THE MASQUE
Reading edition
I
Dawn.
The woods are silent, save for bird pipings.
In the background, verdure of young pines and ancient boles of oaks form the dim-pillared entrance to a forest shrine.
Artfully placed on tree trunk and bough are nest boxes of bark.
On one side stands a low weathercock food-house; on the other, a tall martin-house pole.
In the shade of a great oak glimmers the shallow pool of a bird bath.
4Peeping at this from behind the oak, appears, vanishes and appears again the horned head of Quercus, a faun.
Stealing forth, Quercus approaches the pool, bearing in one hand an enormous pitcher plant.
Peering upward among the boughs, he raises his voice in quaint falsetto, and sings.
QUERCUS
Veery, veery!—vireo!
Waxwing wild!—warbler wary!
Ori-ori-oriole!
Seek our sanctuary!
Robin rath,
Little tail-twitcher,
Drink from my pitcher,
Dip in my bath!
Dew’s in my bath,
Rain’s in my pitcher,
Dawn’s in the greenwood eerie:
Hither, highhole!
Redpoll!
Oriole!
Vireo!—veery!
[From his pitcher plant Quercus pours5 into the bird bath. Skipping then to a little swinging bird-house, he sprinkles its shelf with seed from a pouch. Here he pauses dreamily; furtively takes out and fingers a pipe; blows a few notes, pauses, starts, puts it quickly away, stoops his ear to the ground, springs away to the oak, and snatches an ivied staff which stands against the trunk. The staff is designed like a martin-house pole in miniature. Placing himself on guard where a foot-path enters the glade, he calls:]
Stand yonder! Hold! who treads beneath my trees?
A VOICE
[Outside.]
A friend.
QUERCUS
A friend to what?
THE VOICE
To Song, and Song’s melodious silences.
6QUERCUS
Still enter not.
The race of wings reigns in this solitude.
No foot may here intrude
Without fair passport. Tell me first your name
And cause of coming here.
7
II
Quercus. Alwyn.
[A Young Man enters, pausing in the path.]
THE MAN
From hence even now a piping filled mine ear
With quaintish memory: familiar,
Yet old, it seemed. Long since, I heard the same
Lulling to paleness the white morning star
Among Sicilian oaks. So here I came
To spy upon the piper. Now, methinks,
I know him, by those horns and merry winks.
—Good morrow, Quercus, the faun!
QUERCUS
Now, by Lord Pan!
The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.—
8Alwyn, maker of songs—hail to you, master!
You!—Can it really be?
ALWYN
It can,
And is—by Pan, our ancient pastor!
But you, slant shanks, what make you here at dawn?
QUERCUS
Newfangleness! The classic gout
Still crooks my knees with the old lyric wine,
But now they run new errands.
[Flourishing his staff.]
Lo, the sign
Of my new office!
ALWYN
New! What may that be?
QUERCUS
Wood warden of the wild birds’ sanctuary:
Janitor of their sylvan temple!—See,
My staff acclaims me. Poor Mercutius!
Old mythologic nature-faker,
He’s out of date with his caduceus.
Behold in me
A modern science-tutored fairy
9And practical care-taker—
Grand marshal of the martin-house!
ALWYN
[Pointing at Quercus’ staff.]
Of that?
QUERCUS
Nay, this, my bard, is but the breviat
And little pattern.
[Pointing toward a tall martin-house pole.]
Yonder, you behold
The real palace. Through those portals
We lure the feathered broods to fold
Their wings above the world of thievish mortals.
ALWYN
We—say you? Who are we?
QUERCUS
Myself and my lord master.
ALWYN
And what’s he?
QUERCUS
Nay, if I knew, I should be wiser.
He is the fellow of all friendless things,
10Wild nature’s human sympathizer:
In form a man, yet footed so with silence
The deer mistake him for their brother; so
Swift that, meseems, he borrows the birds’ wings;
An eye, that glows and twinks
Through noon like twilight’s vesper star; an ear
That harks a mile hence
The purring of a lynx!
I love him, follow, obey him, yet I know
Naught of him—but his love.
ALWYN
Not even his name?
QUERCUS
Yea, what men call him by;
And he is like the same.
Men call him Master Shy.
ALWYN
Ah, Shy, the naturalist.
Why, he is my good crony. If he wist
11To rhyme he’d be a better bard than I.
