 | The Serpent Play |  |
Scene I.
—In the Paradise of Cœlis.Actors, Spectators.
Sunrise, the constant friend, that ever kept
The appointed time, shone on the Gala-day,
And ere the troop set forth its Serpent Play,
The chilly dews from the arena swept.
So, early, with the heavenly Riser, move
The Minstrel and his Actors on a stage
Where flocks and kine already rove;
Sent there by Cœlis for the lordly sage,
Who with a soul deep-versed in strategy
Can see beyond where eyes can see,
While looking round the chosen plain.
It is his part to improvise,
Where the mock-village is to stand
And streets and temples shall arise;
Where shall rush in the hostile band
Amid the games and with the slain
Cover the earth, while mourners rave
For vengeance or a common grave.
The appointed time, shone on the Gala-day,
And ere the troop set forth its Serpent Play,
The chilly dews from the arena swept.
So, early, with the heavenly Riser, move
The Minstrel and his Actors on a stage
Where flocks and kine already rove;
Sent there by Cœlis for the lordly sage,
Who with a soul deep-versed in strategy
Can see beyond where eyes can see,
While looking round the chosen plain.
It is his part to improvise,
Where the mock-village is to stand
And streets and temples shall arise;
Where shall rush in the hostile band
Amid the games and with the slain
Cover the earth, while mourners rave
For vengeance or a common grave.
88
Now the sight-seekers round him gather
With faces smiling at the weather:
A warm spring-morn, as all foretold.
The maids are smart in blue and red
Interlaced with golden thread,
Set off with antique ornaments of gold.
The footmen bring out oaken benches,
A stately butler in their track;
The handmaids follow, heedless of the clack,
With crimson cushions on their back;
Jeered at by stable-boys and country wenches.
The peasants still arrive in swarms
That stream in from the distant farms,
With yeomen in their Sunday tunics dressed:
A gala-day their day of rest.
With faces smiling at the weather:
A warm spring-morn, as all foretold.
The maids are smart in blue and red
Interlaced with golden thread,
Set off with antique ornaments of gold.
The footmen bring out oaken benches,
A stately butler in their track;
The handmaids follow, heedless of the clack,
With crimson cushions on their back;
Jeered at by stable-boys and country wenches.
The peasants still arrive in swarms
That stream in from the distant farms,
With yeomen in their Sunday tunics dressed:
A gala-day their day of rest.
Now harlequins begin to nail
From tree to tree a painted sail,
When houses flutter to and fro
Daubed on the canvas; then expands
A village o'er the vacant lands,
And soon so real becomes the show
It seems the work of fairy hands.
And where the actors by the score
Are chaffering maids fast knitting at their door,
It seems their native home, so true
Stands out the village in the distant view.
From tree to tree a painted sail,
When houses flutter to and fro
Daubed on the canvas; then expands
A village o'er the vacant lands,
And soon so real becomes the show
It seems the work of fairy hands.
And where the actors by the score
Are chaffering maids fast knitting at their door,
It seems their native home, so true
Stands out the village in the distant view.
Now Voragine with his elected bride
Vivia, so rosy-cheeked and fair;
Volupsa leaning at his side,
Descends the castle slope as down a stair,
So serpentine and steep of flight
That thrice they vanish and come back in sight.
Then fifers pierce the lazy ears
But wake a spirit deeper lying,
While drummers shake the heart with fears,
And trumpeters their skill are plying.
At every step full-welcome greets
The chief and maidens, kindly proud,
And serious grows the merry crowd
That bows them to their cushioned seats.
Vivia, so rosy-cheeked and fair;
Volupsa leaning at his side,
Descends the castle slope as down a stair,
89
That thrice they vanish and come back in sight.
Then fifers pierce the lazy ears
But wake a spirit deeper lying,
While drummers shake the heart with fears,
And trumpeters their skill are plying.
At every step full-welcome greets
The chief and maidens, kindly proud,
And serious grows the merry crowd
That bows them to their cushioned seats.
