# Three Plays/Dr. Sylvester's Supper

​DOCTOR SYLVESTER'S SUPPER.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Doctor Sylvester. :
| Avis | His Ward. |
| Lenore | A former Mistress of Sylvester. |
| Madam Pomeroy. ||
| Robin | A Lad. |
| Simon Bale | A Neighbour. |
| Candace | A Negress, Servant to Sylvester. |
| 1st Masque | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | Visionary Appearances. |
| 2nd Masque | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | Visionary Appearances. |
| 3rd Masque | $\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,$ | Visionary Appearances. |
| A Voice. ||
Period.—The early eighteenth century.
The scene is laid in Dr. Sylvester's parlour in Salem, America. A long, low window to middle of scene, a door communicating with a garden, left, and a cut-off corner and door into a smaller room right, which wall becomes a transparent gauze during Sylvester's vision. To extreme left a fireplace, with a furnace, alembicks, etc.
​Madam Pomeroy.—(Reading from a paper at table near door left):
What have we in the Flying Mercury? A Romish Mass-house in Moorfields surpris'd, The priest imprison'd and the flock dispers'd, A flaming meteor falls at Middelburg. The Young Pretender to St. Germains goes, A true black tulip blooms in Amsterdam. The Queen of Spain miscarrys of a Prince, —Venetian Commonwealth—the Grand Signor. But, what is this, scored thro', but underlined, 'The ship "Good Hope" for Europe clears to-night, From Boston Harbour, at the turn of tide, Half after midnight—Captain Effingham.' Aye, doubtless, by that barque my pigeon pair Will journey—Avis and young Gaspard Legh, Gaspard, the Governor's darling only son, Avis, the ward, why not the daughter, then? Of old quack salving Doctor Sylvester— Sylvester the Empyrick Alchemist,
The Rosicrucian Medicaster! Aye, Sure she's his daughter, by what mother tho' I know not. There's another mystery— This new-come stranger that they call Lenore, Talk of the Devil, as they say—she's here! Good morrow, Madam.
Lenore.—(Enters door right):
Madam Pomeroy.
(Curtseys.)
Madam Pomeroy:
Your most obedient Madam.
(Curtseys.)
Lenore:
Madam, pray——
Madam Pomeroy:
Ah, I was right, for all your Quaker garb, You know the habit of Society!
And in this heathen savage settlement, How good it is to meet a sister-soul. You have known London, Madam? Paris, too? Nay, never tell me you are not from town— Perchance, have been on birthdays to the Court? Not so? Ah, well, when mourning days are done, Then you must come to Mistress Pomeroy! I have a baby in the London mode, With all the fine new fashions of Cornhill, Twice yearly sent me hither, and such lace! French lace, that never paid a Customs due; And scented essences, if you should lack, I have from Europe, and my private Still— Amber and Frangipanni, Neroly, With Almond Water Washes; Jessamine Pulvilios, Sweets of Portugal to burn, Amber Confections, and Extract of Pearl, Barbadoes Water, Citron, Anise-seed; And, for the spleen and vapours, Eau-de-vie. Then, if your taste incline to amulets,
I've a bone Luz, and a Bezoar stone, And hundred vanities and trinkets more. But there, when you have dwelt a little here, You shall know more of Madam Pomeroy; But tell me of yourself. You are fatigued By some long journey. Yes? From——
Lenore:
Far away!
Madam Pomeroy:
And I presume your baggage follows you.
By packhorse out of Boston, you were brave
To come the highway unaccompany'd.
Lenore:
I us'd the forest footpath.
Madam Pomeroy:
Braver still!
For many a rascal harbours in the woods— ​Runaway negroes, rogues transported, too,
Escaping from the godly discipline
Of our Virginia plantations——
Lenore:
It is enough that I am safe arriv'd,
So that must serve, good Madam Pomeroy.
I pray you, pardon me, for I must go.
(Exit door right.)
Madam Pomeroy.—(To herself):
So you are tacit, Madam, close and coy? But I have guess'd your secret truly—first, Not long from England, that is certain sure, At night, on foot, all baggageless, alone, By unfrequented by-ways hither come, Lame, where the anklet gall'd her, clear as day! A prisoner from the plantation 'scap'd.
(Looking from window as Avis appears from garden.)
Avis, sweet child, what would you with me?
​Avis.—(Enters door LEFT):
This:
To-night, you know, is Eve of All Souls' Day,
And I would try to-night such charm, such spell,
As makes a maid her future husband see.