How do you serve him?
QUERCUS
I’m crew to his Jason!
I multiply myself for rare adventures,
And serve his Ship of Birds as carpenter,
Box-joiner, bath-cementer, mason,
Seed-storer, water-carrier,
Worm-steward, nest-ward, treehouse thatcher,
Man-chaser and mouse-catcher.
ALWYN
Nay, do you please in all?
QUERCUS
I carry to his call,
And never yet have earned his censures
For botch or shirk.
ALWYN
I prithee show me of your handiwork.
What’s here—this little box
With paddle wings?
12QUERCUS
One of our weather-cocks.
Look you, it swings:
So when, in winter, the white tempest blows,
Here sit the birds at breakfast ’mid the snows,
With porch turned ever to the cosy side.
In that cold time, my master Shy
Brings more devices to provide
Bird-comfort: Food-bells full of millet
We place in covert nooks, and tie
Our knitted suet bags on many a bough
Of pine and larch. And I must plough
Through many a drift, to crack the frozen rillet
For little beaks to drink.
ALWYN
By Phœbus, now
Is this in sooth mine old Sicilian faun,
That wont of yore to dally
On violet-scented lawn
With lily-crownéd nymphs in lovelorn valley!
What modern change is here? What magic—
13QUERCUS
Hush!
[With lowered voice, he looks around warily.]
I am not always quite so modern!
At times—at times—as when just now
You heard me pipe below this bough—
I slip my master’s traces,
And slink by paths untrodden
To lovelorn, lush
Arcadian places,
Where Philomel still lingers,
Plaining her ancient pity,
And there I fetch forth this
With idling fingers,
And, pouting on its lip my kiss,
I pipe some dulcet, old, bucolic ditty.
[Taking out his pipe, he plays again a few languorous strains, but breaks off abruptly.]
Whist! Here he comes.—It grates upon his ear.
14
“IS THIS IN SOOTH MINE OLD SICILIAN FAUN?”
15
III
Shy. Quercus. Alwyn.
SHY
[Enters, carrying a nest-box.]
A hermit thrush is pleasanter to hear.
[He greets Alwyn.]
Good morning, friend! How comes it you are caught
Walking so early? Poets, I had thought,
Salute the sunrise only in their song.
ALWYN
[Smiling.]
Fie, then! You do us wrong:
We rhyming slugabeds
Walk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads,
For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark.
Poets are owls that elegize the lark.
SHY
And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales!
16Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary:
Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see,
To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales,
And teach him craftily
To build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary.
ALWYN
[Patting Quercus’ shoulder.]
Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieve
My modern apprehensions: Tutor him,
Hoof, head and limb,
And let me humbly hearken. By your leave,
God shall provide the dawn,
And you the tutelage, and I—the faun.
QUERCUS
Waiting, my masters!
ALWYN
Give your pipe to me!
QUERCUS
[Holding it behind him.]
Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet.
17ALWYN
Truth is more sweet than melody,
And wisdom than melodious words.
When you have learned to greet
With their own mystic speech all living birds
And minister to their necessity,
This pipe shall be restored, and we will make
Together a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake.
[In pantomime, he demands and receives the pipe from Quercus. Shy then addresses Quercus.]
SHY
This nest-box: Nail it on the barest bough
Of that tall maple. Place it well,
Like yonder one.
QUERCUS
Right, master. Now!
SHY
Soft, soft! Not so pell-mell!
You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting.
First tell me of your other questing—
Those errands which I sent you yesterday.
18QUERCUS
That cowbird, master,—
SHY
Did she lay
Her egg?
QUERCUS
Indeed she did, the pest!
She laid it in a redstart’s nest;
But up I poked my nose in, nabbed it
And cracked it cursory:
Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nursery
Without a big stepchild to smother her chicks.
SHY
Old Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead?
QUERCUS
What, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches?
[He nods shrewdly.]
Wild huckleberries are growing at his head!
That almost got you in the fix:
Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it,
19And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.
[Grinning.]
Eh, master, it’s your shoe that pinches!
SHY
When cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feels
Good to be wicked.
But tell me of our forest planting ground:
What shrubs and creepers have you found
And marked, to make our shelter thicket?
QUERCUS
Why, sir, to give it
Birdblithesomeness, I’ve chose
Shad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet,
Red osier, raspberry, wild rose,
Black haw, and dangleberry.
