The Serpent Play A Divine Pastoral: By Thomas Gordon Hake |
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 | The Serpent Play |  |
Proscenium.—The Gates which lead to the Paradise
of Cœlis.
Cœlis, Messenger.
MESSENGER.
I bear the words of Voragine.
CŒLIS.
Begin:
Erewhile his words were still the battle's din.
MESSENGER.
The vulgar cry for liberty is lulled;
Bright is the sword again that blood had dulled:
As though it flashed the miracle of peace,
'Tis only lifted now and murmurs cease.
CŒLIS.
In terror sown, the seeds of hate
Take easy root and germinate:
So, for our foes a better time is near,
And their revenge it is our turn to bear.
MESSENGER.
Their homes laid out in desert, who shall know
A seed-time where but weeds henceforward grow?
The earth is charred; priests, chieftains, all have fled
Into the burning forests and are dead.
CŒLIS.
Nature herself not spared! yet ere the year
Will she revolt and her new weapon wear:
On the burnt soil will man again appear.
MESSENGER.
Who looks so far?
CŒLIS.
Not Voragine, 'tis clear.
MESSENGER.
But many a day beyond his morrow
Is safe; at glorious spring-time, which is near,
The chief returns;—
CŒLIS.
With him our reign of Sorrow.
CŒLIS, alone.
Can Nature sanction this, even war espouse
Wasting the scanty moments she allows,
Lest the religion to her trust reposed
Be to our precious leisure here disclosed?
The seer may vainly seek for holy soil
Whose sod the wily sorcerer turns over,
Though but to bare a serpent's coil
Or some more warlike creed discover.
But faith suffices with the sword's defence,
And sets aside the cruel evidence
Death's face affords, a warning all believe
And sicken at; unwilling to receive.
Thus must the disaffected soul resume,
In its resolve eternally to live,
Some war of vain desires whose creed shall vanquish doom.
I, too, will struggle through all hope, though none
The immortal life, since life first was, hath won.
Cœlis, Messenger.
MESSENGER.
I bear the words of Voragine.
CŒLIS.
Begin:
Erewhile his words were still the battle's din.
MESSENGER.
The vulgar cry for liberty is lulled;
Bright is the sword again that blood had dulled:
As though it flashed the miracle of peace,
'Tis only lifted now and murmurs cease.
CŒLIS.
In terror sown, the seeds of hate
Take easy root and germinate:
21
And their revenge it is our turn to bear.
MESSENGER.
Their homes laid out in desert, who shall know
A seed-time where but weeds henceforward grow?
The earth is charred; priests, chieftains, all have fled
Into the burning forests and are dead.
CŒLIS.
Nature herself not spared! yet ere the year
Will she revolt and her new weapon wear:
On the burnt soil will man again appear.
MESSENGER.
Who looks so far?
CŒLIS.
Not Voragine, 'tis clear.
MESSENGER.
But many a day beyond his morrow
Is safe; at glorious spring-time, which is near,
The chief returns;—
CŒLIS.
With him our reign of Sorrow.
CŒLIS, alone.
Can Nature sanction this, even war espouse
Wasting the scanty moments she allows,
22
Be to our precious leisure here disclosed?
The seer may vainly seek for holy soil
Whose sod the wily sorcerer turns over,
Though but to bare a serpent's coil
Or some more warlike creed discover.
But faith suffices with the sword's defence,
And sets aside the cruel evidence
Death's face affords, a warning all believe
And sicken at; unwilling to receive.
Thus must the disaffected soul resume,
In its resolve eternally to live,
Some war of vain desires whose creed shall vanquish doom.
I, too, will struggle through all hope, though none
The immortal life, since life first was, hath won.
| The Serpent Play | |