Madam Pomeroy:
There is the looking-glass, the melted wax— But the Dumb Supper, that is best of all. Laying the table as for supper, work In utter silence, hush'd and mute and mum. Set on the service widdershins, reverse, After a backward-wise recited grace Under your breath, so leave the supper, set, Midnight shall show you what companions Your fate reserve you; yet, of this beware! To-night the air is full of wandering ghosts And restless spirits, so the sortilege May bring you fearsome fellowship, and seat Strange guests about your table.
​Avis:
As for that, By twelve o'clock I shall be far away; Why should I palter with you? Well you know— Else I misjudge your wits—that I, to-night, For England sail with my lover, Gaspard Legh. This mummery of supper's but to trick Sylvester and Lenore to think that I Am watching in the little parlour there, And, after midnight, tho' they find me fled, They cannot catch me.
Madam Pomeroy:
Avis, dearest child, I joy to think you leave this hateful coast, To grace an English County, but the ring, Sweet child, the ring! for troth plight still will hold, Once seal'd and settled with a bride-ring.
​Avis:
Nay,
He swears that he will marry me in church
Once we're in England.
Madam Pomeroy:
When you're rich and gay— Wedded or not, you shall be gay and rich— Then you must send for Madam Pomeroy, Who wears her life out far away from town— Here in this curs'd plantation, overseas! When you are gone, what will become of me? Spleen or strong waters, will fulfil my day, Or, haply, I shall grow religious, Wax fanatic, and, like to Dame Lenore, Wear out the hours upon my marrowbones, Or turn a Catholic and seek Quebec.
Avis:
That were as mad as Doctor Sylvester, Who melts his substance in a crucible,
With dissolution and with sublimation, Seeking that stone of the Philosophers, Which turns old age to youth, and lead to gold. Gossip, what think you of this alchemy?
Madam Pomeroy:
True, long ago, with old Sylvester here, I know the names of all the learned rout— Albertus Magnus, Hermes Trismegist, With Raymond Lully, aye, and Michael Scot, And Paracelsus, but I need no spell, Retorts, cucurbites, and such-like gear Of these old wizards, turning lead to gold, I use the old unfailing woman's way.
Avis:
And that is, Gossip——?
Madam Pomeroy:
This great world of gulls
For my alembick, for transmuting stone, ​My quick wits working on their leaden brain,
Whereof the the issue oft turns gold for me!
Avis:
O, held I the elixir, I would change The dull recurrence of the dawn, the day, The dusk, the darkness! In my universe A scarlet midnight and a purple noon Should scare the world at whiles; I'd have the sea Of Marischal, Tuberose, and Bergamot, A world of scent and colour, gems and light— No order'd hours, no deliberate days. In time of waxing night, and failing sun, I'd shame with corn November's scarcity, And shed in summer intempestive snows To sprinkle roses oversunn'd of June!
Madam Pomeroy:
Nay, it were foolish so to spend the spell. Believe me, child, you are too fanciful,
And lately you are alter'd—troubl'd. Eh? Well, Pomeroy is still your faithful friend. Have you forgotten Alison Crowboro'? That nun-like flower of perfect purity, So cold she chill'd mere mortal bystanders, When kind old Deacon Alleyn, saintly man! To feel for her so deeply—brought her here. Where had she been but for poor Pomeroy And the wise Doctor Sylvester?
Avis:
But she, Or he, or they, repay'd your service well. You are not wont to work for love alone, As witness here this empty purse of mine, The vacant case where late my necklet lay, My ringless fingers!
Madam Pomeroy:
Sure, ungrateful girl, The labourer is worthy of his hire,
And most I work for the pure love of it, Toiling among our friends and neighbours here. And if I sometimes cut the cards for them, Or stick a puppet full of corking pins— Vexing a stingy, old, exacting spouse, To please a jealous or a weary wife— Woman should stand by woman, that's my creed; The men are wolves who raven for the lambs, And we soft-hearted sheep must hold together. So much the world has taught poor Pomeroy!
Avis:
Poor Pomeroy! You are misunderstood. There is a many words begin with P, That folks ill-natur'd still apply to you. Yet there is something I would ask you—this: A soothing potion, I desire a drug— But not what made Ralph Archer sleep so sound— This is to drowse Sylvester for to-night, One night, but not for ever!
​Madam Pomeroy:
Cruel girl! I swear that what Ralph drank was colourless As purest water. Overheated men, Sweating from Sun, or passion, or the two, Who swill cold water, likely come to die!
Avis:
What you may do is no concern of mine;
I would not harm Sylvester, that is all.
Madam Pomeroy:
Why have you harsh words for poor Pomeroy, Who loves you dearly; smile now! You to-day Look sweetly, child, perhaps a thought too pale, But I have Spanish wools, for white or red, 'Would set a rose-flush on a corpse's cheek, Or blanch the face of fever.