SHY
A proper list!
What trees—deciduous?
QUERCUS
Box-elder and bird cherry,
White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.
20ALWYN
What make you thus?
Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?
SHY
Good poet, whist!
No more mythology.
Your faun is learning better. Truce!
ALWYN
Most humbly, my apology!
SHY
So, Quercus: and what evergreens?
QUERCUS
White spruce,
Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.
SHY
Good, fellow! Fine!
In such a shelter-tangle we can hatch
Ten thousand nestlings. Run, now! Catch
That squirrel there, before
He makes his call at your new nest-box door.
21QUERCUS
[Skipping to the maple tree.]
Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho!
Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is!
When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll go
And rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses!
[Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes.]
22
ALWYN
23
IV
Alwyn. Shy.
ALWYN
Shy—honest friend, your hand once more!
SHY
Heartily! Welcome to this wood.
ALWYN
Do you recall how once we stood
Here, and discoursed of songs I made of yore—
Dryads and poet’s dreams?
SHY
Yes, I recall
I wondered at them all.
ALWYN
First—as to-day—you smiled
Your incredulity of my quaint creed,
Till soon, in further converse, we agreed
24In nature’s heart our faiths are reconciled.
For both of us seek nature’s fellowship,
The common language of all living things:
I—more in music of the human lip,
You—in the whirr of beaks and wings.
So both—craving the beautiful—
Still worship the same shrine and oracle:
This temple, and its dryad—Tacita.
SHY
I will confess
Of all the nymphs in your Arcadia
I worship her
Alone.
ALWYN
Because her moods are numberless
I do the same. Between the heart of Man
And Nature’s heart, which I do name God Pan,
She stands and moves—divine interpreter,
Translating with her shy and pagan dances
Our world life and its trances.
SHY
She is, in truth,
The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary.
25ALWYN
[Eagerly.]
What if, through her as intermediary,
And after thousand ages of uncouth
Estrangement,—what, I say, if we
Might find through her the key
To comprehend the native speech of birds,
And hold communion with them in our human words!
Would not that be a modern consummation
Nobler than fable?
SHY
Almost, I would have said, we might be able,
If it were not for one who scorns this shrine
And violates the beauty of creation,
Marring all contemplative quietude.
ALWYN
Whom do you speak of?
SHY
One whom the red wine
Of slaughter has made drunk, and the false glister
Of dollars dazzled with blind arrogance.
26Close by this wood
He plies a bold, sinister
Traffic in wings and plumage. Not by chance
But calculated orgies, he commits
His venal murders, slits
The bridal plumes from backs of mating birds,
And leaves the nested broods
Unhatched or starveling. So he girds
His loins, and like the Patagonian
Displays his feathered trophies: not a man
Swayed by ecstatic moods,
Nor even to equip
A hardy sportsmanship;
Not so: he slaughters birds for stocks and bonds,
And when we challenge, smiling he responds:
“Mine is a lawful market, where fine ladies pay
For plumes, to wear on Sabbaths and Christ’s Easter day.”
ALWYN
What is this desecrator’s name?
27SHY
Stark, the plume-hunter.
ALWYN
Surely he dares not
Track his defenseless game
Here to this hallowed spot!
SHY
No place is holy to unhallowed minds:
He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds.
ALWYN
Still I have faith
That Tacita, in her serenity,
Is mightier than he.
SHY
Ah, nature’s quiet mood is delicate
And crushes like a flower.
ALWYN
Faith without works is vain, the Prophet saith.
So now, while nature muses in the thrush,
Here let us sit this hour,
28And meditate
On Tacita, till meditation shall create
Its own shy image.—Hush!
[They sit upon a log and listen.]
29
V
Tacita. Alwyn. Shy.
[Dreamily, the fluting of birds sounds in
the forest. Dimly from the background
Tacita appears. With steps of reverie,
she approaches, and pauses before
them. Alwyn looks up and, touching
Shy’s arm, speaks low.]
Tacita! It is she!
SHY
Speak to her—you.
Alwyn
Dryad, and spirit of serenity,
Whose steps have fallen timeful as the dew
Upon our pathway, intervene
For us with that still-undiscovered queen—
Ornis, who reigns among your ancient boughs
30Spirit of birds and sister of our race,
Man. Stir your spell-enchanted feet,
And by their moods arouse
Her hidden grace
To heed us, and hold speech from realms unseen.
