Orval, or The Fool of Time And Other Imitations and Paraphrases. By Robert Lytton |
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 | Orval, or The Fool of Time |  |
Scene IV.—Night. Another part of the forest. Moonlight
at intervals. In the background, the ruins of a Church,
and in the midst of the ruins the Altar of Reason lighted.
The ground broken and uneven. The scene frequently obscured.
Confused noises in all directions. Orval
and the
Novice.
Orval.
This fine red foolscap hath been torn to tatters
Down there i' the brushwood. What are those strange fires
Among the ruins?
Novice.
We have lost our way
In the low thickets. As I fancied, this
Must be the heart of the forest. Those red fires
Are from the altars of the New Religion,
Where Amathusius, nightly, at this hour,
Initiates the neophytes.
Orval.
Come on, then,
And let us look at the New Prophet!
Novice.
Softly!
Here every step is on the chance of death.
We are approaching to the sanctuary.
Cover thy face!
Orval.
Novice.
Forty days, and forty nights
Our people toil'd here at the axe and crowbar.
We have destroy'd the last of all the churches.
This was the graveyard.
(Distant songs faintly heard.)
Orval.
Men of the new times,
Your songs delight me not! Before, behind,
Here—there—and everywhere, where'er I gaze,
Dimly I see faint shadows and pale lights,
That pass and wander all among these ruins:
From place to place they float on the night winds:
They hover to and fro, and find no rest,
But, with an ever-wavering motion, mix
Their lifeless ghosts among the living throng
Of men and women yonder. This night's heart
Must have a guilty conscience! Pause we here.
Voices rapidly passing onwards.
First Voice.
Hail, Brothers, in the name of Liberty!
Second Voice.
Hail, Brothers, by the baptism of blood!
Third Voice.
Hail, Brothers, to the Light of Reason, hail!
Fourth Voice.
Haste! haste, or ye will be too late!
The Priests
Of Liberty have all her altars lit.
The Psalm of Liberty is chaunting now.
Haste, Brothers, haste!
Novice.
It is too late to turn.
We must push onwards now. No help for it!
The vast crowd, swarming all this way, shuts fast
Each outlet in our rear. Pray, pray be cautious!
Orval.
Follow my finger yonder. What is he,
That man, whose form, upon the rolling smoke
Dilated, and by smoky vapours curl'd
Laöcoön-like, looks risen from out the fire?
Red-lit by those infernal flames, his face
Is as a fallen angel's. And his voice,
Blown hoarse this way upon the gusty dark,
Is like a madman's.
Novice.
That is Amathusius,
The inspired Prophet of the Future. Round him
Behold his priests—philosophers, and poets,
Musicians, artists, writers;—at their feet,
The new-made votaries,—naked girls and boys.
Orval.
Ah ha! That is your Aristocracy?
Now show me him that sent thee.
Novice.
Him I see not.
He is not of these.
Amathusius the Prophet.
Daughter of Liberty,
Arise! approach! come to her Prophet's breast!
Come naked! come thou free from shame, and free
From ancient prejudice. Thou, chosen first,
Free Bride of Free Humanity! Deep, deep,
I drink the floated odours of thy hair!
Sweet, sweet! I drain the red love of thy lip!
Daughter of Liberty, upon thy brow
The goddess seals this consecrating kiss!
A Girl.
I fly into thine arms! I pant for thee,
Prophet of Liberty! I love ... I burn!
Another Girl.
Behold! I spread mine arms out on the air
To reach thee, O Beloved! ... I faint—I fall—
I pant with passion at thy feet! I writhe—
I grovel at thy throne! ... I burn! I burn!
Orval.
The poor wretch is, indeed, in a convulsion.
Novice.
Oh, if you wait, you will see more of them.
This happens every night. But hark! ...
The Prophet.
Behold,
I am transfigured, thrill'd, beatified!
Daughter of Liberty, from thine embrace
I gather inspiration. Hearken, all!
I am about to prophesy.
Orval.
The girl
Has fallen on the flint, now, in a fit.
Abominable profanation!
Novice.
Hist!
The Prophet.
Lo now! we twain, my delicate white witch,
We are the breathing symbols of a world
Ennobled, and regenerated. Mark!
Around us are the ruins everywhere
Of a benighted, but abolish'd, Past.
Our foot is on the altar and the shrine
Of a deposed Divinity. Rejoice,
All ye to whom, in us, hath been reveal'd
The bridals of the Better Day! Rejoice!
Chorus of Women.
Blessèd thou among women, O bride
And beloved of the Prophet! Lo, we,
Thy sisters, exult in the pride
Of ourselves consecrated in thee!
The Prophet.
Hark! I proclaim a new world! a new God!
The People's God: the God of Happiness,
Pleasure, and Plenty! The old God of Sorrow
Sinks, with the ruins of a world of tears,
Smit by the Light of Reason, to the abyss!
Blood must wash out the traces of past pain,
And we will dig the earth with graves to hold
The griefs that have been walking to and fro
Upon her surface till they grew too many.
Those that would save the altars of the Past
Shall perish on them. I have prophesied.
Chorus of Men.
Destroy'd are the temples of Pride and Oppression!
And unmorticed the hands from the bodies of those
Who built them of old. We have offer'd Priests' flesh on
Each fane whence the Priest hath bless'd Liberty's foes
Orval.
Mine eagle! O mine eagle! yet fulfil
Thine auguries of old! Mine Eagle, rise!
And of the bones of all these murderers
I will rebuild anew the Church of Christ!
A multitude of Voices.
Liberty, Liberty, and Happiness!
Pleasure, and Love! Hourrah! hourrah!
Chorus of Priests.
Where now
Are the Kings, and the Princes, and Priests,
With their mitres, and sceptres, and ermine,
Who prey'd on the People like beasts?
Chorus of Assassins.
We have made a clear house of the vermin!
First Assassin.
I slew the first king!
Second Assassin.
I the second!
Third Assassin.
I
The third!
The Prophet.
Be ye exalted, in the day
Of exaltation, men of the red hand!
For ye among the chosen have been chosen,
And ye among the saints are sainted most!
Chorus of Assassins.
Through midnight, a midnight band,
Do we walk the troubled land,
With the knife hid in the hand.
The Prophet.
Orval.
The Prophet.
Daughter of Liberty, come forth! Descend!