​Avis:
Keep your paints, To use upon your own fast withering cheek; Young blood is still the finest rouge, and locks One's own far better than the high-pil'd plaits, Shorn from the gaol imprison'd, mad or dead!
Madam Pomeroy:
I am not Avis, a mere girl like you,
But many a man, aye, and the most of men,
Prefer a woman form'd to a raw girl.
Avis:
Well, I have heard it oft, and now believe God's good to women, that they never mark Their long desir'd beauty's slow decay! Once lovely still is lovely, to the eyes That peer into the mirror at herself, And shall be, till the dim eyes see no more. Her new sheep's teeth more even than her own,
Whiteleaded, raddled, she'll outblush her prime, And still her latest tête becomes her best. Content tho' she may bloat like Jonah's gourd, Or shrivel like a hemlock in the frost. 'I was a may-pole in my girl-hood raw, But how improved in hips and bosom since,' The monster titters, whilst the bag-of-bones Bethinks her; 'I am slim and modish now, That once was blowsy, and the cabbage rose Became me not as now the lilies do!'
Madam Pomeroy:
Well, Avis, well—natheless I will not mind. You shall not say you vex'd poor Pomeroy, Who'd work her fingers to the bone for you. Here in the bag I have the hood and cloak, The capuchin you bade me bring you——
Avis:
Good,——
​Madam Pomeroy:
...And mask to keep the coaches dust at bay. A rarity in this outlandish place, But years agone in London well I mind That every woman mask'd her to the play, To veil the shame she feign'd, but did not feel, The blush, tho' due, that tarry'd yet to rise At Sedley or Centlivre's ribaldry. Sure hoop and pannier, fardingale and fan, With patches, deftly this or that way set, Will pass away and come again in time. The fashion still is like a turning wheel, What under was, next moment's uppermost; Tho' yellow ruffs with Mistress Turner died, I wager we shall see them spring again.
Avis:
I go to lay the supper against to-night Who knows what guests may gather round the board?
​(She retires laughing, right.)
(Sylvester enters from Garden.)
Madam Pomeroy:
Give you good morrow Master Sylvester! How goes the great work? Still the furnace burns. You, if a man may, should th' elixir find, And yet the years go by, it 'scapes you still, But Age comes on you, and the fire burns low!
Sylvester:
Aye, 'Vita Ignis, Corpus Lignum Est.'
Life is the fire and the fuel are we!
Madam Pomeroy:
And as his shadow follows on a man,
So hangs the devil ever at his heels.
Sylvester:
Better than he should follow, than should lead, Laodicean Mother Pomeroy,
Who have the inclination for all ill, And courage lack to perfect it, content To trail at the fringe of the Devil's draggled skirts, Rather than make him do your bidding.
Madam Pomeroy:
Aye, But that commits a body, so no pact! When you, long years ago, did, half in jest, Sign, seal, deliver, that wicked document, Providing if ever you th' Elixir found You render'd up your soul——
Sylvester:
Where was it then? Either in Rome or in high Germany. Have I not first frequented, then forsook Schools of Bologna, Paris, Padua, Ferrara, Louvain, Basel—having won
Whatever of wisdom each had got to give, I bind it now within this breast of mine! Have I not toil'd thro' many a weary year, Seeking in still, retort, and pelican, That supreme secret of Alchemistry, Azoth, the Alcahest, the Sophic Fire, The Catholick and Universal Ens, That turns an old man to his youth again. But in those far off days, I reason'd well One traitor from within may ope a gate, That bade defiance to a myriad men, Who storm it from without, and one there was, High in the counsels of his mighty King Aforetime, since, in exile and disgrace, Ready to sell the secrets taught him once, To gain another subject for himself. So ran my reasoning when I was young, But now I need no Fiend's assistance, years Have taught what is the best Familiar, Undaunted Will! to keep one end in view,
Nor suffer wave or wind of Circumstance To bend the iron stanchion of your will. Run the black ensign to the masthead up, And take command, first casting overboard Conscience, the super cargo querulous!
Madam Pomeroy:
How, Sylvester, cast Conscience overside, To reign sole captain of a brigand barque? Beware you ship not a sable Admiral, The single handed skipper sleeps at whiles, And as he lies in mortal somnolence, An Alien Pilot boards him, in the night, Steering the luckless vessel to his will!