[To mysterious music, Tacita treads a dance of invocation, appealing in pantomime to the unseen spirit of wings, which flits and sings and broods in the boughs above her. Alwyn and Shy watch her, rapt and expectant.
Suddenly a sharp gun-shot sounds, shivering the music, which ceases. Through the boughs, a bird falls fluttering to the earth.]
31
VI
Ornis. Alwyn. Shy.
[With a gesture of startled wildness, Tacita breaks abruptly from her rhythmic motions, and flees into the wood, while simultaneously from the other side there enters, swift but staggering, Ornis—a maiden, garbed symbolically as a bird. On one of her wing-like sleeves blood shows. With shrill, melodious cry, she flutters forward.]
ORNIS
Ee-ó-lee! O-rée-o! Sanctuary!
[Swaying, she falls to the ground. Alwyn and Shy spring toward her.]
ALWYN
Help, Shy! She falls!
SHY
[At Ornis’ side.]
Wing-struck! Here’s blood.
32ALWYN
That shot?
SHY
The gun of Stark.
[Seeking to lift her.]
Up, birdling! Here is Shy.
ORNIS
[Droops, moaning.]
O-rée-o!
SHY
Quick! Bring Quercus.
ALWYN
[Hastening off.]
In a jot.
SHY
[Soothingly strokes Ornis’ arm and shoulder.]
So—so! Dew water soon makes well. So—so!
ORNIS
[Moans dazedly.]
Ir-re-o! P’tee!
33QUERCUS
[Reëntering with Alwyn.]
Here, master!
SHY
[Pointing.]
Water!—There!
ALWYN
The bird bath!
QUERCUS
[Dipping his plant pitcher, hastens with it to Shy.]
Coming!
SHY
Sprinkle.
QUERCUS
[Sprinkling water upon Ornis, sings gaily.]
Ó-ree-o!
When shawes ben sheen and shraddes full fair,
And leaves both large and long,
’Tis merry walking in the fair forést
To hear the small birds’ song!
[Ornis revives.]
34SHY
[Assisting her.]
Now, gently!
ALWYN
[Bending over her, calls low.]
Ornis!—Sister!
ORNIS
Who calls? Where
Am I?
ALWYN
In sanctuary. Have no fear.
ORNIS
[Looking from one to the other.]
Ah, me! But what are these?
SHY
Your brothers, dear.
ORNIS
My brothers—they are birds. But you are Man.
ALWYN
Through Tacita you know us now; we can
Speak to each other. Ornis!—Hark.
35ORNIS
[Rising in glad wonder.]
At last!—
At last!
ALWYN
A thousand ages—they are past,
And dumbness, like a dream,
Sinks with them into sleep. We are awake,
And each to each
Can bid good-morning in our common speech.
ORNIS
How sweet and strange! Are we indeed awaking
From callous slumber and old wrong?
So sorrowfully long
The hand of Man has wrought my birds’ heartbreaking!—
Was it a savage dream?
Methought I sat on Morning’s golden beam
And sang of God’s wild gladness: High and higher
I showered His temple woods with ecstasy;
When suddenly
36The earth screamed thunder, and a singeing fire
Shattered my wing. I fell.—
Groping in flight, my feet stuck fast
In smear of lime; swift from below
A tangling net was cast
Where, panting upward, a black hell
Of bloody mouths barked under me;
And there beside them—oh,
There watched, with eyes of wanton cruelty,
A man—bright clothed in many-colored plumes
Of my dead sisters. “Save me from their dooms,”
I cried, “O Sanctuary!”
ALWYN
And you woke
With us, your brothers—healed.
ORNIS
[With wonder.]
Oh, have you heard
What now I spoke?
And can we answer truly, word for word?
[Curiously.]
Alwyn!
37ALWYN
You know my name?
ORNIS
[Turning eagerly from one to the other.]
Shy!
SHY
[Smiling.]
No mistake!
ORNIS
Quercus!
QUERCUS
[Skipping with a bow.]
Your birdship’s faun!
ORNIS
[Laughing joyously.]
Good-morning, brothers!
ALWYN
When have you known us?
ORNIS
Many an age and long!