Now must we march once more our midnight rounds,
To institute Destruction in the House
Of this Old God that by the People's voice
Hath been deposed. Forth! forth! Awake, I say!
The Girl
(awaking).
For thee! .. for thee ... and all mankind ... I burn
With love ... with love!
Orval.
Who is the giant yonder
That bars their progress, with his brawny bulk?
A mere youth, yet a giant! Mark him now.
He is speaking with your Prophet.
Novice.
Hell and devils!
By all that's desperate, 'tis he!
Orval.
'Tis who?
Novice.
The Modern Brutus. And they come this way.
We are both dead men!
Orval.
Thou poor poltroon! hide here
Under my cloak .... But, if thou shakest thus,
I'll strangle thee!
Novice.
For mercy's sake, away!
Orval.
No! I will see this farce out to the end.
What are those women, dancing in the ruins,
Among the smouldering embers, robed like queens?
Novice.
Those yonder? They are Countesses, Princesses,
Great ladies that have left their wedded lords,
And have embraced the New Religion, here.
Orval.
Methinks I could weep now, if this were not
The very scorn of scorn! O women! women,
Whom we have loved, and honour'd, ay! and served,—
Loved with the loyal heart of honest man,
That fears no falsehood where he trusts all truth!
Honour'd on knightly knee, with tender homage,
Half deïfied with holy poesies,
And held unsullied in the secretest shrine
Of things divine within us! .. Served, ah God!
Served with the soldier's sword, the poet's pen,
And all the thousand nameless services
Of silent adoration, that make strong
The better portion of men's days and deeds!
Were ye not mothers, daughters, sisters, wives?
Our mothers, and our daughters, and our sisters?
And we almost have worship'd you as angels!
Why then, ... why then, God bless my Grandmother!
For we will yet be merry.
Novice.
They are firing
The chancel yonder!
Orval.
What, then, do we fight for?
Homes without love, hearths without honour left!
Veronica, thy pure soul is in Heaven.
I am glad of it!
A Voice from Beneath.
Now for an epitaph,
Pious, pathetic, but yet not too long!
Orval.
Peace, mocker! or speak only to my mind.
My heart thou knowest not.
Novice.
They pour this way!
We are dead men. Curse this aristocrat,
For he will be the death of me!
The Prophet
(advancing, and to Orval).
How, Brother?
What art thou, that dost look thus sad and haughty?
Why art thou not, here, in the midst of us?
Novice.
Lost! lost!
Orval.
I am of the Destroyers also.
Prophet.
Whence?
Orval.
From a distant Brotherhood, new come.
I saw your fires far off, and follow'd them.
The Modern Brutus.
Who is thy fellow? wherefore doth he hide
His head, thus, in thy cloak?
Orval.
My younger brother.
A vow is on him, not to show his face
Till he hath murder'd—at the least, a Baron.
Prophet.
And whom hast thou slain, Brother?
Orval.
I was sworn,
Only upon the eve of my departure
From Spain, a member of the Spanish Club.
Modern Brutus.
For whom, then, hast thou destin'd the first blow
Of thy yet unslaked steel and virgin hand?
Orval.
For thee! ...... if thou betrayest us.
Modern Brutus.
Good! good!
Here, Brother, take my dagger.
Orval.
Brother, mine
Will serve the purpose.
Chorus of Assassins.
Live the Modern Brutus!
Live the Assassin of the Spanish Club!
Chorus of Poets.
Little leg to little foot:
And now a little body to 't:
Little face to little feature:
We have made a little creature.
First Semi-chorus.
Next a little claw, to fight with,
And a little tooth, to bite with,
And a little paunch to fit.
Who knows what may come of it?
Second Semi-chorus.
Though the limbs be small and pliant,
They may grow, and make a giant.
First Semi-chorus.
Give it, now, a little tongue;
And a little word to utter.
It will talk when it grows strong.
Hark! the lips begin to mutter.
Second Semi-chorus.
Though the voice be faint and weak,
Earth shall shake when it can speak.
First Semi-Chorus.
Make it little wings, to fly
Over earth and over sky;
Wings shall sprout on either shoulder:
It shall soar when it grows older.
Second Semi-chorus.
Wings of butterfly just now:
Wings of eagle soon will grow.
First Semi-chorus.
Choose we now a little name
To call the little creature by,
And be sure 'tis still the same
When it waxes stout and high.
Chorus.
Nay! no name yet. Let it be
Naked, nameless, wing'd, and free
As the Son of Cytherea
When to Psyche's couch came he:
Felt, not seen,—a young Idea!
Voices in the Distance.
Away! the breeze that's in the trees
Hath warn'd us not to stay.
The dark grows thin. The birds begin.
The dawn's at hand. Away!
Novice.
The night is ending.
Distant Voices.
To the East! the East!
Novice.
The forest will be emptied in an hour.
Orval.
But who come yonder?
Novice.
We shall presently
Distinguish their appearance. They approach us.
Chorus of Philosophers.
From its helpless infancy
In the film-eyed ages, we
Have wean'd the Human Race, my friend:
Nurst the bantling on the knee
Of divine Philosophy;
Taught the child its A,B,C.
And given it a name and a place, my friend.
Now the course o' the world is free,
And we are the first in the race, my friend!
First Semi-chorus.
Like a long-delay'd sunrise
That all at length, and all at once,
Leaps among the cloven chasms
Of the Dawn, in sudden spasms
Of inextinguishable laughter,
Till all the wonder over-runs
The riven East with red surprise,
And every cloud that roof'd the skies
Burns like a blazing rafter,
Second Semi-chorus.
Even so, though sunken long
In gulfs of darkness, down among
The old benighted centuries,
To our invocation wakes
The Light of Truth with a heart of fire,
Eagle plumes and sanguine eyes;
And with a sudden splendour takes
Earth and skies, to so comprise
A whole world's long desire!
First Semi-chorus.
Like a trumpet sounding on
Men to die at Marathon,
Like the clash of sword on shield,
Triumphing the trampled field,
Clash'd on purple plains Platæan,
Hark! from hill to hill, the pæan
Of the People's Liberty!
Comrade of the conquering cause,
Whom the gust of combat draws
Out of darken'd lands, on high
Lo! the light of larger laws
Flooding all Futurity!
Second Semi-chorus.
Pilgrim from the land of night,
Superstition's home for ages,
Thou, lured hither by the light
Pour'd by us upon the pages
Of the ancient Book of Life,
Thou shalt open with a knife
What was sealèd from the sight
Of the schools and of the sages.