All is prepared, a nation seems to rise
Where woods and pastures only yesterday
Between the sunrise and the sunset lay:
A lone Soul-seeker's Paradise!
The Serpent's haunt, and yet a place of musing
Where brook and ferns had learned to speak;
But not all their silence losing;
Their tongues but known to those who secrets seek.
Where woods and pastures only yesterday
Between the sunrise and the sunset lay:
A lone Soul-seeker's Paradise!
The Serpent's haunt, and yet a place of musing
Where brook and ferns had learned to speak;
But not all their silence losing;
Their tongues but known to those who secrets seek.
In chatty groups of three or four
That seem of chance, the actors wait
A signal from the Troubadour,
But, in dumb show, look busied in debate.
Two huntsmen, then, their shoulders laden,
A deer between them forward bear,
And rudely hustle swain and maiden
Who laugh to see the promised fare.
They carry to the front the noble beast,
Now pointing to its antlers, now its haunches,
And short of breath speak of the coming feast,
While each beholder into rapture launches.
There the antlered beauty lies,
As 'twere for some high sacrifice,
Its weeping nostrils like a breath
That sighed out pity for its death.
The tender Vivia feels regret,
Though with her eyes upon the creature set
She longs to have her absent brother near,
Himself to see that lordly forest deer:
‘O that his bride and he may yet appear!’
That seem of chance, the actors wait
A signal from the Troubadour,
But, in dumb show, look busied in debate.
Two huntsmen, then, their shoulders laden,
A deer between them forward bear,
And rudely hustle swain and maiden
Who laugh to see the promised fare.
They carry to the front the noble beast,
Now pointing to its antlers, now its haunches,
90
While each beholder into rapture launches.
There the antlered beauty lies,
As 'twere for some high sacrifice,
Its weeping nostrils like a breath
That sighed out pity for its death.
The tender Vivia feels regret,
Though with her eyes upon the creature set
She longs to have her absent brother near,
Himself to see that lordly forest deer:
‘O that his bride and he may yet appear!’
The Troubadour now gives the sign
His finger lifting with a scowl malign.
The music answers, and the idlers flow
Into their ranks, then in a double row
With easy paces caper to and fro.
Some pass the bottle while they dance,
The outpoured laughter to enhance;
Elsewhere village games succeed:
Some hurl the quoit, some run to fetch
The bounding ball they cannot catch;
Some race in pairs the noble steed.
His finger lifting with a scowl malign.
The music answers, and the idlers flow
Into their ranks, then in a double row
With easy paces caper to and fro.
Some pass the bottle while they dance,
The outpoured laughter to enhance;
Elsewhere village games succeed:
Some hurl the quoit, some run to fetch
The bounding ball they cannot catch;
Some race in pairs the noble steed.
But why this sudden change o'er Voragine
Who only scans the painted scene?
His prowess pales, he meets his hour,
Divested of his earthly power!
That scene is but the valley that he smote,
Come to accuse him from its wilds remote,
Yes, he had seen it all before,
And now he knows the Troubadour!
Before his eyes what treachery is bared!
All flashes on him in a deadly throe,
Himself and all his kindred snared,
And at the mercy of a wily foe.
How had he let escape the day
When the proud Minstrel at his mercy lay!
But love is blinding and too fast
The hour of safety from him passed!
They smile at passion who would meditate
How to avert the sluggish tide of fate!
Who only scans the painted scene?
His prowess pales, he meets his hour,
Divested of his earthly power!
That scene is but the valley that he smote,
Come to accuse him from its wilds remote,
91
And now he knows the Troubadour!
Before his eyes what treachery is bared!
All flashes on him in a deadly throe,
Himself and all his kindred snared,
And at the mercy of a wily foe.
How had he let escape the day
When the proud Minstrel at his mercy lay!
But love is blinding and too fast
The hour of safety from him passed!
They smile at passion who would meditate
How to avert the sluggish tide of fate!
| The Serpent Play | |