Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

Satan, the Prince of Pain, whose rebel wing
Creation cages under golden bars,
Wander'd his world-wide penthouse, hovering
Among the mazy courses of the stars,
And mock'd the music of the spheres: “Beat time
To the dull march of Matter's doom'd routine,
Mechanics of Creation! ye are mine,
Tho' me you praise not with your patient chime.”

2

Fierce cries of anguish mixt with shouts of mirth
Rose as he spake. The Rebel Angel laugh'd
“I know that music. 'Tis the babbling Earth
Still to mine ears the self-same song doth waft.
Old is each note of it. Complaints and curses!
Murder and robbery in all forms of life,
And dust, for dust, with dust in endless strife;
Princes for provinces, and pads for purses!

3

“Creatures of crocodile-creating clay,
Think ye your croaking, or your crunching, worth
Satanic intervention? Have your way,
You self-made victims of the vulgar Earth!
But long live Love, in whose light air-balloon
Faith soars to heaven, self-confident and vain,
And falls with broken limbs to earth again,
Cursing her madcap voyage to the moon!

4

“The good old classic music! Passion quench'd
In hissing tears. Fond greed of fancied gain
That sinks in sight of port. The fist fierce-clench'd
That strikes the despot brow it served in vain.
Thought's shamed confession ‘Unattainable!’
Affection's lamentation ‘Lost!’ Hope's moan
‘Defeated!’ Effort's deathcry ‘Overthrown!’
Well done, ye faithful servitors of Hell!

5

“I recognise your work, and give it praise.”
And the Dark Spirit smiled. But suddenly
Was wafted to him, from within that maze
Of miserable sounds, a single sigh;
So faint, it scarce divided the vext air
More than a silence; yet of such strange pain

As waked the past in Satan's soul again,
And thrill'd with memory his immense despair.

6

He, spreading sullen pinions, earthward bent
Swift flight; to find the archer whose strong bow
The torment of its venom'd shaft had sent
Into such endless distances of woe.
There, scarce perceptible, the Fiend perceived
A little saucy Imp, whose fingers fine
Held with affected languor feminine
A bunch of fresh-blown roses, dewy-leaved.

7

And from this posy now and then he took
A single rose; and with a playful smile
Leaflet from leaflet lightly loosening, shook
The petals o'er a wretch who all the while
Writhed under each in agony. That small
Tormentor seem'd to sniff with keen delight
Some gust of suffering made more exquisite
By every fragrant rose-leaf he let fall.

8

“'Twas thou then?”—“Mighty Master, it was I.”
“What new atrocity of torturing
Hast thou invented, Imp of Hell? That sigh
Which made me shudder, even me thy king,

How hast thou wrung it from a human heart?
What was thy weapon? scorpions seethed in flame?
Or fangs of adders? Name me, Imp, its name,
And show me how 'tis shaped, thy devilish dart.”

9

The little plump-cheek'd cherub of the pit
(A kid among the goats, with budding horn)
Falter'd—“Dread Lord, I know no name for it.
Soft are my roses, and without a thorn.”
“Why thus, then, dost thou strew them?”—“Pardon me,”
The Hell-whelp whined, “this man hath suffer'd so!”
“Ha, fool! and thou dost pity him? Go, go,
And learn mankind. Thou art a child, I see.”

10

Blushing resentful, “Prince,” the Imp replied,
“What dost thou take me for? 'Tis true my brothers
Are bigger, but” (and this he lisp'd with pride)
“I scorn their clumsy practice. How those others
Get out of breath in running down their prey,
Fatigue themselves in torturing mankind!
My work, if easier, is more refined,
Look at this wretch's wounds. How fresh are they!

11

“From men he got them, Master, not from me.
Yet each hath been a master-stroke I swear.
Which, but that one by one he got them, he
Had surely not had strength enough to bear.
Man's work, yet perfect! Hate without remorse:
Deep thought: deliberate purpose: patient skill:
Oh, naught was wanting to each human will
That stabb'd here! How could this man's wounds be worse?

12

“I merely keep them open. Toucht again,
Tho' ne'er so lightly, each one burns and gapes.
A rose-leaf does it. By disguised disdain
That friendship's frank commiseration apes,
Men taught me this. The trick is simple, see!
Yet 'neath such touches strongest spirits wince.”
“Away! away!” cried Hell's impatient Prince;
“Release yon sufferer, leave his soul to me.”

13

The chidden Imp, reluctant, left his prey,
Like a chased fly. Man's arch accuser stood
Contèmplating man's victim. Silent lay
The wretch, unconscious of worse neighbourhood
Than he had felt before. In that soul's curse
The gaze of Satan, piercing, could detect

How heart and brain met shatter'd to reflect
In a flaw'd mirror a warp'd universe.

14

“And thou hast suffer'd greatly?” musing said
The Prince of Pain. The sufferer slowly raised
The heavy burthen of a hopeless head,
And, 'neath a half-uplifted eyelid, gazed
Upon the Rebel Angel's ruin'd brow,
And recognised Hell's Anarch, and replied
Indifferently, with neither shame nor pride,
Unto the voice of Satan, “Even as thou.”

15

“Then 'twas too much,” mutter'd the Fiend. “I own
No peer in torment; and I scorn to share
With human brows my solitary crown.
Soul,—whom man's hate hath forced mine own to spare,
Lest at the last extremity his prey
Should prove in aught my rival,—rest!” And slow,
With wistful gesture, from that human woe
Satan, half-sighing, turn'd, and fled away.