Distant Voices.
Hark hark! the watch-dogs bark!
The east is growing grey.
The red cock is crowing, hark!
Comrades, come away!
An Assassin.
Hail to thee, comrade! hark! ... I drink thy health
In this old skull of an old Saint. Good-night!
(He throws the skull to Orval, and passes.)
Chorus of Assassins.
The arrow flieth in the noon.
The sickness walks below the moon,
And so walk we.
Semi-chorus.
Brother follow! through the hollow
Night thy comrades call to thee!
Second Semi-chorus.
Hist! hist! The moon's in a mist.
There is a ghost walking over the lea.
Well I wist what he hides in his fist,
For he mutters and talks
To himself as he walks,
But he doth not wish that the world should see.
First Semi-chorus.
Over wood and over water,
Hark! I hear the howlet's daughter
(He hath daughters three!)
Call her sisters, “Come and slaughter
The rats in the hollow tree.
We may do as we list, for the moon's in a mist,
And nobody now can see.”
Second Semi-chorus.
When the night had kill'd the day,
I did hear the lion say
To the leopard ... “Come away,
Brother leopard! here is prey.”
First Semi-chorus.
I have seen the Destroyer,—the Angel
That beareth the final evangel,
Descending with blood on his wings,
To purchase of priests and of kings
The earth for a burial-ground,
To bury the Old Dead God.
He survey'd it, and measured it round
And across with his measuring rod.
Chorus.
As the dog-fish through the dark
Of his dismal world doth sail,
Never swerving from his mark,
Where he tracketh a sick whale;
Even so, do we go
Up and down, and to and fro
By a road without a name,
With a meaning and an aim,
And a hate that shall not fail.
Following still, and still pursuing,
Over regions red with ruin,
Evermore some kings undoing,
Speed we on our trail!
Distant Voices.
The wan stars sink beneath the brink
Where the cold-tided day
Whitens night's shore, and still flows o'er
Faint, but how fast! Away!
First Dancing Girl.
Kill for me, Brother, Prince Lois!
Second Dancing Girl.
And kill for me, Brother, Duke John!
First Dancing Girl.
Go to, thou, with thy noise!
Let the old one be first made away with!
Dancing Children.
Goodman knave! we have broken our toys.
Bring us the head of a noble to play with,
Or the crown of a king ... what fun!
Chorus of Artists.
Here's a new temple to build, my friend,
The People's new Faith,—to enshrine it:
And we, the men of the modern guild, my friend,
We are the folks to design it.
First Artist.
Gothic is out of date.
Second Artist.
And nobody cares for Byzàntine.
Chorus.
No! Let it be something great,
Stately, and elephantine!
Builded strong shall be every column,
Of twelve dead kings in a circle solemn:
And the capitals shall be bossy and full,
Each boss made out of a noble's skull.
And the gory locks shall drip evermore
Rare tracery red of the richest gore!
Art is immortal,—'tis true, my friend!
But meanwhile, sometimes her servants starve.
Now we have found something new, my friend,
Better than marble to cut and carve.
(They pass).
Distant Voices.
The night is passing: the dawn is at hand.
Hasten away, o'er the wasted land!
Novice.
Away, my lord, away! the ground is clear.
We may escape unnoticed.
Orval.
Voice from Below.
A little God-Almighty!
Orval.
Who spoke then?
Novice.
Nay, not I. Let us away.
Orval.
Well! if it be not mine,—the nobler part,
To heal and to regenerate,—be it mine,
What yet remains,—to crush, and to subdue!
Ay! when the lion dies, why let the bees
Build houses and make honey in his carcase.
The lion lives, though; and his heart in me
Is beating yet! O, swift, mine eagle, swift
And fierce thy flight be!
Novice.
Dawn is breaking yonder.
And I shall die of ague in these dews.
Orval.
Let us descend, then. Put me on my way,
And I will free thee, when we reach the valley.
Novice.
Where wilt thou drag me, through this boiling mist?
Halt! I can go no further.
Orval.
Novice.
I see not anything but the raw mists:
Hear nothing but the tumbling stone that falls
From precipice to precipice beneath us.
Come! or we shall be founder'd in the fog!
Spirits passing in the Mist.
Mourn for the Dead Christ, mourn!
Where have they buried our Lord?
In the heart of the mad world's scorn?
Orval.
Ah God, for my horse, and my sword!
I will hew Thee a cross out of every tree,
To crucify them that have crucified Thee!
The Spirits
(passing).
By the shrines, among the tombs,
Was our blissful twilight dwelling.
Through the glories and the glooms,
Did our bosoms bear the swelling
Silver psalm, and the sonorous
Anthem's solemn-chanted chorus,
And the organ's deep Amen,
From the golden pipes out-welling
Music to the hearts of men.
Whither shall we seek new dwelling,
Sisters?
Spirits of the Bells.
Ah, there is no telling!
All the world is changed since then.
From the swallow-swarmèd steeple,
From our homes in happy bells,
To the hearts of faithful people
Over fields, and floods, and fells,
Did our white wings, music-haunted,
Bear sweet invocations, chaunted
By the silver Sabbath chimes;
And in lonely forests daunted
Savage creatures from their crimes.
Now our homes are ruin'd wholly:
Now our haunts are no more holy:
And we wander, sadly, slowly,
Tenants of the troubled times.
Spirits of the Casements.
We, that lived among the gleaming
Garments of the sworded Saints,
In a rose and amber glory;
We, that sail'd the purple-streaming
Pageant, which the sunset paints
With a martyr's mighty story
On the calm Cathedral floor,
Underneath the flaming casement,
When the day is downward stealing:—
Spirits of the Dome.
We, that hung and hover'd o'er
Angels smiling sweet amazement
From the golden-misted ceiling,
In the glowing dome above;—
Spirits of the Aisles.
We, that shifted soft surprises
Of still light, where sinks or rises,
Through the palely-pillar'd grove
Shade of morning or of even;—
Choral Spirits.
Now upon the winds of heaven
Lurid-lighted with red levin,
Hither, hither, dimly driven,
Down the darkness do we move.
(The sun rises.)
Orval.
Ah, the sun rises! in whose golden beam
Their forms are melted from my sight. And now
They fade away across the pine-tree tops!
Novice.
