Corydon: A Pastoral

The Sisters' Tragedy

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

SCENE: A roadside in Arcady

SHEPHERD.

Good sir, have you seen pass this way
A mischief straight
from market-day?
You'd know her at a glance, I think;
Her
eyes are blue, her lips are pink;
She has a way of looking
back
Over her shoulder, and, alack!
Who gets that look one
time, good sir,
Has naught to do but follow her.

PILGRIM.

I have not seen this maid, methinks,
Though she that passed
had lips like pinks.

SHEPHERD.

Or like two strawberries made one
By some sly trick of dew
and sun.

PILGRIM.

A poet!

SHEPHERD.

Nay, a simple swain
That tends his flock on yonder
plain,
Naught else, I swear by book and bell.
But she that
passed--you marked her well.
Was she not smooth as any be

That dwell herein in Arcady?

PILGRIM.

Her skin was as the satin bark
Of birches.

SHEPHERD.

Light or dark?

PILGRIM.

Quite dark.

SHEPHERD.

Then 'twas not she.

PILGRIM.

The peach's side
That's next the sun is not so dyed
As
was her cheek. Her hair hung down
Like summer twilight falling
brown;
And when the breeze swept by, I wist
Her face was in a
sombre mist.

SHEPHERD.

No, that is not the maid I seek.
HER hair lies gold against
the cheek;
Her yellow tresses take the morn
Like silken
tassels of the corn.
And yet--brown locks are far from bad.

PILGRIM.

Now I bethink me, this one had
A figure like the
willow-tree
Which, slight and supple, wondrously
Inclines to
droop with pensive grace,
And still retains its proper place;

A foot so arched and very small
The marvel was she walked at
all;
Her hand--in sooth I lack for words--
Her hand, five
slender snow-white birds.
Her voice--though she but said
"God-speed"--
Was melody blown through a reed;
The girl Pan
changed into a pipe
Had not a note so full and ripe.
And then
her eye--my lad, her eye!
Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,
An
outward ice, an inward fire,
And lashes to the heart's
desire--
Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.

SHEPHERD, THOUGHTFULLY.

Good sir, which way did THIS one go?
. . . . .
. . .

PILGRIM, SOLUS.

So, he is off! The silly youth
Knoweth not Love in sober
sooth.
He loves--thus lads at first are blind--
No woman,
only Womankind.
I needs must laugh, for, by the Mass,
No maid
at all did this way pass!