Sylvester:
Conscience must overboard, his specious plea Of Pity and Mercy poisons, else, our lives! Pity and Mercy are man's enemies, And I look forward till, in years to be,
Arise a Conqueror, compassionless, With soul self-centred, trusting in his star, 'Will turn old Europe to one trampled field, Wading thro' blood and wrack of shatter'd thrones Until his utmost purpose be accomplish'd. Who would not follow, where such leader led? Aye, banish Pity, lest your dauntless will Flow from you, melting as the sea-borne berg Derelict, drifting on a Southward course, Feels, soft, the gulf-stream sap the base of snow!
Madam Pomeroy:
Brave words, Sylvester, you foreswear the Fiend, Because you know you'll never find the stone, Else you would tremble lest the compact held, Were the Elixir once by you distill'd!
Sylvester:
How, Witch, you taunt me that I fear the Fiend, And that I never the Elixir find?
Why fool, perhaps to-night—but I'll be mum! I fear the Devil for a jesting bond? Nay, I would bid him as I bid you, pack.
Madam Pomeroy:
Well, once I go, I go not to return. Next time you need me you may whistle in vain, Wise Master! you have wanted me before, Avis is feather pated, over young, And you grown old and failing need a crutch To prop you in your dire infirmity.
Sylvester:
If in the street leaning upon my cane It serve my purpose, I am not nice to mark In what of dust and mud the ferrule dips, But you are a broken reed, too near the mire.
Madam Pomeroy:
And what I am you made me. If some day I ever were damn'd, which kind Heav'n forbid! 'Twould be of you, you only, led astray!
Sylvester:
Woman look only in the glass and mark Your petty peevish mouth and foolish chin, Mean, narrow brows with envy's wrinkles scored. The Devil had no need your door to storm, For it stood ever open and ajar, That any wandering demon might harbour there. Not fenced and guarded for God's garden, you! Your soul lay ever fallow for the Fiend: No alabaster box of ointment, once To gracious holy service consecrate Turn'd now to basest uses, always you Were vessel of dishonour.
Madam Pomeroy:
Part we thus?
​Sylvester:
Aye wretched woman, Satan's renegade, Give up the crown you might have worn with him, With twice turn'd satins and in scour'd lace, In tarnish'd mantua dight and vested, go, Creep cravenly the back-stairs way to Heaven! And as for any terror of the Fiend, I should not quail or tremble now tho' Hell For just one night unkennelling the damn'd Vomit live devils forth, to sup with me!
(Sylvester goes thro' garden door, right.)
Madam Pomeroy.—(Looking after him):
'Whilst the thief steals the hemp is ripening,' 'Tis an old proverb, he shall find it true. Sylvester, soundly shall you sleep to-night, Aye, sleep, and wake to find thyself in Hell! You shall sup sorrow at the board of Death, And pledge a toast to your chap-fallen mates
Of the glistening faces and white, fish-like eyes, Whose feast has sped, whose reckoning's to come!
(During next scene she moves about the room preparing the posset.)
(Robin taps on window, speaks thro' lattice.)
Robin:
Good Madam Pomeroy, the master ails; I left him yonder, calling Dame Lenore, Or Avis, that they help him home again. Delivering a message I had brought, I saw him reel and totter, almost fall.
Madam Pomeroy:
What, then, the message, and by whom enjoin'd?
Robin:
A woman bade me bring a word to him, A woman, tall, who bore her like a Queen.
Beneath the cedars in the setting sun, My eyes were dazzled, in the dying light; She seem'd transfigur'd: gold her garment glow'd, Girt with the living cincture of a snake, Flower'd with faintly flickering flowers of flame, Whilst as of molten gold, a diadem, Sullenly glowing, burn'd upon her brow, And this the message she bade me give: 'To-night, Sylvester, will your bond fall due, And payment be awaited.' Then she pass'd; A dusky moth lured by the endless flame, She seem'd, in the low, red sunset, vanishing Between the cedar and the plumy pine.
Madam Pomeroy:
What said Sylvester when he heard of this?
Robin:
He gazed upon me with so lost a look, Haggard in horror-haunted revery,
That clay-cold terror froze me where I stood, And I forgot to beg some euphrasy, To clear my dim, perplex'd, and dazzled eyes.
Madam Pomeroy:
'Tis well, good Robin, you shall have your drug!
And now good-bye, good night, good sleep, Sylvester!
Lenore:
Carry him in and lay him in his chair.
Madam Pomeroy:
Ah, madam, you have all my sympathy.
Poor Sylvester!
​(Aside in his ear.)
Physician, heal thyself!
(To Lenore.)
I fear we shall not have him long with us,
And if he should revive, with wits awry!
(To Candace aside.)
What of the Sabbath?