There is the valley. Yonder lies your road.
Orval.
Novice.
I have your Lordship's word
Pledged to his safety, who shall visit you
To-night. But ...
Orval.
Tush! away! We gentlemen
Break not our promise ... Jesu, and my sword!
Voices
(answering from the valley).
Maria, and our swords! Long live our lord!
Orval.
Orval.
This fine red foolscap hath been torn to tatters
Down there i' the brushwood. What are those strange fires
Among the ruins?
Novice.
We have lost our way
181
Must be the heart of the forest. Those red fires
Are from the altars of the New Religion,
Where Amathusius, nightly, at this hour,
Initiates the neophytes.
Orval.
Come on, then,
And let us look at the New Prophet!
Novice.
Softly!
Here every step is on the chance of death.
We are approaching to the sanctuary.
Cover thy face!
Orval.
Ay! round these steps are strewn
The ruins of the centuries! Here lies
The old colossus of the Christian World
Tumbled in splinters. Column, capital,
Arch, shaft, niche, statue, pedestal, and plinth,
A heap of undistinguishable stones!
My heel strikes on the images of saints.
Sharp morsels of stain'd glass, the costly work
Of noble masters who praised God with power,
And worshipp'd as they work'd, where'er I walk
Crackle and fly to bits beneath my foot.
The moon, it seems too, dare not look this way.
Have a care, sirrah, how you pick your steps!
Here 'tis pitch dark.
The ruins of the centuries! Here lies
The old colossus of the Christian World
Tumbled in splinters. Column, capital,
Arch, shaft, niche, statue, pedestal, and plinth,
A heap of undistinguishable stones!
My heel strikes on the images of saints.
Sharp morsels of stain'd glass, the costly work
Of noble masters who praised God with power,
And worshipp'd as they work'd, where'er I walk
Crackle and fly to bits beneath my foot.
The moon, it seems too, dare not look this way.
Have a care, sirrah, how you pick your steps!
Here 'tis pitch dark.
This should have been some cloister
Once,—by the clammy travertine that peels
Under my finger from the crumbled wall.
Pah! ... and the frescoes here, do they sweat blood?
My hand is wet!
Once,—by the clammy travertine that peels
182
Pah! ... and the frescoes here, do they sweat blood?
My hand is wet!
Thank heaven! a gleam of light
Shows yonder grating like the bars of Hell.
What have we here? A marble warrior sleeping
Upon a marble tomb. He hath not waked,
Though on his head the roof hath fallen down.
He must have fought hard to deserve such rest.
To sleep thus, were to be supremely blest!
For he that sleeps, sleeps for himself: but he
That waketh, knoweth not for what he wakes.
Where are we?
Shows yonder grating like the bars of Hell.
What have we here? A marble warrior sleeping
Upon a marble tomb. He hath not waked,
Though on his head the roof hath fallen down.
He must have fought hard to deserve such rest.
To sleep thus, were to be supremely blest!
For he that sleeps, sleeps for himself: but he
That waketh, knoweth not for what he wakes.
Where are we?
Novice.
Forty days, and forty nights
Our people toil'd here at the axe and crowbar.
We have destroy'd the last of all the churches.
This was the graveyard.
(Distant songs faintly heard.)
Orval.
Men of the new times,
Your songs delight me not! Before, behind,
Here—there—and everywhere, where'er I gaze,
Dimly I see faint shadows and pale lights,
That pass and wander all among these ruins:
From place to place they float on the night winds:
They hover to and fro, and find no rest,
But, with an ever-wavering motion, mix
Their lifeless ghosts among the living throng
Of men and women yonder. This night's heart
Must have a guilty conscience! Pause we here.
183
First Voice.
Hail, Brothers, in the name of Liberty!
Second Voice.
Hail, Brothers, by the baptism of blood!
Third Voice.
Hail, Brothers, to the Light of Reason, hail!
Fourth Voice.
Haste! haste, or ye will be too late!
The Priests
Of Liberty have all her altars lit.
The Psalm of Liberty is chaunting now.
Haste, Brothers, haste!
Novice.
It is too late to turn.
We must push onwards now. No help for it!
The vast crowd, swarming all this way, shuts fast
Each outlet in our rear. Pray, pray be cautious!
Orval.
Follow my finger yonder. What is he,
That man, whose form, upon the rolling smoke
Dilated, and by smoky vapours curl'd
Laöcoön-like, looks risen from out the fire?
Red-lit by those infernal flames, his face
Is as a fallen angel's. And his voice,
Blown hoarse this way upon the gusty dark,
Is like a madman's.
Novice.
That is Amathusius,
The inspired Prophet of the Future. Round him
Behold his priests—philosophers, and poets,
184
The new-made votaries,—naked girls and boys.
Orval.
Ah ha! That is your Aristocracy?
Now show me him that sent thee.
Novice.
Him I see not.
He is not of these.
Amathusius the Prophet.
Daughter of Liberty,
Arise! approach! come to her Prophet's breast!
Come naked! come thou free from shame, and free
From ancient prejudice. Thou, chosen first,
Free Bride of Free Humanity! Deep, deep,
I drink the floated odours of thy hair!
Sweet, sweet! I drain the red love of thy lip!
Daughter of Liberty, upon thy brow
The goddess seals this consecrating kiss!
A Girl.
I fly into thine arms! I pant for thee,
Prophet of Liberty! I love ... I burn!
Another Girl.
Behold! I spread mine arms out on the air
To reach thee, O Beloved! ... I faint—I fall—
I pant with passion at thy feet! I writhe—
I grovel at thy throne! ... I burn! I burn!
Orval.
The poor wretch is, indeed, in a convulsion.
185
Oh, if you wait, you will see more of them.
This happens every night. But hark! ...
The Prophet.
Behold,
I am transfigured, thrill'd, beatified!
Daughter of Liberty, from thine embrace
I gather inspiration. Hearken, all!
I am about to prophesy.
Orval.
The girl
Has fallen on the flint, now, in a fit.
Abominable profanation!
Novice.
Hist!
The Prophet.
Lo now! we twain, my delicate white witch,
We are the breathing symbols of a world
Ennobled, and regenerated. Mark!
Around us are the ruins everywhere
Of a benighted, but abolish'd, Past.
Our foot is on the altar and the shrine
Of a deposed Divinity. Rejoice,
All ye to whom, in us, hath been reveal'd
The bridals of the Better Day! Rejoice!
