University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

A Private Apartment in Eman. Enter Caffa and Conor, in hasty conversation.
CAFFA.
Lift up thine eyes to where the clear blue sky
Bastions the glory of the bending Heavens,
And muse here with me on the myriad years
Since God first laid the corner-stone of earth,
And built the mighty Delta of the Sea.
Roam through the dark abysses of the Past,
Into those sky-throned nebular realms of space,
Where the great Sun, Apollo of the Heavens,
Sweeps from his thunder-harp of fire, great seas
Of everlasting song, whose golden tones
Make joy throughout the world!

CONOR.
I do! I do!
And hear the Choral thunders of the years
Die into echoes in the far-off Heavens—
Filling Eternity with music. Now,
The chain which binds me to the world,
Is woven of three strands,—Truth—Liberty—Love—
Which I defy even Destiny to break!

CAFFA.
But I will draw the lightnings down from Heaven!
The dead stir in their coffins in their graves!
The voice of Liberty comes down through Heaven,
Precipitous, like a falling star, with shouts,
Tearing the adamantine Gates of Hell—
Awake! Arise!

CONOR.
So let it come! I hear.
But the dead do not wake! They sleep there still—
The everlasting sleep of death, no more
To wake! The Devils do not rush from Hell,
As loth to leave their Monarch there so soon!
There is no power in earth or Hell I fear
Can shake the firm foundation of my throne.

CAFFA.
From out the Old Eternities, far sounding,
I hear the Primal God-voice mutely roar—
Withering the pestilential shades of Night
With its far-reaching thunders! Now it comes,
Down through the abysmal depths of space,
Shearing off, with its two-edged sword of fire,
The rotten limbs from the foul Upas tree of Hell!
The Tyrtean trumpet-blast rings now through Heaven,
Proclaiming to the world thy speedy death!

CONOR.
I live to give thy Trumpet-blast the lie!
The old Gods' Battle-cry dies on my lips,—
“Victory, or death!”

CAFFA.
So cry the Eternal Years,
Answering the screaming Eagles from the East,
Coming to meet the Eagles from the West,
At their last supper on the flesh of Kings,
Spread out on Eman's plains.

CONOR.
So let them come;
There is an Eagle here will meet them there!
Buzzards, you know, like Carrion Crows, fly low;
This Eagle's Eyrie is the Sun—high up
Above the flight of meaner birds; too high
For any but an Angel's gaze! He is
A Phœnix who can never die—sole bird,
Who has no fellow in this world—but lives
In solitary majesty above the earth—
The Emperor of Kings—invulnerable!
Whose ashes do contain the germ of Kings,
Each equal to himself—immortal—born
Above the possibility of death!

CAFFA.
Thy blasphemy shall be th [illeg.] 't will lay
Thee low! Thy doom is sealed—sealed by thyself!

CONOR.
Be my Death-warrant-bearer to the Gods!

CAFFA.
Speak low! for fear the Clarion-voice of Truth
Will draw the Avalanche of Vengeance down
From the Alpine peaks of Heaven, where sits enthroned
Eternal Liberty crowned with the crown
Of immortality.

CONOR.
Then let it come.

CAFFA.
But a Unicorn's Horn on a beast's head
Were hurtful, because he might butt; but on
A wise man's, comely—like those radiant Horns
Which adorned the brow of Moses, when he
Went up on the Mountain to talk with God.

CONOR.
Were Titans created to conquer Gods?

CAFFA.
But he who rows against a raging stream,
Losing one stroke, will fall back farther than
Before had gained by many.

CONOR.
Let it rage!
May the Devil make a Cup of his skull
For the damned Fiends to drink Lethe out of!

CAFFA.
Better make it a Chalice for the blest
Spirits in Heaven to drink nectar out of—
Wherefrom you took so many draughts in life.

CONOR.
May the Hyenas tear him from his grave,
And surfeit on his corse!

