gilded
staff—the ensign of high dignity among the revellers—and his left
grasped the slender fingers of a fair maiden not less gayly decorated
than himself. Bright roses glowed in contrast with the dark and glossy
curls of each, and were scattered round their feet or had sprung up
spontaneously there. Behind this lightsome couple, so close to the
Maypole that its boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure of an
English priest, canonically dressed, yet decked with flowers, in
heathen fashion, and wearing a chaplet of the native vine leaves. By
the riot of his rolling eye and the pagan decorations of his holy
garb, he seemed the wildest monster there, and the very Comus of the
crew.
"Votaries of the Maypole," cried the flower-decked priest, "merrily
all day long have the woods echoed to your mirth. But be this your
merriest hour, my hearts! Lo! here stand the Lord and Lady of the May,
whom I, a clerk of Oxford and high priest of Merry Mount, am presently
to join in holy matrimony.—Up with your nimble spirits, ye
morrice-dancers, green men and glee-maidens, bears and wolves and
horned gentlemen! Come! a chorus now rich with the old mirth of Merry
England and the wilder glee of this fresh forest, and then a dance, to
show the youthful pair what life is made of and how airily they should
go through it!—All ye that love the Maypole, lend your voices to the
nuptial song of the Lord and Lady of the May!"
This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of Merry Mount, where
jest and delusion, trick and fantasy, kept up a continual carnival.
The Lord and Lady of the May, though their titles must be laid down at
sunset, were really and truly to be partners for the dance of life,
beginning the measure that same bright eve. The wreath of roses that
hung from the lowest green bough of the Maypole had been twined for
them, and would be thrown over both their heads in symbol of their
flowery union. When the priest had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar
burst from the rout of monstrous figures.
"Begin you the stave, reverend sir," cried they all, "and never did
the woods ring to such a merry peal as we of the Maypole shall send
up."
Immediately a prelude of pipe, cittern and viol, touched with
practised minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring thicket in such
a mirthful cadence that the boughs of the Maypole quivered to the
sound. But the May-lord—he of the gilded staff—chancing to look into
his lady's eyes, was wonder-struck at the almost pensive glance that
met his own.
"Edith, sweet Lady of the May," whispered he, reproachfully, "is yon
wreath of roses a garland to hang above our graves that you look so
sad? Oh, Edith, this is our golden time. Tarnish it not by any pensive
shadow of the mind, for it may be that nothing of futurity will be
brighter than the mere remembrance of what is now passing."
"That was the very thought that saddened me. How came it in your mind
too?" said Edith, in a still lower tone than he; for it was high
treason to be sad at Merry Mount. "Therefore do I sigh amid this
festive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream,
and fancy that these shapes of our jovial friends are visionary and
their mirth unreal, and that we are no true lord and lady of the May.
What is the mystery in my heart?"
Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower
of withering rose-leaves from the Maypole. Alas for the young lovers!
No sooner had their hearts glowed with real passion than they were
sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their former
pleasures, and felt a dreary presentiment of inevitable change. From
the moment that they truly loved they had subjected themselves to
earth's doom of care and sorrow and troubled joy, and had no more a
home at Merry Mount. That was Edith's mystery. Now leave we the priest
to marry them, and the masquers to sport round the Maypole till the
last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit and the shadows of the
forest mingle
staff—the ensign of high dignity among the revellers—and his left
grasped the slender fingers of a fair maiden not less gayly decorated
than himself. Bright roses glowed in contrast with the dark and glossy
curls of each, and were scattered round their feet or had sprung up
spontaneously there. Behind this lightsome couple, so close to the
Maypole that its boughs shaded his jovial face, stood the figure of an
English priest, canonically dressed, yet decked with flowers, in
heathen fashion, and wearing a chaplet of the native vine leaves. By
the riot of his rolling eye and the pagan decorations of his holy
garb, he seemed the wildest monster there, and the very Comus of the
crew.
"Votaries of the Maypole," cried the flower-decked priest, "merrily
all day long have the woods echoed to your mirth. But be this your
merriest hour, my hearts! Lo! here stand the Lord and Lady of the May,
whom I, a clerk of Oxford and high priest of Merry Mount, am presently
to join in holy matrimony.—Up with your nimble spirits, ye
morrice-dancers, green men and glee-maidens, bears and wolves and
horned gentlemen! Come! a chorus now rich with the old mirth of Merry
England and the wilder glee of this fresh forest, and then a dance, to
show the youthful pair what life is made of and how airily they should
go through it!—All ye that love the Maypole, lend your voices to the
nuptial song of the Lord and Lady of the May!"
This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of Merry Mount, where
jest and delusion, trick and fantasy, kept up a continual carnival.
The Lord and Lady of the May, though their titles must be laid down at
sunset, were really and truly to be partners for the dance of life,
beginning the measure that same bright eve. The wreath of roses that
hung from the lowest green bough of the Maypole had been twined for
them, and would be thrown over both their heads in symbol of their
flowery union. When the priest had spoken, therefore, a riotous uproar
burst from the rout of monstrous figures.
"Begin you the stave, reverend sir," cried they all, "and never did
the woods ring to such a merry peal as we of the Maypole shall send
up."
Immediately a prelude of pipe, cittern and viol, touched with
practised minstrelsy, began to play from a neighboring thicket in such
a mirthful cadence that the boughs of the Maypole quivered to the
sound. But the May-lord—he of the gilded staff—chancing to look into
his lady's eyes, was wonder-struck at the almost pensive glance that
met his own.
"Edith, sweet Lady of the May," whispered he, reproachfully, "is yon
wreath of roses a garland to hang above our graves that you look so
sad? Oh, Edith, this is our golden time. Tarnish it not by any pensive
shadow of the mind, for it may be that nothing of futurity will be
brighter than the mere remembrance of what is now passing."
"That was the very thought that saddened me. How came it in your mind
too?" said Edith, in a still lower tone than he; for it was high
treason to be sad at Merry Mount. "Therefore do I sigh amid this
festive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle as with a dream,
and fancy that these shapes of our jovial friends are visionary and
their mirth unreal, and that we are no true lord and lady of the May.
What is the mystery in my heart?"
Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down came a little shower
of withering rose-leaves from the Maypole. Alas for the young lovers!
No sooner had their hearts glowed with real passion than they were
sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their former
pleasures, and felt a dreary presentiment of inevitable change. From
the moment that they truly loved they had subjected themselves to
earth's doom of care and sorrow and troubled joy, and had no more a
home at Merry Mount. That was Edith's mystery. Now leave we the priest
to marry them, and the masquers to sport round the Maypole till the
last sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit and the shadows of the
forest mingle
Similar Books