Chorus of Women.
Blessèd thou among women, O bride
And beloved of the Prophet! Lo, we,
Thy sisters, exult in the pride
Of ourselves consecrated in thee!
186
Hark! I proclaim a new world! a new God!
The People's God: the God of Happiness,
Pleasure, and Plenty! The old God of Sorrow
Sinks, with the ruins of a world of tears,
Smit by the Light of Reason, to the abyss!
Blood must wash out the traces of past pain,
And we will dig the earth with graves to hold
The griefs that have been walking to and fro
Upon her surface till they grew too many.
Those that would save the altars of the Past
Shall perish on them. I have prophesied.
Chorus of Men.
Destroy'd are the temples of Pride and Oppression!
And unmorticed the hands from the bodies of those
Who built them of old. We have offer'd Priests' flesh on
Each fane whence the Priest hath bless'd Liberty's foes
Orval.
Mine eagle! O mine eagle! yet fulfil
Thine auguries of old! Mine Eagle, rise!
And of the bones of all these murderers
I will rebuild anew the Church of Christ!
A multitude of Voices.
Liberty, Liberty, and Happiness!
Pleasure, and Love! Hourrah! hourrah!
Chorus of Priests.
Where now
Are the Kings, and the Princes, and Priests,
187
Who prey'd on the People like beasts?
Chorus of Assassins.
We have made a clear house of the vermin!
First Assassin.
I slew the first king!
Second Assassin.
I the second!
Third Assassin.
I
The third!
The Prophet.
Be ye exalted, in the day
Of exaltation, men of the red hand!
For ye among the chosen have been chosen,
And ye among the saints are sainted most!
Chorus of Assassins.
Through midnight, a midnight band,
Do we walk the troubled land,
With the knife hid in the hand.
The Prophet.
Daughter of Liberty, awake! arise!
Sleepest thou, Daughter? Sleep no more,—no more!
(The Thunder bursts overhead.)Sleepest thou, Daughter? Sleep no more,—no more!
Hark! The free elements, the everlasting
Sublime Destroyers, call to us! ... to us,
The Children of Destruetion! we that are
As thunder and as lightning searching earth
To desolate, and purify with fire!
The Ignorance of Nations hath ascribed
To our free kindred of the skies, till now,
Co-partnership with human Slavery:
And, in the various fablings of mankind,
The thunder ever was the slave of Power.
First, antique Kronos, then Olympian Zeus,
And last, the Christian's Triple Tyrant, claim'd
Dominion of the desolating bolt.
Yet is it, rather, Nature in revolt
That frets her old confine, and utters forth
These revolutionary voices, dash'd
From the deep heart of discontent,—and streaks
The sky with fiery protest!
Sublime Destroyers, call to us! ... to us,
The Children of Destruetion! we that are
As thunder and as lightning searching earth
188
The Ignorance of Nations hath ascribed
To our free kindred of the skies, till now,
Co-partnership with human Slavery:
And, in the various fablings of mankind,
The thunder ever was the slave of Power.
First, antique Kronos, then Olympian Zeus,
And last, the Christian's Triple Tyrant, claim'd
Dominion of the desolating bolt.
Yet is it, rather, Nature in revolt
That frets her old confine, and utters forth
These revolutionary voices, dash'd
From the deep heart of discontent,—and streaks
The sky with fiery protest!
Wake! Arise!
Oh! if the thunders ever served the gods,
Then serve they, now, that New Divinity
Whose ministers we are! But they are free
Of the free heaven,—as we of the free earth.
For there is no more God in Heaven,—and soon
On earth there will be no more worshippers!
Oh! if the thunders ever served the gods,
Then serve they, now, that New Divinity
Whose ministers we are! But they are free
Of the free heaven,—as we of the free earth.
For there is no more God in Heaven,—and soon
On earth there will be no more worshippers!
Orval.
There was a time,—if I had heard this noise
In heaven, I would have held it for a sign,
And cried ... God wakes! Beware!
In heaven, I would have held it for a sign,
And cried ... God wakes! Beware!
But Thou, O God,
Hast Thou, Thyself, in Thine eternal toil
At setting things to rights, which presently
Go wrong again,—hast Thou, too, lived to feel
What to Thy creature is the last result
Of Thy grand gift of life,—this weary longing
For utter self-forgetfulness?
Hast Thou, Thyself, in Thine eternal toil
At setting things to rights, which presently
Go wrong again,—hast Thou, too, lived to feel
What to Thy creature is the last result
189
For utter self-forgetfulness?
Alas!
Through every hideous mask of yon mad dance
Still must I recognize the mocking eyes
Of mine own hopes?—those phantoms of my youth
That, in life's unattainable distance seen,
Once seem'd so fair,—changed, by what wicked spell,
To gross and foul realities; which yet,
Even in their basest degradation, keep
(Like fallen and degenerate Spirits, transform'd
Into the mimics of their former selves
On that infernal stage where imps of Hell
Are apes of Heaven) strange semblance horrible
Of their original beauty!
Through every hideous mask of yon mad dance
Still must I recognize the mocking eyes
Of mine own hopes?—those phantoms of my youth
That, in life's unattainable distance seen,
Once seem'd so fair,—changed, by what wicked spell,
To gross and foul realities; which yet,
Even in their basest degradation, keep
(Like fallen and degenerate Spirits, transform'd
Into the mimics of their former selves
On that infernal stage where imps of Hell
Are apes of Heaven) strange semblance horrible
Of their original beauty!
Fearful Shape,
Whose maniac mouth with bloody spume is smear'd,
And round whose lurid robe is Licence writ,
—Fell Antic, marshalling this monstrous Masque!
Art thou not she that, clad in glorious beams,
Fair as the Future, solemn as the Past,
And far as both from life's dull Present, once
Stood o'er me, murmuring “I am Liberty”?
And thou, grim Giant with the gory club
And brutish brow, methinks through all disguise
I know thy face, though fairer face was thine
When first I hail'd and named thee Brotherhood,
And with rash voice, invoked thee from afar,
Whom, being come, I loathe! Oh, Circe's wand
Is on us here! and noble Spirits, that sail'd
Bold over perilous seas to win life's prize,
From heroes turn'd to hogs and wolves, with howl
And grunt proclaim the moral of their lives
Whom love of beauty lured, from their safe home
In happy human carelessness of life's
Eternal incompleteness, to pursue
Impossible Ideals. We are fool'd
By time, and plagued with granted prayers. Hence-forth
Let man, whose realm is in the Actual, leave
To the great God, what, by the greedy grasp
Of his impatient passion, man destroys,
—The Ideal Beauty! I am sick of hope.
