 | The Poems and Plays of William Vaughn Moody |  |
362
ACT IV
Time: evening of the Day of Judgment.A rock in the Valley of the Judgment; about the rock, and filling the whole trough of the valley, lie the bodies of the lost. Twilight.
Raphael.
My lot is cast with these: I watch to-night
Here islanded in death. Say me not nay:
Till from the last lip anguish is unwreathed,
From the last brow the frown of horror fades,
Here I must sit, witness and comforter
If any more conspicuous strengths survive
To mutter or make signal in the dusk.
Michael.
Nay, brother, stay not. Though thy words are calm,
Thy desperate eyes betray thee; thou resolvest
Some sudden irremediable thing.
The past is done, and, whether well or ill,
Necessitously. Put on that robe of song
Woven of youngest light and over-runed
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Wherein thou led'st the lily souls along
Choregic o'er the unclouded psalmody
And wert so starry long agone! Arise!
My soul is heavy at thee. Thou art wan;
Thine eyes are dull yet wild, even as these
Who lie involved and heaped along the Vale
Seeming in death to threaten and to rave.
Arise and come away! Why tarry here
To mourn above these outcast, since the fan
Hath winnowed them and left no righteous one?
Rather arise, make glad thy countenance,
And through the courts of day let herald throats
Softly declare thy coming, virgin hands,
From that oraculous tree whose leaves are tongues,
Laurel thee best of Heaven's lutanists
And seat thee at the minstrel-hand of God.
Raphael.
You urge me well. I think my songs to-night
Would cheer their festivals: I have a theme
Of very present gladness, deeply conned.
But if amid the gratulating chant,
If through the dances orbed and interorbed,
Furnished with solemn symbol and device,
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Nakedly risen from this company?
Holding up horrible accusing hands
Against the nuptial light? That were scarce well.
I fear my lute would glance and jangle off
To themes as good unsung. Hark!
Michael.
'T was a voice,
Not distant.
Raphael.
Nay, 't is yonder,—he who lies
Half lifted from the jetsam of this sea
Across that ragged reef. Another, hush!
A woman's voice, was 't not? And see, below—
That aged throat would fain articulate. ...
They taste sweet speech ere the long silence comes.
A Youth's Voice.
Do any live but me? Do any wake to hear
A word spoke in the dark before I die?
An Old Man.
An old and wakeful spirit rests thee near.
A Young Woman.
Long had I lain asleep, but wakened at thy cry.
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Not all discourteous is the Conqueror's heart,
Since now of that good strength I wore at noon
Ebbs back a little part.
Old Man.
Enough to syllable thy soul's young scorn,
Though all unripe, unwise;
And haply rouse some one of these that lie
Fixing the dark with undivining eyes
Of human wit and seemliness forlorn,
To speak their separate word or unto thine reply.
The Youth.
A song of scorn I minded to have sung,
But all the words are faded from my tongue.
Mysteriously withdrawn,
Out of this desolation I am gone
Aloft into the light of other days.
My heart runs naked in the wind, more fleet
Than are my flying feet,
Above the misty foss and up the mountain lawn
To seek the place of Morning where she stays.
The silver summits held across the dawn
By some gigantic arm, like wrought candelabras,
Kindle their wicks of praise
To light the temple builded not with hands
Above the prostrate lands,
And the religious winds, song-stoled,
Pacing the mighty nave
Fill azure dome and star-held architrave
With hymns unto the gods that grow not old,—
Lords of the joy of life made known
Not unto gods alone,
But perfectly to man and beast and stone,
And by the atomies with rapture shared,
But ne'er by poet's golden mouth
Nor by the west wind singing to the south
Fitly declared.
But all the words are faded from my tongue.
Mysteriously withdrawn,
Out of this desolation I am gone
Aloft into the light of other days.
My heart runs naked in the wind, more fleet
Than are my flying feet,
Above the misty foss and up the mountain lawn
To seek the place of Morning where she stays.