No syllable has bubbled in your song
But I have blown it first from yonder trees:
38[To Shy.]
No brooding-place of yours—but I was in the breeze;
[To Quercus.]
And ever to your whistle
I pipe the last note from the nearest thistle.
[Tacita appears remotely.]
O beautiful my brothers!
O dryad dear, I thank you! In your dawn,
How brave it is to speak with Man and Faun
As mates and fellows. Quick! Fetch me still others.
[A crashing resounds in the thicket. Tacita disappears.]
Who’s coming now?
SHY
Still others—our fellow man.
ORNIS
I hear a breaking bough.
ALWYN
Kind hearts and cruel are one clan.
39ORNIS
Hark! Surely ’tis some strange distress.
Come, brothers, let us look:
It may be one who needs our friendliness.
Come with me!
ALWYN
[Calling off scene.]
Stand there! Stay beyond the brook.
QUERCUS
[With excited gestures.]
Back, ho!
ORNIS
[Suddenly recoiling with a cry.]
Ah, save me!
[She flies to their protection. Quercus also scampers back fearfully, and hides.]
40
VII
Stark. Ornis. Alwyn. Shy.
[Enter Stark, in garb of a hunter. He
wears a tawny leopard’s skin, and his
head is gorgeously plumed. Behind
him, two panting dogs are held in leash
by attendants. Stark rushes toward
Ornis, passes her oblivious, and seizes
up the fallen bird.]
STARK
Bagged!—Hold off the dogs!
[The Attendants withdraw with the hounds.]
ORNIS
[As Stark grasps the bird, clutches her own side in pain.]
Ee-ó-lo!
STARK
A rare beauty!—Bah, one wing
Shot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing.
41
“Sir—Here is No Hunting”
43Madame La Mode’s a tricksy milliner.
[He thrusts the bird into his game pouch. Turning to leave, he sees Alwyn and Shy, and greets them gaily.]
Halloa! Fine hunting weather!
SHY
[Quietly.]
Sir,
Here is No Hunting.
STARK
[With a laugh.]
Pipe that to the frogs!
SHY
This ground is sanctuary.
STARK
And what’s that?
SHY
A place held sacred from the hunter’s trail.
44STARK
Why, man, I am no hunter, and that’s flat.
I only plume myself—to trim a hat.
Besides, I shot outside your pale;
And now
[Touching his pouch, he winks.]
the game is bagged.
SHY
You bag the spangle
And lose the spirit.—Sir, here is no place
To preach or wrangle
Our creeds. I am a student, not a teacher.
So I would only learn of you: what joy
Urges you to destroy
So gracious, fair
And innocent a fellow-creature
As yonder?
[He points at Ornis.]
STARK
[Looking.]
Where?
45ALWYN
Our sister, who stands there
And dumbly pleads for all her race—
And ours.
STARK
By Christ in Hades,
My eyes see nothing but a brace
Of popinjays, who pipe to me of ladies
And show me—no one.
ALWYN
Look more near.
Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now!
ORNIS
[Drawing back in dread.]
O-rée-o!
STARK
I am listening.
46ALWYN
Did you hear
No voice?
STARK
I heard a bird call from that bough.
QUERCUS
[Peeping toward Shy from the bushes.]
Have at him, master!
SHY
[To Stark.]
Did you spy
That fellow’s horns there, when he drew back
Into the bush?
STARK
I saw
A stirring in that staghorn sumach,
And caught a rabbit’s eye.—
What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw!
Good day to you!
47ALWYN
Stay yet!
Once more look yonder, where my comrade stands,
Turning to take the gentle, outreached hands
Of our shy sister: Can you see
No timid form beside him?
STARK
Perfectly
My eyes discern
A man, who peers within the morning mist,
And murmurs to the air,
And smiles, as if he held sweet converse there.
In short, I see a sentimentalist.
I am not of that ilk.
[Calling]—Ho, there!—Holá!
Wait with my dogs: I’m coming.
ALWYN
Stay, and learn
What we ourselves have only learned through quiet
48Listening. So long, in rampant haste,
Your dizzy soul has chased
The spinning dollar sign which stars your zodiac,
That you have lost the track
Of paths serene, and pace God’s world in riot
Of blinding gold. Pause, for this little space!
Put off that blood-emblazed regalia
Gorgeous with death,
And draw with me one meditative breath
Here in the temple of cool Tacita.
