|
|
Act II
The woodlands as at first. Foresters and girls. Melander leans against a tree absorbed in thought: in one group Marcion and Ermenild are talking: in another Iamblichus and Myrtil: Myrtil comes forward.
MYRTIL What passion, dear Melander, numbs thy voice? Why wilt thou cherish humorous peevishness, The nursling of a moment and a mood? Now kernelled in the golden husk of day Pale night with all her pomp of sorrow sleeps, And stinted of soft-clinging melancholy The elegiac nightingale is hushed.
MELANDER Sweet friend, my spirit is too deeply hued With sombre-sweet Imagination’s brush To dress the nimble spirit of the dance In lilt of phrase and honey-packing rhyme. I pray you, urge it not. I am not well.
IAMBLICHUS Urge him no more. The rash and humorous spirit That governs him at times, will not be schooled. But since the sweetest tongue of all is mute, Some harsher voice prick on the creeping hour.
Page – 764 MYRTIL Ah no, Iamblichus! when winds are hushed Fall then the clapping cymbals of the sea, And every green-haired dancing-girl down-drop Her foam-tipped sinuous wand to kiss her feet! The loss of sweetest palls what is but sweet, For should the honey-throated mavis die, Who in the laughing linnet takes delight Or lends ear to the rhyming hedge-priest wren? Let us not challenge passion-pale regret, But hand-in-hand down ruby-tinted walks Gather the poppies of sweet speech, to press For opiates when dank autumn looms and Life Is empty of her rose. Were not this well?
IAMBLICHUS Thy words are sweet as joy, more wise than sorrow. Come, friends, let us steal honey from the hours For memory to suck when winter comes. Exeunt all but Melander. MELANDER Ah me, what drug Circean wakes in me? My blood steals from my heart like pulsing fire And the fresh sap exudes upon my brow. O faster, faster urge thy golden wheels, Thou sun that like a fiery lizard creepst Glib-footed to the parapet of heaven! Oh that my hand might clutch thy saffron curls And thrust thee in the loud Atlantic! So The violet mares of Evening may drink up The sweet, damp wind, so dawn the ivory moon And lurk shy-peeping in my darling’s eyes. For my desire is like the passionate sea That calls unto her paramour the wind And only hears a strangled murmur pant, Mute, muffled by the hollow-breasted hills. Enter Iamblichus with Myrtil in his arms.
Page – 765 MYRTIL No farther drag my steps, Iamblichus! I am not fond to bow my doating neck Under your feet, like other woodland girls Who image beauty’s model in your shape, Heaven in your eyes and nectar in your kiss. Fie, fie, be modest, sir. Let go your grasp.
[Here a page of the notebook was torn out.]
[MELANDER] Ah me, again a sea of subtle fire Clamours about the ruby gates of Life! My soul expanding like a Pythian seer Thrives upon torture, and the insurgent blood, Swollen as with wine, menaces mutiny. How slowly buildst thou up the spacious noon To dome thy house, O architect of day! Not from the bubbling smithy where Love works Smooth He be fetched thy world-revealing fires; Nor to the foam-bound bride-bed of the sea Thou sailest, but like one with doom foreseen Whose bourne and culmination lapses down To sunless hell. Hope thou not to set out My seasons in the golden ink of day: My heart anticipates the pilot moon Who steers the cloudy-wimpled night. Pale orb, Thou art no symbol for my burning soul: Lag thou behind or lag not, I will lead. He is going out. Re-enter foresters with Palleas. MARCION What’s this, Melander? Noon not yet has sealed His titles with the signet of the sun. ‘Tis early yet to leave. Why will you go?
Page – 766 MELANDER I am bound down by iron promises, The hour named. Would I not linger else? Even now the promise has outstript the act.
MYRTIL Melander, do not go.
MELANDER Dear child, I must.
IAMBLICHUS Come, come, you shall not go. ‘Tis most unkind, Let me not say uncourteous, to withdraw The sunshine of your presence from this day, Our little day of unmixed joy. Be ruled.
PALLEAS Boy, let me counsel you. This eager fit And hot eruption does much detriment To youth and bodes no good to waning years. When I was young, I ruled my dancing blood, Abstained from brabbles, women, verses, wine, And now you see me bask in hale old age, Mid Autumn’s gilded ruin one green leaf. Life’s palate dulls with much intemperance, And whoso breaks the law, the law shall break. Love is a specious angler —
MELANDER Dotard, off! Confide thy heavy rumours to the grave Where thou shouldst now be rotting. Exit.
Page – 767 |