The silver summits held across the dawn
By some gigantic arm, like wrought candelabras,
Kindle their wicks of praise
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Above the prostrate lands,
And the religious winds, song-stoled,
Pacing the mighty nave
Fill azure dome and star-held architrave
With hymns unto the gods that grow not old,—
Lords of the joy of life made known
Not unto gods alone,
But perfectly to man and beast and stone,
And by the atomies with rapture shared,
But ne'er by poet's golden mouth
Nor by the west wind singing to the south
Fitly declared.
Oh, for a voice
Here in the doors of death
To speak the praise of life, existence mere,
The simple come and go of natural breath,
And habitation of the body's house with its five windows clear!
O souls defeated, broken, and undone,
Rejoice with me, rejoice
That we have walked beneath the moon and sun
Not churlishly, nor slanderous of the bliss;
But rather leaving this
To the many prophets strict and sedulous
Of that sad-spoken god
Who now hath conquered and is surely king,
Have given our lips for life to closely kiss,
Have heard the sweet persuasion of the sod
And been heart-credulous
To trust the signs and whispers of the spring.
Here in the doors of death
To speak the praise of life, existence mere,
The simple come and go of natural breath,
And habitation of the body's house with its five windows clear!
O souls defeated, broken, and undone,
Rejoice with me, rejoice
That we have walked beneath the moon and sun
Not churlishly, nor slanderous of the bliss;
But rather leaving this
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Of that sad-spoken god
Who now hath conquered and is surely king,
Have given our lips for life to closely kiss,
Have heard the sweet persuasion of the sod
And been heart-credulous
To trust the signs and whispers of the spring.
Second Youth.
Various the reasons why we could not pay
The price exacted from us!
My ear, though fain, I might have turned away
From spring's love-startled promise,
I might have given up the glorious sea
And the majestic mountains might for me
Have ceased to be;
God, with one sudden rinsing of his hand,
Might have wiped bare
The earth-ball of its deeds and pageantries,
Yea, even of light and air,
That on the stark circumference I might stand
And choose deliberately, unvexed of these,
Between my will and his.
Then I had said, with cheerful voice and strong,
Somewhat dismayed, yet with a cheerful voice,
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Till I could put away creation's noise,
The tragic streets, the poignant drip of rains,
But chiefly the loud speaking in my veins
Concerning this and that desirable.
Now you have put me in a quiet place,
Take but away your too expectant face,
And all shall then be well.
Then I can ponder, as I meant to do
And as I singly long since thought was mine,
The mysteries divine;
Make quiet proof of you
If you be verily my lord or no,
And, having found you to be truly so,
Shall understand for sooth,
That down the eternities I may launch my mind
Not as a tame hawk haggard down the wind,
Whom huntsman's cry pursueth,
But as an eagle without bell or jess,
Obedient alone to his soul's lordliness.
Third Youth.
Better with captives in the slaver's pen
Hear women sob, and sit with cursing men,
Yea, better here among these writhen lips,
Than pluck out from the blood its old companionships.
If God had set me for one hour alone,
Apart from clash of sword
And trumpet-pealèd word,
I think I should have fled unto his throne.
But always ere the dayspring took the sky,
Somewhere the silver trumpets were acry,—
Sweet, high, oh, high and sweet!
What voice could summon so but the soul's Paraclete?
Whom should such voices call but me, to dare and die?
O ye asleep here in the eyrie town,
Ye mothers, babes, and maids, and aged men,
The plain is full of foemen! Turn again—
Sleep sound, or waken half
Only to hear our happy bugles laugh
Lovely defiance down,
As through the steep
Grey streets we sweep,
Each horse and man a ribbèd fan to scatter all that chaff!
Hear women sob, and sit with cursing men,
Yea, better here among these writhen lips,
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If God had set me for one hour alone,
Apart from clash of sword
And trumpet-pealèd word,
I think I should have fled unto his throne.
But always ere the dayspring took the sky,
Somewhere the silver trumpets were acry,—
Sweet, high, oh, high and sweet!
What voice could summon so but the soul's Paraclete?