(The storm increases.)Whose maniac mouth with bloody spume is smear'd,
And round whose lurid robe is Licence writ,
—Fell Antic, marshalling this monstrous Masque!
Art thou not she that, clad in glorious beams,
Fair as the Future, solemn as the Past,
And far as both from life's dull Present, once
Stood o'er me, murmuring “I am Liberty”?
And thou, grim Giant with the gory club
And brutish brow, methinks through all disguise
I know thy face, though fairer face was thine
When first I hail'd and named thee Brotherhood,
And with rash voice, invoked thee from afar,
Whom, being come, I loathe! Oh, Circe's wand
Is on us here! and noble Spirits, that sail'd
Bold over perilous seas to win life's prize,
190
And grunt proclaim the moral of their lives
Whom love of beauty lured, from their safe home
In happy human carelessness of life's
Eternal incompleteness, to pursue
Impossible Ideals. We are fool'd
By time, and plagued with granted prayers. Hence-forth
Let man, whose realm is in the Actual, leave
To the great God, what, by the greedy grasp
Of his impatient passion, man destroys,
—The Ideal Beauty! I am sick of hope.
What? you untutor'd Spirits of the Storm,
Have ye learn'd nothing from your past defeats?
To-morrow, will you be fast chain'd again:
To-morrow, the old forces, the old forms,
The old legitimate authorities
That keep things in their places, will come back,
And, laughing, look you out of countenance!
Then must you be humiliated much
By smiling heavens, mock'd by little breezes,
And baffled by a sunbeam! Wretched rebels,
Roll on! you can get nothing by this noise.
I, too, know these hysterics. Be at peace!
Have ye learn'd nothing from your past defeats?
To-morrow, will you be fast chain'd again:
To-morrow, the old forces, the old forms,
The old legitimate authorities
That keep things in their places, will come back,
And, laughing, look you out of countenance!
Then must you be humiliated much
By smiling heavens, mock'd by little breezes,
And baffled by a sunbeam! Wretched rebels,
Roll on! you can get nothing by this noise.
I, too, know these hysterics. Be at peace!
The Prophet.
Daughter of Liberty, come forth! Descend!
Now must we march once more our midnight rounds,
To institute Destruction in the House
Of this Old God that by the People's voice
Hath been deposed. Forth! forth! Awake, I say!
191
(awaking).
For thee! .. for thee ... and all mankind ... I burn
With love ... with love!
Orval.
Who is the giant yonder
That bars their progress, with his brawny bulk?
A mere youth, yet a giant! Mark him now.
He is speaking with your Prophet.
Novice.
Hell and devils!
By all that's desperate, 'tis he!
Orval.
'Tis who?
Novice.
The Modern Brutus. And they come this way.
We are both dead men!
Orval.
Thou poor poltroon! hide here
Under my cloak .... But, if thou shakest thus,
I'll strangle thee!
Novice.
For mercy's sake, away!
Orval.
No! I will see this farce out to the end.
What are those women, dancing in the ruins,
Among the smouldering embers, robed like queens?
Novice.
Those yonder? They are Countesses, Princesses,
192
And have embraced the New Religion, here.
Orval.
Methinks I could weep now, if this were not
The very scorn of scorn! O women! women,
Whom we have loved, and honour'd, ay! and served,—
Loved with the loyal heart of honest man,
That fears no falsehood where he trusts all truth!
Honour'd on knightly knee, with tender homage,
Half deïfied with holy poesies,
And held unsullied in the secretest shrine
Of things divine within us! .. Served, ah God!
Served with the soldier's sword, the poet's pen,
And all the thousand nameless services
Of silent adoration, that make strong
The better portion of men's days and deeds!
Were ye not mothers, daughters, sisters, wives?
Our mothers, and our daughters, and our sisters?
And we almost have worship'd you as angels!
Why then, ... why then, God bless my Grandmother!
For we will yet be merry.
Novice.
They are firing
The chancel yonder!
Orval.
What, then, do we fight for?
Homes without love, hearths without honour left!
Veronica, thy pure soul is in Heaven.
I am glad of it!
193
Now for an epitaph,
Pious, pathetic, but yet not too long!
Orval.
Peace, mocker! or speak only to my mind.
My heart thou knowest not.
Novice.
They pour this way!
We are dead men. Curse this aristocrat,
For he will be the death of me!
The Prophet
(advancing, and to Orval).
How, Brother?
What art thou, that dost look thus sad and haughty?
Why art thou not, here, in the midst of us?
Novice.
Lost! lost!
Orval.
I am of the Destroyers also.
Prophet.
Whence?
Orval.
From a distant Brotherhood, new come.
I saw your fires far off, and follow'd them.
The Modern Brutus.
Who is thy fellow? wherefore doth he hide
His head, thus, in thy cloak?
194
My younger brother.
A vow is on him, not to show his face
Till he hath murder'd—at the least, a Baron.
Prophet.
And whom hast thou slain, Brother?
Orval.
I was sworn,
Only upon the eve of my departure
From Spain, a member of the Spanish Club.
Modern Brutus.
For whom, then, hast thou destin'd the first blow
Of thy yet unslaked steel and virgin hand?
Orval.
For thee! ...... if thou betrayest us.
Modern Brutus.
Good! good!
Here, Brother, take my dagger.
Orval.
Brother, mine
Will serve the purpose.
Chorus of Assassins.
Live the Modern Brutus!
Live the Assassin of the Spanish Club!
Chorus of Poets.
Little leg to little foot:
And now a little body to 't:
195
We have made a little creature.
First Semi-chorus.
Next a little claw, to fight with,
And a little tooth, to bite with,
And a little paunch to fit.
Who knows what may come of it?
Second Semi-chorus.
Though the limbs be small and pliant,
They may grow, and make a giant.
First Semi-chorus.
Give it, now, a little tongue;
And a little word to utter.
It will talk when it grows strong.
Hark! the lips begin to mutter.
Second Semi-chorus.
Though the voice be faint and weak,
Earth shall shake when it can speak.
First Semi-Chorus.
