Part 3

"O great god Pan, You sing with the broken heart of a man! Your song is of Syrinx, who, aeons ago, Escaped from your loving. Alas! that you know The music of love, and the music of lack, And you mourn for the hours that cannot come back,-- But I would learn of merrier things: The melody murmurs of fluttering wings, The secrets that fill the nightingaled glades, The music that stirs in the leaf-colonnades."

He piped for a minute, then, turning to me, With a wry, queer smile, said: "In Arcady No song goes forth to the listening earth That comes not thro' travail and tears to birth: The river weeps as it leaves the fell, And the note cries out as it mourns the bell; The bird that praises the young, fair dawn, Sings of his loss on the twilit lawn, And those that hymn of the coming spring Lament for her too, when she taketh wing. The song of songs is of Death and of Love-- I sing of Syrinx, my own ... lost ... love." He piped again, and the blue mists frail Swayed in the dusk to the tender wail, And I dreamed--till I felt on my damp, moist hair, My Love's cool hand, and his whisper, "_Fair_," Then I felt his arms, and I knew the skies, Whilst over the mountains I saw Dawn arise, And another sweet day its course began, While the hidden stars sang, "Evoe, great Pan!" And the lark in the blue, "Evoe, great Pan!" And wistfully I, "Evoe, great Pan!"

A WAR-TIME GRACE

Dear God, your rain and shining sun Have all their lovely duties done: The rain makes grow the golden wheat And so provides the bread we eat.

The cow gives us the milk we drink Because she loves your sun, I think. Please, grant that other children may Have milk and bread enough this day.

NIDDERDALE.

QUEEN MAB'S AWAKENING

SCENE: _The Meeting of the Waters, in Bolton Woods, Wharfedale_.

QUEEN MAB _lies sleepily in a mossy hollow, guarded by a quivering frond of last year's bracken. After a little yawn she discontentedly gazes at_ THE THRUSH _who is singing continuously, whilst balancing himself on a twig of the leafless hawthorn above her._

QUEEN MAB (_almost peevishly for a Queen_):

Thou saucy bird, to wake me from my slumber, The spring still tarries, and I would not wake To live thro' cloud-spun days, thro' endless nights; To watch the weeping rain, until I too Would mix my tears with hers. To see the hills Bow their nude forms beneath the lashing hail, To hear the strong trees groan. I will not wake.

THE THRUSH (_practising trills between each line and minor arpeggios after each verse_):

Queen Mab! Queen Mab! Listen my lay! A windflower leapt In the hedge to-day. One of thy dimples Lent its mirth To lessen the gloom Of the snow-tired earth. A white-faced flower's In the hedge to-day, Queen Mab! Queen Mab! Listen my lay!

QUEEN MAB (_impetuously_):

Please, hush thy noisy song a little while. Maybe a windflower shows her shy white face, But I have seen anemones in snow, Hiding their eyes (false messengers of Spring), Justly ashamed of their own perfidy. Therefore, sing softly.

QUEEN MAB _curls herself up among her emerald cushions, closes her azure eyes, and sleeps for several days_.

THE THRUSH (_his voice a degree sweeter and surer_):

Queen Mab! Queen Mab! Awake! Awake! A primrose blooms In the woodland brake. From thy sleepy lips Has tumbled a smile Which lies a-blossoming Near the stile. A primrose blooms In the woodland brake! Queen Mab! Queen Mab! Awake! Awake!

_A blue tit from a neighbourly silver birch softly mimics the trills after the last line._

QUEEN MAB (_half opening her eyes_):

O tiresome bird, one primrose does not bring The warm sweet days for which I yearning wait. Know, I have seen the hillside amber-pied With primroses, and yet a fierce gale swept Adown the dale. Primroses are brave, But, tho' they blossom, leave me to my dreams.

_Once more she nestles among the jade-green moss and sleeps for a week._

THE THRUSH (_louder and clearer_):

Queen Mab! Queen Mab! From thy faerie dream Has sped a laugh Like a sunny gleam Which springs to earth A daffy-down-dill That merrily flouts At the purling rill, Thy laugh has sped O'er the hillside grey: Queen Mab! Queen Mab! Listen my lay!

_The cuckoo calls wistfully from down-dale, but_ QUEEN MAB _does not hear him._

QUEEN MAB (_stretching her small white arms and yawning dreamily_):

Methinks the air feels warmer, and the sky Seems bluer, yet mine eyes are loath to ope. I will not wake at once: How the birds sing! I did not think the world held so much song. That note's a blackbird's; that's a finch's call; A wren has whispered secrets to his mate; Two doves are cooing where green curtains hang, Half shyly, lest their love-songs should be heard; Yet, 'tis not spring until the cuckoo cries.

_The cuckoo's voice is heard nearer, coming from Bolton Abbey, and a second voice answers,_

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

From Barden Fell.

THE THRUSH (_his voice jubilantly strong_):

Queen Mab! Queen Mab! Thy hyacinth eyes Have filled the coppice With azure sighs. My loved little queen Of windflower feet, Of daffodil-laughter So primrose-sweet! The rippling wood Is a bluey lake. Queen Mab! Queen Mab! Awake! Awake!

QUEEN MAB (_wide awake now, springs from her couch and curtsies to the World, north, south, east, and west, then raises her arms to the Sun_):

Gold Sun, I greet thee; do not hide thy face Too soon behind the wistful little hills. Thou art my lover, faithless, fickle, fair, And leav'st me all too soon; my kingdom's naught Without thy splendid presence; stay awhile.

Old World, old wrinkled granddame, thee I greet; Thy loving smile renews thy youth once more. For months I slept upon thy broad brown breast; I thank thee, granddame, for so good a rest.

Ye birds that whistle, hares that limping run, And little soft-eared rabbits, velvet shod, Great wayward mortals, with unseeing eyes, I greet you one and all, for Spring has come. Laugh with the sun, muse with the silver showers; Laugh and make merry, Spring is all too fleet, And soon will dance away on flower-loved feet.

_Exit_ QUEEN MAB _in search of her court of butterflies. Above the bird-music is heard the insistent cry of the cuckoo, till the fells re-echo with his calling._

BOLTON WOODS, WHARFEDALE.

Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Dales of Arcady, by Dorothy Una Ratcliffe