Candace:
'Twill be full and gay! Sisters from all the province will be there, For worthily we celebrate to-night The feast-day of the King of Africa; Wherefore, we get us to the dim, deep woods, With hateful hymns upon the muffled drum, To imprecate all evil on our foes,
Chanting Obeah's praise and potency, With sacrifices of a hornless goat; We hail and celebrate the crownéd snake, And, worshipping, adore the powers of Ill! And many of your grave, God-fearing folk Will fare with us into the forest dim. Lean Madam Hemingway, the Deacon's wife, With other matrons as demurely famed, Even the Parson—whisper—may be there, With many Sabbath-minded of his flock Who met the Black Man in the Cedar Woods, To sign their name upon that book of his, And Indian Pow-wows with their painted skins, Will join in our congenial devilry!
Madam Pomeroy:
Here's for the Sabbath, but I will not sign!
Candace:
You need not sign, for in your forehead, plain ​I see his signet glow, a blood-red brand,
The brand that Cain bore, and his followers bear!
Madam Pomeroy.—(Mutters to herself):
Nay, nay, not that, I am no murderer, First, 'tis not poison, but an opiate. Poured I too much? It was my hand that shook, He has not drunk the posset, if he drink, 'Tis Heaven, not I that wills it—I shall be Only the instrument of an outraged Heaven.
(Follows Candace out right.)
Sylvester.—(Coming to himself):
There, I am better—well—a dizzy fit From too much bending over the furnace fire, From too deep breathing the alembick's fumes. There, so, 'tis well—do thou thy worst, Old Age! Perchance this night may find thy empire cease, Fire in the brain, fire in the heart, fire in the eye,
The blood new coursing thro' my wither'd veins, This old, ill, life all done with.—
Lenore.—(Aside):
He's prepared
(To Sylvester.)
At least to die,— aye, it may not be long Ere Time smooth out the tangled, twisted thread, The clew that leads us hostel-wards, at night, To rest at that inevitable inn, Where Death is heedless and unhasting host.
Sylvester:
Who speaks of Death? I speak of Life made new, I seek a palace in this glorious World A fabrick visible, material, So fair the World, it doth suffice for me, Let others reconcile them to that rest, To lie in the low little house where all is done!
​Lenore:
When all is done, Sylvester? Nay, alas! All is not done, our term of living sped, There is a Judgment still to be endured, And endless dolour or gladness yet to be.
Sylvester:
Your God may rule His heaven, but here on earth I know two Gods, two dull unheeding Gods, Invidious Time and cruel Circumstance, Who ride the poor man with a double spur Desire and Hunger, and the rich man drive With pointed goad of dull Satiety, Or longing for things unattainable. To rule those Gods one must be young and strong. There is but one life that is certain, this We live to-day, and this we must prolong But young, reviv'd, and reinvigorate. No more to know the longing vain regret
For Youth so soon departed, to preserve Your youthful manhood in its fiery prime No more with impotent passionate tears to cling —In struggle desperate as very vain— To the dear past's unblossom'd leafless branch, Since the dun river drags you seaward still.
Lenore:
Did you grow young again indeed Sylvester, By some abhorr'd, prodigious miracle, Would second Youth be wiser than the first?
Sylvester:
As in my old days, so with youth renew'd I still should hold it sound philosophy That man is compound, mind and body and soul, Part God, part man, part beast, and it is well That when the beast within you lick his chops And fever for a little liberty,
You let him loose to have his will awhile, Glutting himself, he will return again And, tired, bide contented in his cage——
Lenore:
——Until the day that he devour you! Grant your elixir to perfection come, 'The Red Rose blossom,' as you used to say, How would the world be better for the boon, Would you take pity on the poor, the blind? Sharing its pretious benefit with them?
Sylvester:
Aye, would I, truly, not the first, indeed, Which were not for myself a drop too much, But as I had progress'd—the second brew? That were a gift for Popes and Emperors, A flask or two to Philosophick friends, Aye, surely, in good time the poor should find That they were not forgotten.
​Lenore:
That is well, But in the past, Sylvester, was it so, Did ever your heart beat generously for them, God's foster-children, fasting and forlorn, Dids't ever claim their staion in the sun For those poor children of the shadow?
Sylvester:
Nay,
I never wish'd to see men suffer.
Lenore:
So, But they might suffer out of sight of you. Then your great gift of healing, long ago You oft abus'd your medicinal skill, Employ'd it not for solace of the sick, But to work vengeance, veil'd, upon a foe.
