m UC-NRLF B ^ IDS b2M i'.ti' «i»;Li-;^_ :_.!._■ 1- This Edition consists of Five Hundred Small and One Hundred Large Paper copies, after printing nuhich the type has been distributed. This is No. 2j I of the Large Paper. J. M. DENT &- .CO. Sylvia ; or, the May Queen ^^>^^^^-'^ v-^ i>iy "''•■ UW M^< '^^4 ""^^^^ LYRICAL DRAM)i^ BY GEORGE BARLEY INTRODUCTION BY /^ '^lA fX JOHN H.INGRAM < fe ^ 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 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 -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,