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.—
Alwyn, 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He’s out of date with his caduceus.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
And 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,
Wild 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
To 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?
QUERCUS
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—
QUERCUS
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.
“IS THIS IN SOOTH MINE OLD SICILIAN FAUN?”