​Sylvester:
What I have done I have done, let it be! A new life dawns for me, and so Lenore Be of good courage, 'ere the dawn wear grey The sublimated Ichor is my own, Won the great prize of all Philosophers, And I shall hold the keys of Life and Youth, Hasten the tardy, check the hurrying years, To live long ages at my healthy prime, And you, Lenore, you shall grow young with me, I wrong'd you once, you must forget the past!
Lenore:
Nay, Sylvester, too much must I forget, Ever to be a happy girl again, My life has known too many a beating storm Toss'd on too many a tumultuous sea, The grave sole quiet haven now I crave. A guarded flower in a garden green
That was my girlhood, till I met with you, Since when, with leaden feet and heart on fire,— Sowing desire but to reap disdain— Through summer dust and winter's mire I glean'd Uncertain harvest of the stoney street, To find you now a broken, ill, old man, Myself a woman worn with miseries; Had I not found you, from Virginia Plantation flying, never more for me Had lighted lattice and a hearth aglow Held out a welcome, I was near to death, You took me in, and that shall plead for you, Against your sentence, at the last assize!
Sylvester:
I ask no advocate to plead for me But for myself will answer—there, Lenore, We will not talk of dying, but of life— Our life that shall be in the years to come. A happy life in Europe! We will dwell
Far from these frigid summers of temper'd sun, Nor France nor England, Italy for me! The city call'd Parthenopé of old, The Siren city bordering the bay, A hem of silver on a purple sea, Where Naples calls God's fiery judgment down, From raging vehement Vesuvio, The suburb stricken for the city's sin. Something too near the elemental fires For us cold-blooded English, what of Rome? Her air's too heavy with mortality, And breathes a savour of the Cæsar's crimes, Among the ruins of Imperial things— Sinister, set upon her seven hills,— She tends her dying fire, like a crone, Crouching in purple rags above the ash, Revolving, weary, yet insatiate Memories of the wild, old, wicked days! Nor will we dwell, where looking o'er the Seine, A dull and liquorish devil leans and leers,
Brooding with mocking grin on Paris town: Nor yet where London, Queen of Hypocrites, Hides in a mist of fog and sea-coal smoke, Her splendid squalor and gilded infamy— Perchance, where Venice, flaring all with lights, Set like a standish in her shallow seas, Riots throughout a half-year's carnival? Nay, best of all, where yellow Arno brims In one green vineyard plain by the Tuscan town, And cluster'd palaces of the Medici, We'll watch the trees rock 'gainst a golden sky, Swart Cypress, like a distaff for the Fates, Or green bronze flame aspiring silently.
Lenore:
Dreams! Dreams!
Sylvester.—(Takes the posset from the hob and drinks it):
That yet shall be reality! But I must rest a little whilst I may.
There's a night's work that younger, stronger men Than I might quail at; I must try to sleep, To snatch a little dreamless deep repose, Last of my old age.
Lenore:
Sleep, and happy dreams
Attend you, should you dream,
(Aside.)
Not more fantastick
Could any dream be than your waking one,
Of age dispell'd and youth call'd back once more.
Sylvester:
Sing me some old song, that you us'd to sing; Soothe this old child with some faint lullaby, That shall, like diver's plummet, sink me down Into the depths of sleep, from which return'd, As from a healing bath I may arise!
​Lenore.—(Sings):
FINIS.
There was laughter in the sun, And your day was scarce begun, Gay Ladies. As you loiter'd where the shade is, a dainty web you spun; Day was never found too long, There was music, there was song, In your lover's merry throng, Gay Ladies.
But the Town new faces please, And the seasons burn and freeze, Gay Ladies. What was pleasure, now a trade is, and the wine is on the lees. As youth and looks slip off, You know the chairman's scoff,
And Geneva cures no cough, Gay Ladies.
As you haunt the bagnio, In your mask and domino, Gay Ladies, A masquer black array'd is who walks behind you—slow. As homeward you repair, Though you see no gallant there, One beside you mounts the stair, Gay Ladies.
Ah, no more you'll walk the Mall, In your muff and cardinal, Gay Ladies. Your lodging score unpaid is? They'll sell to pay your pall, With each small high-heel'd shoe,
That such stony footpaths knew— Did your heart ache sometimes, too? Gay Ladies.
Nor the puppet show, nor play May tempt you forth to-day, Gay Ladies, For the latest play outplay'd is, the puppets laid away. Watched by a wither'd crone, Cold as marble, still as stone, At length you sleep alone Gay Ladies.
So farewell you mechlin tête Your hoop, and pannier's state Gay Ladies, A hireling hag your maid is, and when she leaves you, late
You've no more of lawn and lace Than may serve to veil your face From the leaden lid's disgrace Gay Ladies.