Make it little wings, to fly
Over earth and over sky;
Wings shall sprout on either shoulder:
It shall soar when it grows older.
Second Semi-chorus.
Wings of butterfly just now:
Wings of eagle soon will grow.
196
Choose we now a little name
To call the little creature by,
And be sure 'tis still the same
When it waxes stout and high.
Chorus.
Nay! no name yet. Let it be
Naked, nameless, wing'd, and free
As the Son of Cytherea
When to Psyche's couch came he:
Felt, not seen,—a young Idea!
Voices in the Distance.
Away! the breeze that's in the trees
Hath warn'd us not to stay.
The dark grows thin. The birds begin.
The dawn's at hand. Away!
Novice.
The night is ending.
Distant Voices.
To the East! the East!
Novice.
The forest will be emptied in an hour.
Orval.
But who come yonder?
Novice.
We shall presently
Distinguish their appearance. They approach us.
197
From its helpless infancy
In the film-eyed ages, we
Have wean'd the Human Race, my friend:
Nurst the bantling on the knee
Of divine Philosophy;
Taught the child its A,B,C.
And given it a name and a place, my friend.
Now the course o' the world is free,
And we are the first in the race, my friend!
First Semi-chorus.
Like a long-delay'd sunrise
That all at length, and all at once,
Leaps among the cloven chasms
Of the Dawn, in sudden spasms
Of inextinguishable laughter,
Till all the wonder over-runs
The riven East with red surprise,
And every cloud that roof'd the skies
Burns like a blazing rafter,
Second Semi-chorus.
Even so, though sunken long
In gulfs of darkness, down among
The old benighted centuries,
To our invocation wakes
The Light of Truth with a heart of fire,
Eagle plumes and sanguine eyes;
And with a sudden splendour takes
Earth and skies, to so comprise
A whole world's long desire!
198
Like a trumpet sounding on
Men to die at Marathon,
Like the clash of sword on shield,
Triumphing the trampled field,
Clash'd on purple plains Platæan,
Hark! from hill to hill, the pæan
Of the People's Liberty!
Comrade of the conquering cause,
Whom the gust of combat draws
Out of darken'd lands, on high
Lo! the light of larger laws
Flooding all Futurity!
Second Semi-chorus.
Pilgrim from the land of night,
Superstition's home for ages,
Thou, lured hither by the light
Pour'd by us upon the pages
Of the ancient Book of Life,
Thou shalt open with a knife
What was sealèd from the sight
Of the schools and of the sages.
Distant Voices.
Hark hark! the watch-dogs bark!
The east is growing grey.
The red cock is crowing, hark!
Comrades, come away!
199
Hail to thee, comrade! hark! ... I drink thy health
In this old skull of an old Saint. Good-night!
(He throws the skull to Orval, and passes.)
Chorus of Assassins.
The arrow flieth in the noon.
The sickness walks below the moon,
And so walk we.
Semi-chorus.
Brother follow! through the hollow
Night thy comrades call to thee!
Second Semi-chorus.
Hist! hist! The moon's in a mist.
There is a ghost walking over the lea.
Well I wist what he hides in his fist,
For he mutters and talks
To himself as he walks,
But he doth not wish that the world should see.
First Semi-chorus.
Over wood and over water,
Hark! I hear the howlet's daughter
(He hath daughters three!)
Call her sisters, “Come and slaughter
The rats in the hollow tree.
We may do as we list, for the moon's in a mist,
And nobody now can see.”
200
When the night had kill'd the day,
I did hear the lion say
To the leopard ... “Come away,
Brother leopard! here is prey.”
First Semi-chorus.
I have seen the Destroyer,—the Angel
That beareth the final evangel,
Descending with blood on his wings,
To purchase of priests and of kings
The earth for a burial-ground,
To bury the Old Dead God.
He survey'd it, and measured it round
And across with his measuring rod.
Chorus.
As the dog-fish through the dark
Of his dismal world doth sail,
Never swerving from his mark,
Where he tracketh a sick whale;
Even so, do we go
Up and down, and to and fro
By a road without a name,
With a meaning and an aim,
And a hate that shall not fail.
Following still, and still pursuing,
Over regions red with ruin,
Evermore some kings undoing,
Speed we on our trail!
Distant Voices.
The wan stars sink beneath the brink
201
Whitens night's shore, and still flows o'er
Faint, but how fast! Away!
First Dancing Girl.
Kill for me, Brother, Prince Lois!
Second Dancing Girl.
And kill for me, Brother, Duke John!
First Dancing Girl.
Go to, thou, with thy noise!
Let the old one be first made away with!
Dancing Children.
Goodman knave! we have broken our toys.
Bring us the head of a noble to play with,
Or the crown of a king ... what fun!
Chorus of Artists.
Here's a new temple to build, my friend,
The People's new Faith,—to enshrine it:
And we, the men of the modern guild, my friend,
We are the folks to design it.
First Artist.
Gothic is out of date.
Second Artist.
And nobody cares for Byzàntine.
Chorus.
No! Let it be something great,
Stately, and elephantine!
Builded strong shall be every column,
202
And the capitals shall be bossy and full,
Each boss made out of a noble's skull.
And the gory locks shall drip evermore
Rare tracery red of the richest gore!
Art is immortal,—'tis true, my friend!
But meanwhile, sometimes her servants starve.
Now we have found something new, my friend,
Better than marble to cut and carve.
(They pass).
Distant Voices.
The night is passing: the dawn is at hand.
Hasten away, o'er the wasted land!
Novice.
Away, my lord, away! the ground is clear.
We may escape unnoticed.
Orval.
Silence, cur!
Once more, once more ere I depart, once more
Seek, O my soul, to compass palpably,
And set before thee in a single shape,
Distinct to thought, the whole circumference
Of this infernal chaos, which some fiend
Frees roaring from the riven womb of Time
To overwhelm creation!
Once more, once more ere I depart, once more
Seek, O my soul, to compass palpably,
And set before thee in a single shape,
Distinct to thought, the whole circumference
Of this infernal chaos, which some fiend
Frees roaring from the riven womb of Time
To overwhelm creation!
What hath made
This brute beast tame hath made me fierce. 'Tis well!