Whom should such voices call but me, to dare and die?
O ye asleep here in the eyrie town,
Ye mothers, babes, and maids, and aged men,
The plain is full of foemen! Turn again—
Sleep sound, or waken half
Only to hear our happy bugles laugh
Lovely defiance down,
As through the steep
Grey streets we sweep,
Each horse and man a ribbèd fan to scatter all that chaff!
How from the lance-shock and the griding sword
Untwine the still small accents of the Lord?
How hear the Prince of Peace and Lord of Hosts
Speak from the zenith 'mid his marshalled ghosts,
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay;
Cease thou and come away!”
Or having seen and harkened, how refrain
From crying, heart and brain,
“So, Lord, Thou sayest it, Thine—
But also mine, ah, surely also mine!
Else why and for what good
This strength of arm my father got for me
By perfect chastity,
This glorious anger poured into my blood
Out of my mother's depths of ardency?”
Untwine the still small accents of the Lord?
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Speak from the zenith 'mid his marshalled ghosts,
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay;
Cease thou and come away!”
Or having seen and harkened, how refrain
From crying, heart and brain,
“So, Lord, Thou sayest it, Thine—
But also mine, ah, surely also mine!
Else why and for what good
This strength of arm my father got for me
By perfect chastity,
This glorious anger poured into my blood
Out of my mother's depths of ardency?”
A Confused Voice.
Not very long to-day
Thy arm held back the mischief of the tide!
Thou could'st not check the play
Of scythes, the awful chariots beside!
Thy blood has ebbed a little from its pride.
A Girl's Voice.
I waited patiently and thought to hear
The secret reason dark,
The secret reason dark and dear
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The pale evangel whispering from the sphere.
For oft the moon between the garden boughs
Her looks of summer longing would efface,
And come to be a halo round the brows
Of Him who died to give the sinner grace,
Now saddening o'er His purchase from that place.
And oft at dawn I heard the Sons of Morning
Silvered with lovely menace fill the sky,
And heard their solemn lips deliver warning
What time the central singer lifted high,
In the deep hush twixt ode and palinode,
The sangrael of the sun, brimmed with redeeming blood.
But how might I attend the minatory
Voices of many angels breathing doom,
When from the window of the little room
My love's face had not faded, and the story
His wakeful mouth had whispered in the gloom
Spake in my pulses yet? And how at evening turn
To feel those sad eyes down the moonlight yearn,
When mouth to mouth and breast to aching breast
I held my lover close, and by his nest
The nightingale, scarce master of his mood,
Now after faint essay
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Suddenly steeped his heart in song's mad plenitude?
A Woman's Voice.
What unripe girl is this who maketh bold
To speak for lovers at the extreme hour,
Yet fancy-paints the flower?
Yet hides with image-gilt the naked gold?
O sisters, brothers, help me to arise!
Of God's two-hornèd throne I will lay hold
And let Him see my eyes;
That He may understand what love can be,
And raise his curse, and set his children free.
Another Woman's Voice.
My life was a rank venomed weed
And hers, I think, a flower;
But my harsh voice shall have a power
Fiercer than hers to plead.
About his knees with curses I will cling,
My veins I will break open, till He see
The barb of the intolerable sting,
The tongues of the immitigable fire
He planted there to fret and fumble through me,
To craze and to undo me,
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I slew my heart's desire!
Old Man.
Of double fetters be not fain, my child,
To these thou wearest be thou reconciled.
Spread not before his dark averted gaze
(Now that He holds his hand and seemeth satisfied)
The love that called you unappointed ways
And filled your hearts with pride.
A little while He left you free
In passion's privilege
To god it on the peaks of personality,
But ye have walked too near the hither edge.
To these thou wearest be thou reconciled.
Spread not before his dark averted gaze
(Now that He holds his hand and seemeth satisfied)
The love that called you unappointed ways
And filled your hearts with pride.
A little while He left you free
In passion's privilege
To god it on the peaks of personality,
But ye have walked too near the hither edge.