Now she shears your pride of hair, Which shall deck some other fair, Gay Ladies, Uncounting whence the braid is so a high piled head she wear; Yet the crone sighs, 'well-a-day, But a paltry price they'll pay'! For your gold's but gilded gray, Gay Ladies.
Sylvester:
Your song has touch'd some chord my brain within, And long forgotten thoughts float up once more
As after storm longwhelm'd and worthless weed, Or waifs of spar from drown'd and ruin'd ships Rise from the underseas, I fain would sleep, Sleep till the Perfect Rose be come to bloom, That turns an old man to his youth again!
Mask'd Lady:
Well met Sylvester! On my festa day I smell'd a nosegay by my husband sent, Believing it my gallant's offering, And swoon'd to death, so potent was the sweet Of those fair-seeming flowery hypocrites. Yet should I have been 'ware of poisons, I,— Bred of the Borgias, and to Popes akin,—
So lost my English lover, and my life, I pledge you, for our passionate past, Sylvester!
2nd Masque:
After my Father's sudden, easy death,— Lull'd by the medicine you mix'd for him, You claim'd, returning from his obsequies Something too much of all his garner'd gear! Have you forgotten in the trampled snow, Our hurry'd duel by one torch's light, Late litten for my father's funeral, When on my breast-bone rang your rapier's hilt, And forth my spirit pass'd among the pines Of my north-country moorland—Sylvester, I pledge you.
Sylvester:
Ralph, Renata, can it be, And this the third masque, is it Denzil?
​3rd Masque:
Aye. At our last parting in the Seville square,— By whom delated to the Inquisition, You best should know, Sylvester, both of us Were cloth'd in antick raiment, wrought with flame, The painted fires of the San-Benito, Upright on mine, on yours, 'fuego revolto,' The pictur'd fires turn'd downward, bye and bye Their fickle-figured Faith that tops the tower Above, glowed golden in no painted flame, But the fierce fire lit for me, your friend, Where flesh and spirit sunder'd horribly. I pledge you, Sylvester.
Sylvester:
It is a dream! But I'll go through with it, come raise your mask And doff your domino.
​2nd Masque:
We must not, here We keep our Carnival Incognito, We are but as it were an Embassage, Chosen from many fain of your company, With expectation unimaginable Who wait your advent.
3rd Masque:
Will you fare with us, Fare to the palace of our Princely Host, Where thro' high halls and league-long corridors, To music of eternal revelry, Pace the pale people of the burning heart, Passion's proud Daughters with the Sons of Sin!
Sylvester:
The burning heart, then still in Hell ye love, And I should find the lemans of my youth, And half a hundred ladies of my prime?
​1st Masuqe:
What, love in Hell, so once a poet feign'd, And he is curs'd by many a soul that sinn'd, Who sang of guilty lovers, side by side, Faring together thro' unending storm, Twin wither'd leaves upon the wind of Hell——
Sylvester:
Yet having this of heav'n that still they love?
2nd Masque:
Nay, there's no love in Hell! Your craving lips, Your asking eyes would meet blank unresponse, Your hand that fain would clasp, meet hand that clench'd, For Haggard Hate glows in our burning eyes, And all despair our hollow heart fulfils In an equality of joyless years— For none grow old, tho' each has lost her youth,
We pass our endless hours, insatiate. Only our hair in youth's abundance grows, And turns a torture to the aching brain, Crisping and curling on our ashen brows, Pale forehead scor'd with Passions hieroglyph, Over our beauty's ruin, tired eyes, Sunk cheek, and writhen lips of a fever'd mouth, That ever laughs, but smiles not ever, at all. O agony of fix'd unclosing lids Under the blasting cressets above that flare, Reverberate from the slabb'd asphaltum way, No respite ever of dew, of dawn, of tears! No light wind stirs, no spring-time wakes again, But swooning scents make faint the icy air Where spiring incense fumes unceasingly.
3rd Masque:
Come, I grow home-sick for the harmony Of our Eternal holiday in Hell. I hear the echo of our revelry!
Faint hollow music ever breathing up In unsurpass'd soul-trancing symphony To utter consummation of all desire, That just as eager longing grows piercing pain, Dies off, until it rack your soul once more With the bitter joy of its hateful melody, And leave you again a soul gall-surfeited With sick dissatisfaction of unsinned sin!
2nd Masque:
Nay, there's no love in Hell but only Hate!!
3rd Masque:
But the night wears, and we shall meet anon, We must not linger, tho' our Prince and Lord For just one night unkennelling the damn'd, Hath loos'd live Devils forth to sup with you, Yet are we on parole, and must return!
(They laugh and disappear.)
