 | The Serpent Play |  |
95
Scene III.
—A Tent in the Paradise of Cœlis.Actors, Spectators.
And yet 'twas this the Troubadour foresaid:
In rustic games and strife the hours had sped.
The second scene begins; in council spent,
With purpose hidden, deep, uncertain,
Even when the players lift the curtain.
There have they pitched a lofty tent
That rises like an alpine height
And hides the battle-field from sight,
By flames made doubly desolate.
While glows the canvas snowy white,
O'er it the Serpent-banner soars
In honour of so great a holiday,
And those of safety reassures
Who deemed the battle scarce a play.
And there the peasant-senators debate.
Hayus within the open tent is seen
Now as a mitred priest of stately mien,
In purple vestment; and he bears
In his right hand a cross of gold,
And at his side a poignard wears
Concealed within his garment's fold.
In rustic games and strife the hours had sped.
The second scene begins; in council spent,
With purpose hidden, deep, uncertain,
Even when the players lift the curtain.
There have they pitched a lofty tent
That rises like an alpine height
And hides the battle-field from sight,
By flames made doubly desolate.
While glows the canvas snowy white,
O'er it the Serpent-banner soars
In honour of so great a holiday,
And those of safety reassures
Who deemed the battle scarce a play.
And there the peasant-senators debate.
Hayus within the open tent is seen
Now as a mitred priest of stately mien,
In purple vestment; and he bears
In his right hand a cross of gold,
And at his side a poignard wears
Concealed within his garment's fold.
Outside the tent, meantime, the huntsmen stood
Grasping the knives still dyed in harmless blood.
Fierce, motionless, without a breath,
They kept their eyes intent on Voragine
And his afflicted maiden kin;
With looks that threatened death for death.
Then, cried the Priest with voice that smote
The towers and echoing walls remote,—
‘Here the dumb speak, again the murdered feel,
While sufferers to sufferers appeal!’
Then he looked round on many faces
Whereon erewhile was not a care;
That now are masked in madness and despair.
Grasping the knives still dyed in harmless blood.
96
They kept their eyes intent on Voragine
And his afflicted maiden kin;
With looks that threatened death for death.
Then, cried the Priest with voice that smote
The towers and echoing walls remote,—
‘Here the dumb speak, again the murdered feel,
While sufferers to sufferers appeal!’
Then he looked round on many faces
Whereon erewhile was not a care;
That now are masked in madness and despair.
HAYUS.
Who shall our peace and love restore!
The sire is buried in his field
That shall no harvest to his children yield,
That he shall sow and reap no more.
Let it lie waste, and be a grave
Ye hearts that sorrow and for vengeance crave!
Afresh the huntsmen grasp their knives
And lift them flashing! The keen blades
Are aimed no more at harmless lives.
‘Ye antlered Stags! We only chafe
To reach his heart who slew our wives!
Graze on, well-watered be your glades!
Peace be with you; ah! you are safe.’
And lift them flashing! The keen blades
Are aimed no more at harmless lives.
‘Ye antlered Stags! We only chafe
To reach his heart who slew our wives!
Graze on, well-watered be your glades!
Peace be with you; ah! you are safe.’
The Priest lifts up his head once more,
As of a drowning man remote from shore,
And cries, ‘Youths, stand you there with brows indented?
Can you ever love again
Who saw your first betrothed ones slain;
Is the dark outrage unresented?’
Nigh him a mournful woman stoops:
And as he points the more she droops.
He sees her fidget at her breast;
‘There,’ cries he, ‘did her slaughtered baby rest!’
She starts, she feels it to her cleave,
And its last breath against her bosom heave.
As of a drowning man remote from shore,
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Can you ever love again
Who saw your first betrothed ones slain;
Is the dark outrage unresented?’
Nigh him a mournful woman stoops:
And as he points the more she droops.
He sees her fidget at her breast;
‘There,’ cries he, ‘did her slaughtered baby rest!’
She starts, she feels it to her cleave,
And its last breath against her bosom heave.
‘O my lost people!’ cries the Troubadour,
‘Revenge is not all balm; let us implore
His solace whom we all adore.
Almighty One,
Lift our hearts gently to thy throne!’
‘Revenge is not all balm; let us implore
His solace whom we all adore.
Almighty One,
Lift our hearts gently to thy throne!’
These words the Troubadour strains forth,
All kneel, all eyes on Heaven are bent;
All anger is subdued, all wrath;
Upraised and calm is every face,
And vanishes the boundless space
Between them and the firmament.
All kneel, all eyes on Heaven are bent;
All anger is subdued, all wrath;
Upraised and calm is every face,
And vanishes the boundless space
Between them and the firmament.
HAYUS.
‘Supremest Lord,
High on thy olive-branch hang up the sword,
And these dead hearts inspire:
To know thy will is now their one desire!
98
As stars in-breathed thy will when first they turned
And rushed into the paths Thou didst vacate,
To these dead hearts thy will bequeath
Who now in outer anguish seethe,
But thy commandments venerate.’
Then knelt in prayer the Troubadour,
But spoke no word, his hands together wringing,
His arms, in his despair, up-flinging
That seemed to lift the graves, and call
On the Most High to witness all!
His eyes in this last pang he raises,
Then flings his body in the dust.
The multitude intensely gazes;
On them like a blighting gust
His anguish falls: the curtains are descending;
O'er the closed tent the Serpent-banner strides!
The second scene of this dread Play is ending;
And no applause the tragedy derides.
| The Serpent Play | |