CAFFA.
The day will come
When his proud soul shall feast here with the Kings
Of all the world—he King of all these Kings.
Out of his Elysium, where he now reigns,
God of the Gods, he laughs to bitter scorn
Your weak impiety—for he is far
Above all mutabilities of power.

CONOR.
May the triple-mouthed Bandogs of Hell
Bark at his soul in torment ever more!

CAFFA.
Living, he was the Pillar of our hope;
Now, dead, he is the Sun of many Stars,
Clothed in the garments of celestial light—
King of the immortal Harmonies of Heaven!
As those Myrrhine Fabrics of old did hoard
The perfume of the spirit they contained,
Long after it was gone—filling the heart
With shadows of its former joys—so does
His Alabaster body here, to-day,
Smell sweetly of the memory of his soul.
Now, that our Sun is set, we look for night;
Summer being ended, Winter must come!
But Winter only makes the Spring more sweet;
Night, day more lovely; honey after gall—
Manna dropping from the Windows of Heaven;
Health after sickness; wealth after poverty;
Pleasure after pain (the ordeal of our souls);
Plenary riches after infinite want.
Farewell! God will protect the just!
[Exit Caffa.

CONOR.
Farewell!
Enter Barach.
What news?

BARACH.
Most direful news! The Plain
Is covered with the King of Scotland's host
Joined in the fiery Legions of Connaught.

CONOR.
The King of Scotland here?—Mevia too?

BARACH.
They are, great King; against whose forces ours
Were as one Lake compared with the whole Sea!

CONOR.
What! are they married, that they thus unite
Their forces on the field against one man?

BARACH.
So it would seem—in military power.

CONOR.
Are they preparing to attack our force?

BARACH.
They are, great King. The Camp-fires burned, last night,
On Eman's Plain, as far as eye could see,
In emulation of the Host of Heaven—
Like legions of the fiery Cherubim
Descended on the earth, or they to Heaven!

CONOR.
Two mighty powers arrayed against one power?
Come Heaven to them, let Hell unite with us!
What do they want? my throne?

BARACH.
Thy throne, great King!
A prize they know well worth the fighting for.
Not only that, but they desire revenge
Against you for the death of Usna's Sons.

CONOR.
But what were Usna's Sons to them?

BARACH.
Why, nought—
Only as an excuse to gain your crown.

CONOR.
Then let them come! Would Scotland's King were here,
That I might teach him what it is to tempt
A Monarch's power! Oh! but for one short hour
With him alone on Eman's Plain—high Heaven
Our Umpire—we would see who would be King,
Erin or Alba!—Let them come! At dawn,
Before the lusty Night gives birth to Day,
Now laboring with her fair-haired Son of Morn—
In silence, without sound of trump or drum—
(The camp-fires burning still upon the field)—
Muster our soldiers ready for the fight;
For by the time Aurora brings the news,
We will surprise them in their Sackcloth Tents!
Close not thine eyes in sleep, but watch all night;
Waking shall be my sleep, until I sleep
That everlasting sleep—no more to wake!

BARACH.
I go to do your bidding; but, must say,
Without assistance from some other source,
It will be most disastrous to our cause!

CONOR.
There is no other hope! We have no friends—
They being our foes—united now against
Our peace, determined to secure our crown.
We have our own—they theirs; with these we now
Must either win or lose—must live or die!
This we must do, or sell ourselves for slaves
To our own vassals—which we will not do.
Then we must fight, though they have two to one—
My sole regret being, that Scotland's King
Is not here now, ready to fight with me—
Leaving the crown to him who longest lives.
But go—muster the Soldiers in due time;
I will be there to lead them on the field.
[Exit Barach.
The King of Scotland comes with Connaught's Queen,
Pitching their constellated fires on Eman's Plain,
That seem another Heaven come down on earth,
To rule the greater with the lesser light—
As though there were no King on Ulster's throne!
Were Titans created to conquer Gods?
Shall Alba's King be King of Ulster's King?
As well may Night attempt to rise to Day—
Hell, from her dark abyss, ascend to Heaven—
And, with tyrannic impudence, smut out the Sun!

[Exit.