Lenore:
Who knocks so late?
Bale:
Your neighbour Simon Bale,
I have a word for Doctor Sylvester.
Lenore:
Is it of import, for the old man sleeps?
Bale:
Take you the message then, an hour ago Crossing the forest clearing, I did meet An Indian Squaw who ask'd a word of me And bade me tell Sylvester that to-night The time accomplish'd was, and payment due Awaited by the holder of the bond.
​Lenore:
How strange an hour to demand a debt,
Knew you the woman?
Bale:
All unknown to me, One of a tribe beyond the woods, mayhap, But, strangely, on the finger of her hand A ring of molten metal seemed to cling, And all the wood was full of sudden calls, And cries, now single, now of multitudes, Like mocking peals of laughter——
Lenore:
Frighted birds——
Bale:
Aye, maybe, tho' I never heard the like, Birds they might be, and frighted by a fire Which in the distance glow'd among the pines,
That blaz'd one moment sky-ward, and the next, Made with its dying all the wood more dim. Well, I have told my message, so farewell.
(Sylvester moves in his sleep, sighs and wakes.)
Sylvester:
It was a dream, a dream foreboding, what? These last few days I've had a brooding sense A strange, confus'd, distracted memory, Of obscure ominous presages half-forgot, Like warning of too-late remember'd dream,— Equivocal menace of a half-caught word Of threatening danger vizarded and veil'd, Whisper'd by muffled dancers at a masque.
Lenore:
Ah, yet Sylvester, it is not too late, To take the warning, only pray and weep, 'Ere the long-boded meaning break on you
Like ill news read by light'ning, in a storm, And looking back clear shall the sense appear Of what seem'd hidden, hieroglyphick, script, Till penitent tears had wash'd your vision clear, Repent, Sylvester, call upon the sky, For you are old and have offended Heaven, Weep, pray, repent, lay by your stubborn pride, Call on the Infinite Mercy!
Sylvester:
Nay, Lenore, If in the angry heats of burning Youth— Heady and fierce as the Italian springs— I sinn'd, as men count sinning, I my sin Regret not and repent not, what I might Have done and did not, solely I repent, And count for merit of my own deserts That wilful sadness, listless weariness, Or dull indifference I never knew. Extreme in pleasure, as in toil extreme,
On my own actions let me stand or fall! But the night wears, heap up the furnace fire, How low it burns, or do mine eyes grow dim?
(Tearing books and manuscripts.)
Here is the 'Tree of the Hesperides' And Raymond Lully's 'Dark-dispelling Lamp,' 'Triumphal Chariot' of Basilides, I need no more the lore of these Adepts. Here's the Italian Master's 'Pearl of Price,'
(Throws them on the fire.)
And bosom book of the Canon of Bridlington. Heap fuel, blow the bellows, see Lenore, How the Elixir changes momently, With the intensest element of fire The vary'd colours of the peacock's tail Which emerald grew after the third degree, Now turn to snowy whiteness, citron next, Then it shall glow at last to glorious red!
​Lenore:
Sylvester, what belated visitant With lilting voice and high unmirthful laugh, And restless, padding foot-fall to and fro Paces without? The light, uneasy step,— Soft as a child's and restless as a beast's— Thrills me with foolish, causeless fear.
The Voice.—(From without):
Sylvester
The hour has come!
Sylvester:
Hour of my victory! Over th' inveterate adversary age. Is the door bolted fast? Who trys the bolt?
Lenore:—(Looking thro' the key-hole)
Only I see a slim and dusky hand That fingers at the latch!
​Sylvester:
Pile up the fire! Only an hour to the dawning, God, To die a dog's death in a dumb despair With the Elixir brimming at my lips, Never! I set my will against the Fiend's!
The Voice:
The hour has come Sylvester.
Sylvester.—(Stooping over the fire):
I prevail! The brew glows golden, I outwit the Fiend! Go slinking watcher, waiting there without, I can defy you Devil, even now Bubbles and stirs within the crucible Glows in the glass the Perfect Rose supreme, The Red, Red Rose of the Philosophers. Here is the flower of my magistery, Water of Life, the priceless Arcanum
Healing disease and all infirmity, That turns my Old Age back to Youth again! I can lay by Mortality, and strip The outworn garment of my years away,
(He lifts the glass which glows to a glorious golden red.)
I drink Undying Youth.
The Voice:
Sylvester come!
Your labour's lost.
Sylvester:
What, is this darkness Death?
​The Voice:
Your labour's lost.
(The door bursts open.)
Lenore.—(Crouching in the ashes):
Lost Soul, lost Sylvester!
(SCENE CLOSES.)