STARK
[Who has listened with half-amused curiosity.]
Ah—Tacita? And who may that be, friend?
ALWYN
One lovelier than you have yet set eyes on.
SHY
Go, Quercus: Pray our mistress to attend.
[Quercus goes out.]
49STARK
Mistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too?
And may this wonder dawn on my horizon
If I remain?
ALWYN
Remain—to meditate!
STARK
Why, now, you stir my fancies.
In truth, ’tis early still, and little to do
This hour. Come, I will wait
And watch with you. But mind! The nymph must be
More lovely than my eyes did ever see!
ALWYN
With loveliness more deep than eyes discover.
STARK
So, ’tis a bargain, then?
ALWYN
Sit by me here;
And if your musings cause no fear,
You shall behold her in her secret dances.
50STARK
By Hercules! I’m half prepared to love her!
[He sits on the log beside Alwyn. Ornis still stands apart, under Shy’s protection. Quercus enters, beckoning backward into the wood.]
51
VIII
Tacita. Alwyn. Ornis. Stark. (Shy. Quercus.)
ALWYN
Now, Tacita, shy pagan nymph, appear!
[Tacita enters from her shrine of greenery, and pauses before them.]
Spirit, unblind this man! Delusions blur
Inward his sight. He is a murderer,
Yet knows not he is such. Unseal
The fountains of his vision, and reveal
Yonder the sister spirit, whom so long
His blind heart strove to wrong—
Ornis: Reveal, and let him speak with her!
[Soft music sounds, various and elusive52 in its rhythmic themes. Tacita approaches Stark, and weaves about him a dance of revelation, lulling, charming, luring him by the appeal of numberless wing-swayings and bird-dartings, for which the music suggests the song-notes. During her dance, Stark rises, bewildered, and is gradually lured and led by her toward Ornis, before whom—at the consummation of the dance—he stands, staring.]
STARK
[Rising, speaks to the music.]
O twilight—holy dusk—dawn twitterings!
How far, how dim and hollow
You darkle over me:
Wings, wings! swift wings, shy wings, eternal wings!
Where shall I follow?
Ah, joy—jubilant melody—
And morning! Joy—I follow!
I dream, and drink from your immortal springs!
[Tacita disappears. Stark beholds Ornis.]
53
IX
Stark. Ornis. (Alwyn. Quercus. Shy.)
STARK
What are you?
ORNIS
[Appealing with half-fearful affection.]
Brother!—brother!
STARK
[With sudden cry and gesture.]
Ha, my net!
The shy bird shall be captured ’live!
[From his shoulder he looses the net, and flings it over Ornis, seizing the meshes.]
Now, Joy,
I hold you fast!
ORNIS
[Struggling.]
Ee-ó-lee-o!
54SHY
[Extricating her.]
Not yet!
ALWYN
[Seizing Stark.]
Untamed, and still unshamed! Will you destroy
The wings that raise you? Sister, speak to him!
ORNIS
My brothers—all of you! Oh, wage not war
Because of me. I fear not. Stark, you dim
The brightness of our union, greeting so
Your sister.
STARK
[Dropping his net.]
Sister?
ORNIS
Hunt no more
With lime and net: Your love shall hold me faster;
For I am Ornis.
55STARK
[Fascinated.]
Ornis!
ORNIS
Dear my master!
Do you not know me? I am she
Whom first, beneath the dark, ancestral tree,
You rose upon your feet to hearken to.
By me you grew
To song and freedom. Round your olden feasts
You watched my circling flights, whereby your priests
Proclaimed their omens and their oracles;
My cranes announced your victories, my storks
Fed your hearth-fires, my silver-throated gulls
And golden hawks
Saved many your sea-towns from sore pestilence;
And my sweet night bird tuned your poets’ shells
To lull sad lovers in languorous asphodels;
56Yet all my influence
Shone dimmer than my beauty: my bright plumes
Lured you to squander them, till, in the fumes
Of greed, your heart forgot to cherish me,
And sold me unto death and slavery.—
Yet, master, as you will:
Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!
STARK
[With altered tone of yearning.]
Yet—yet it seems I never heard your voice
Till now; nor ever understood
Till now; nor paused, as now in this still wood,
To tremble and rejoice
At greeting you, my sister. I am stunned,
And wait to comprehend this wonder.
