
 fellow : this is excellent champagne as ever I 
 drank at five-and-sixpence a bottle ! — though, indeed, 
 a little too potent of the gooseberry. 
 
 Peasants. All joy attend our Queen ! our Queen ! 
 the lady of our hearts ! — our sovereign princess ! — the 
 star of our worships ! — the idol of our perfections ! — 
 Huzza ! our May-Queen ! our May-Queen ! 
 
 Sylvia. Thanks, kind friends and neighbours ! 
 Would I were indeed a queen for some few hours, 
 that I might reward, by other means than these ac- 
 knowledgments, your love and loyalty ! But though 
 my coffers are empty, my heart is full, and you shall 
 partake largely of its affections. Welcome to you all ! 
 
SYLVIA ; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 197 
 
 Agatha. Welcome ! welcome, friends and neigh- 
 bours ! 
 
 Peasants. Does she not speak very queen-like ?— 
 so courtsying, and gracious, and withal so high-spoken 
 and indignified ! — Oh, if our duke had only seen her 
 before he married the proud French princess, with 
 her nose turned up like the toe of a Chinaman's 
 slipper ! — Well ! to see the luck of foreigners in this 
 country ! we make hothouse plants of them, and 
 leave our own pretty flowers to the will of the weather ! 
 
 RoMANZO. [io Andrea] I may freely pardon you 
 for what you did unwittingly ; but let me beseech you 
 for the future to keep a stricter guard upon your 
 tongue, whose volubility is ever laying you open to 
 your enemies. 
 
 Andrea. Here she is, sir, in petticoat regimentals 
 {Fainting at Hoselle) : this is she who will stand 
 sentinel over my volatility ; this is my body-guard, my 
 life-guard, my beef-eater, who will never let me travel 
 the length of her apron string without keeping, I dare 
 swear for her, watch and ward upon my actions. 
 What other guard would you have me set over my 
 tongue, unless I were to go muzzled like a terrier in 
 the dog-days? 
 
 RoSELLE. Never doubt me ! I will stop your 
 mouth — 
 
 Andrea. With kisses : O you are a sad wanton ! 
 — She will always hang upon me thus, sir, as if I 
 wore her for a Spanish cloak, and our lips are always 
 touching like a double-cherry. In a word, sir, she 
 is, poor girl ! so incorrigibly fond of me, that I 
 believe I must, perforce — take her to wife, lest 
 there might be, as they say in England, a suspension 
 of her habeas corpus, or some other dreadful calamity, 
 too tedious to mention. 
 
193 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 RosELLE. I will promise to hang myself for love, 
 when you drown yourself for melancholy. 
 
 RoMANZO. There is surely something very catch- 
 ing in this place. I should as soon think of your 
 taking a lock-jaw as a love-fever. 
 
 Andrea. Reform, sir ! reform ! — it is the order 
 of the day, and shall be radical in my constitution. 
 I have determined to remedy all abuses, redress all 
 grievances, root out all old prejudices, customs, and 
 inveterate habits, which have so long made a borough 
 of my body ; and to regulate myself in future by a 
 new code, which in a short time 1 hope and trust will 
 render me — the envy of all my surrounding neigh- 
 bours, and the admiration of the world ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Marriage is the serious end of all our 
 follies. 
 
 Andrea. Alas ! ay, sir ! It is what we must all 
 come to ! Death and matrimony are both grave 
 words ; and the chief distinction between them is 
 that the halter very often brings us to death, while 
 matrimony very often brings us to the halter. 
 
 RoSELLE. No fear of that with you : if you are 
 to be choked, it will be with a flagon of Rhenish. 
 
 Andrea. But the upshot of the whole is, there is 
 nothing left me now but — conjugal felicity. I have 
 been, it is true, while in your worship's company, 
 little better than a reprobate ; now that I have kept 
 this lady's, I am little better than one of the con- 
 verted. In a word, sir, this nymph has made a 
 prototype of me, and I only await your benediction. 
 P^om having been, as you know, sir, a perfect she- 
 Timon, or in other words, a manhater of all woman- 
 kind, I am now, in all love-matters, become as faith- 
 ful and fond as a green turtle ! — Come, sir, pray give 
 
SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 199 
 
 away the bridegroom : I shall never have courage 
 to throw myself into her arms without your paternal 
 countenance. 
 
 Stephania. O the Virgin ! how he blushes ! 
 
 ROSELLE. In good truth, sweetheart, if bashful- 
 ness had been the only stumbling-block in the way 
 of your promotion, you would never have broken 
 your shins over it. However, I like you better than 
 if you were ever so modest. 
 
 ROMANZO. Well then, come, I will bestow your 
 innocence upon this maiden — 
 
 Geronymo. So please your reverence, and mine 
 too upon Mistress Stephania. She will be much 
 beholden to your reverence for the donation. 
 
 Andrea. Ha! ha ! ha ! ha ! your worship is like 
 to have all the modesty of the country at your disposal, 
 if you will take it under your protection. 
 
 RoMANZO. Truly I have no desire to meddle with 
 it : you and honest Geronymo must endeavour to get 
 rid of the troublesome commodity without my assist- 
 ance. I dare say you will experience no impediment 
 from your partners. 
 
 Andrea. Ton my feracity ! I apprehend there 
 will be no let in that quarter : eh, brother Sheep- 
 face? 
 
 Geronymo. You have said it, you have said it : 
 there 't is, and that is the tot of the matter ! 
 
 ROMANZO. Our hostesses are seated. 
 
 Agatha. You are so full of joy, that you seem to 
 want no other nourishment. 
 
 Peasants. Should not our Queen sit under the 
 Maybush at the head of the table ? 
 
 Romanzo. True, neighbours, it should be so. 
 Come, fairest ! you shall take your state, and I will 
 be your cupbearer. 
 
200 SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN. 
 
 Sylvia. No, you must sit beside me, else I shall 
 be like many a real queen, unhappy in my splendour. 
 If I be indeed queen, you must obey me in this. 
 Come, sit, sit. Sit, fair companions, and let each 
 shepherd choose his place next the lass who will make 
 room for him. But hearken ! — Ere we touch what is 
 set before us, it is meet that we return solemn thanks 
 for our happy deliverance from peril and sorrow to 
 that Power which has befriended us in our extremity. 
 
 FINAL CHORUS. 
 
 Sweet Bards have told 
 That Mercy droppeth as the gentle rain 
 
 From the benignant skies ; 
 And that in simple-hearted times of old, 
 
 Praise unto Heaven again 
 Did in a fragrant cloud of incense rise ! 
 
 Thus the great sun 
 Breathes his wide blessing over herb and flower. 
 
 Which bloom as he doth burn ; 
 And to his staid yet ever-moving throne, 
 
 They from the mead and bower 
 Offer a grateful perfume in return. 
 
 So then should we. 
 Whom Pity hath beheld with melting eye. 
 
 Utter our hymns of praise. 
 In solemn joy and meek triumphancy 
 
 Unto the Powers on high : 
 Raise then the song of glory ! Shepherds raise ! 
 
 TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 
 
■1 
 
 Return to desk from whichborrowed. 
 
 This book is DUE on 
 
 the last date stamped below. 
 
 ^*J5» JttC c|J8. MAY 1 7 1982 
 
 DEC ''^^^^^ 
 
 
 'M 
 
 ■^ - ' 
 
 OCT 2 1977 
 
 LD 21-lOOw 
 
 .7,'52(A2528sl6)476 
 
j?.^ 
 
 U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
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