Oh I had need enough of this strong wine,
To wake the drowsy heart that in me dwells,
And sting my spirit back to life again;
For, by the mass! it is a weary world,
And I am sick of watching it! so sick,
I would be well content to sleep it out,—
Even as God doth! But I thank thee, Scorn,
For thou hast made me man! Come, Horror! come,
And harrow all my heart! Come, bitter Rage,
And wring me to the nerve, that I may roar
Defiance, till I crack the sleepy doors
Of Heaven's indifferent Justice, and break up
This maddening silence! Resolution come,
Though from the midriff of Despair, and mail
My manhood up in iron purposes!
O for one echo of the Fiat, heard
In Heaven, what time the Sons of Morning sang
To see the cosmic beauty of a world
Forth issuing from the formless infinite!
He that should ever hear within himself
That word of God re-echoed from the Past,
And save thereof one syllable of Power
To re-create creation ... soul of mine,
That man would be ...
This brute beast tame hath made me fierce. 'Tis well!
Oh I had need enough of this strong wine,
To wake the drowsy heart that in me dwells,
And sting my spirit back to life again;
203
And I am sick of watching it! so sick,
I would be well content to sleep it out,—
Even as God doth! But I thank thee, Scorn,
For thou hast made me man! Come, Horror! come,
And harrow all my heart! Come, bitter Rage,
And wring me to the nerve, that I may roar
Defiance, till I crack the sleepy doors
Of Heaven's indifferent Justice, and break up
This maddening silence! Resolution come,
Though from the midriff of Despair, and mail
My manhood up in iron purposes!
O for one echo of the Fiat, heard
In Heaven, what time the Sons of Morning sang
To see the cosmic beauty of a world
Forth issuing from the formless infinite!
He that should ever hear within himself
That word of God re-echoed from the Past,
And save thereof one syllable of Power
To re-create creation ... soul of mine,
That man would be ...
Voice from Below.
A little God-Almighty!
Orval.
Who spoke then?
Novice.
Nay, not I. Let us away.
Orval.
Well! if it be not mine,—the nobler part,
To heal and to regenerate,—be it mine,
204
Ay! when the lion dies, why let the bees
Build houses and make honey in his carcase.
The lion lives, though; and his heart in me
Is beating yet! O, swift, mine eagle, swift
And fierce thy flight be!
Novice.
Dawn is breaking yonder.
And I shall die of ague in these dews.
Orval.
Let us descend, then. Put me on my way,
And I will free thee, when we reach the valley.
Novice.
Where wilt thou drag me, through this boiling mist?
Halt! I can go no further.
Orval.
March! Down there
The torch-fires dwindle in the vaporous dells:
The cries and songs of last mad night's mad revel
Faint off along the forest.
(The dawn becomes faintly visible. A pale light creeps
over the scene, and the mists begin to rise and move.)The torch-fires dwindle in the vaporous dells:
The cries and songs of last mad night's mad revel
Faint off along the forest.
Dost thou mark
Upon yon white and rolling vapours borne
Among the haggard forest trees, whence yet
The night-dews drip, pale shadows passing by?
Hear'st thou no moan upon the morning air?
Upon yon white and rolling vapours borne
Among the haggard forest trees, whence yet
The night-dews drip, pale shadows passing by?
Hear'st thou no moan upon the morning air?
Novice.
I see not anything but the raw mists:
205
From precipice to precipice beneath us.
Come! or we shall be founder'd in the fog!
Spirits passing in the Mist.
Mourn for the Dead Christ, mourn!
Where have they buried our Lord?
In the heart of the mad world's scorn?
Orval.
Ah God, for my horse, and my sword!
I will hew Thee a cross out of every tree,
To crucify them that have crucified Thee!
The Spirits
(passing).
By the shrines, among the tombs,
Was our blissful twilight dwelling.
Through the glories and the glooms,
Did our bosoms bear the swelling
Silver psalm, and the sonorous
Anthem's solemn-chanted chorus,
And the organ's deep Amen,
From the golden pipes out-welling
Music to the hearts of men.
Whither shall we seek new dwelling,
Sisters?
Spirits of the Bells.
Ah, there is no telling!
All the world is changed since then.
From the swallow-swarmèd steeple,
From our homes in happy bells,
To the hearts of faithful people
Over fields, and floods, and fells,
206
Bear sweet invocations, chaunted
By the silver Sabbath chimes;
And in lonely forests daunted
Savage creatures from their crimes.
Now our homes are ruin'd wholly:
Now our haunts are no more holy:
And we wander, sadly, slowly,
Tenants of the troubled times.
Spirits of the Casements.
We, that lived among the gleaming
Garments of the sworded Saints,
In a rose and amber glory;
We, that sail'd the purple-streaming
Pageant, which the sunset paints
With a martyr's mighty story
On the calm Cathedral floor,
Underneath the flaming casement,
When the day is downward stealing:—
Spirits of the Dome.
We, that hung and hover'd o'er
Angels smiling sweet amazement
From the golden-misted ceiling,
In the glowing dome above;—
Spirits of the Aisles.
We, that shifted soft surprises
Of still light, where sinks or rises,
Through the palely-pillar'd grove
Shade of morning or of even;—
207
Now upon the winds of heaven
Lurid-lighted with red levin,
Hither, hither, dimly driven,
Down the darkness do we move.
(The sun rises.)
Orval.
Ah, the sun rises! in whose golden beam
Their forms are melted from my sight. And now
They fade away across the pine-tree tops!
Novice.
There is the valley. Yonder lies your road.
Orval.
O blessèd dawn of day! O blowing breeze
Of the fresh morning! hail, thrice hail to ye!
Now .... Jesu, and my sword!
Of the fresh morning! hail, thrice hail to ye!
Now .... Jesu, and my sword!
Here fellow, take
The symbol and the thing together. Keep them.
Thou hast earn'd both.
(Throws a purse, with the Cap of Liberty, to the Novice.)The symbol and the thing together. Keep them.
Thou hast earn'd both.
Novice.
I have your Lordship's word
Pledged to his safety, who shall visit you
To-night. But ...
Orval.
Tush! away! We gentlemen
208
Voices
(answering from the valley).
Maria, and our swords! Long live our lord!
Orval.
Fare thee well, Citizen! Thou to thine own,
And mine to me. I do not envy, sir,
The knave that owns you.
And mine to me. I do not envy, sir,
The knave that owns you.
Jesu, and Maria!
Jesu Maria, and our swords!
Jesu Maria, and our swords!
Friends, welcome!
(He descends the valley.) | Orval, or The Fool of Time | |