ORNIS
Ah,
You never prayed before to Tacita!
Your feet have shunned
Her gracious paths, yet only she
Can lead and show my brother Man to me.
57
“Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!”
59STARK
[Glancing at his gun.]
Why, then,—why have I brought this instrument
Of murder here? What black intent
Clouded my mind with blood?
[Flinging it from him.]
Out of my hands!—My sister, can it be
That still you soar above my sanguine flood
Of passion, and forgive? Though yet I kill,
Oh, is it true indeed—you love me still?
ORNIS
Ha, put me to the test!
Show me the field that breeds your harvest pest
Of chinch or weevil,
Where all the blossoms wither with strange evil,
Or where, in filmy tents,
The hairy creepers gorge in regiments
Your budding apple boughs;
Show your ancestral elms
60Gaunt limbed with leprosy, which overwhelms
Their green old age in death;
Or those swift locust clouds, whose breath
Blasts the ripe loveliness of Spring;
Show these, and more
Than these, and cry on Ornis! She shall bring—
From hill and shore
And plain—her wingèd flocks and warbling broods,
And swinge away their deadly multitudes.—
If service be true love, I love you, brother.
ALWYN
[Drawing near.]
And for her sake, so we will love each other.
[He takes Stark’s right hand.]
SHY
[Taking his left.]
A greenwood partnership!
STARK
[Pressing their hands.]
Thanks!
61SHY
[Whispering to the faun.]
Quercus, run!
QUERCUS
I skip,
I gambol, master. Ha!
I have a tale to tell to Tacita!
[He leaps away.]
ORNIS
[As Stark tears off his headdress of plumes.]
And those—?
STARK
For these my heart shall build a fire
Here at this shrine:
[He hangs the headdress on a tree.]
And here, as on a pyre,
I place them, with this pouch, which hides
The victims of my blind desire.
There, at sad cost,
I let them tell my pain—the votive part
Of one long lost,
62Who now has found himself in nature’s heart.—
Ornis, my trail divides:
There lie the ashes of the thing I was.
Henceforth, I walk with you—
[Turning to Alwyn and Shy.]
and these.
ALWYN
A compact, then, we three: that when we go
Forth from these gracious trees
Into the world, we go as witnesses
Before the men who make our country’s laws,
And by our witness show
In burning words
The meaning of these sylvan mysteries:
Freedom and sanctuary for the birds!
Say, is our compact sworn?
STARK
I swear.
SHY
And I.
[Enter Quercus and Tacita.]
63
X
Tacita. Quercus. Stark. Ornis. Shy. Alwyn.
STARK
[To Ornis.]
Look, sister: friends are coming.
Now lead us to their shrine close by.
ORNIS
Oh, first let all make joy of this our union!
For now my glad heart, like a partridge drumming,
Calls for my mates to join us, all together,
In frolicsome communion.
Ho, Quercus, Quercus, call them!—Tacita,
Summon them with your fairy feet!
QUERCUS
[Bounding forward.]
Holá!
64ALWYN
[Taking from his pouch Quercus’ pipe.]
Call loud and long!
Here’s our old pipe, to carry a new song.
[Alwyn puts the pipe to his lips, while Quercus sings to it, calling to the birds. At the end, Quercus begs in pantomime for the pipe which Alwyn, smiling, restores to him.]
QUERCUS
Come here, come here, you little comrades coy,
From hill and swamp and heather:
Make joy, make joy
Together!—
Tawny beak and scarlet vest,
Slant wing and sleek feather,
Bulging bill and cocking crest,
Hither!
Tumble out of nest,
Topple out of windy weather
Here, holá!
With preenings quaint,
Purple dyes and crimson paint,
Here, holá, in merry state!
65Up from dew-grass, down from aerie,
Tacita—Tacita
Summons you to dedicate
Here her sanctuary!
[While Quercus calls, from all sides Birds of many species and colors—like Ornis human in form—gather, and peer from the edges of the scene. To these Tacita now beckons, and by her gesture summons to her dance, while Quercus plays joyously on his pipe.]
ORNIS
Bird and faun and man and fairy,
Gather now to sanctuary!
[Tacita first dances alone, then with Quercus; then, inviting and leading them all in pied procession, she marshals all away into her woodland shrine.]
FINIS
69