Yet once I thought—
My old heart meekened to an evening mood
By dint of years and much beatitude—
He was not jealous as the prophet taught,
Nor loving-tolerant as mild teachers held
But swayed to mystical participation
Of various delight
By every chrysalid's meandering flight
And million-footed onset of heroic nation;
To instant joy impelled
By every jet of life that from Time's fountain quelled.
So deemed I, musing on the headstrong glee
Of children at my knee,
But He ordained his ways after another fashion.
My old heart meekened to an evening mood
By dint of years and much beatitude—
He was not jealous as the prophet taught,
Nor loving-tolerant as mild teachers held
But swayed to mystical participation
Of various delight
By every chrysalid's meandering flight
And million-footed onset of heroic nation;
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By every jet of life that from Time's fountain quelled.
So deemed I, musing on the headstrong glee
Of children at my knee,
But He ordained his ways after another fashion.
Fourth Youth.
'T was not the lover nor the warrior stirred
His jealous arm to smite,
Nor he who longed to launch forth as a bird
In far and lonely flight
To seek the truth of things, nor he who heard
The choral winds in Nature's temple chaunting.
All these He could endure,
Since his creation and its furniture
They merely used, nor vexed his ears with vaunting
Themselves creators too
And fashioners of worlds, and pilots of them flaunting
Beside his in the blue.
But some there were infatuate, audacious,
To whom the world's vast girth
Seemed niggard and unspacious;
Who, having clambered or been borne on wings
Above the realms of sense
From off God's secret altars ravished thence
The plastic fire of his imaginings
And brought it down to earth.
His jealous arm to smite,
Nor he who longed to launch forth as a bird
In far and lonely flight
To seek the truth of things, nor he who heard
The choral winds in Nature's temple chaunting.
All these He could endure,
Since his creation and its furniture
They merely used, nor vexed his ears with vaunting
Themselves creators too
And fashioners of worlds, and pilots of them flaunting
Beside his in the blue.
But some there were infatuate, audacious,
To whom the world's vast girth
Seemed niggard and unspacious;
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Above the realms of sense
From off God's secret altars ravished thence
The plastic fire of his imaginings
And brought it down to earth.
Then, pale with supernatural intention,
We builders of the over-world arose,
And softly to their houses of ascension,
Orbing as soft as April buds unclose,
But bowelled of the furious lava-stream,
Star after ordered star went up the heavens of dream:
Each from the other ever differing,
Glory from glory,
And each a world summed and replete
With all the human heart forebodeth well
Or hoardeth to repeat
Of tragical and sweet
In earthly summer and the mortal spring
And man's peculiar story,
Yet by the mind made an immortal thing,
Patiently purged and weaned of its corruptible.
We builders of the over-world arose,
And softly to their houses of ascension,
Orbing as soft as April buds unclose,
But bowelled of the furious lava-stream,
Star after ordered star went up the heavens of dream:
Each from the other ever differing,
Glory from glory,
And each a world summed and replete
With all the human heart forebodeth well
Or hoardeth to repeat
Of tragical and sweet
In earthly summer and the mortal spring
And man's peculiar story,
Yet by the mind made an immortal thing,
Patiently purged and weaned of its corruptible.
Oh, how should Man into the dust be trod,
Who is himself a god?
How should the lord of each enchanted isle
For gazing on a brother god's high sacrificial sorrow
Say himself low and vile,
Or for that Sufferer's sake
Teen to his own undarkened being borrow,
And in a gloom of abnegation break
The wand wherewith he summoned from their sleep
The whirlwinds of the everlasting deep,
And souls of men and spirits of lost hours
And spring's sequestered firstlings, the sky flowers,
Bound to his golden powers?
Who is himself a god?
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For gazing on a brother god's high sacrificial sorrow
Say himself low and vile,
Or for that Sufferer's sake
Teen to his own undarkened being borrow,
And in a gloom of abnegation break
The wand wherewith he summoned from their sleep
The whirlwinds of the everlasting deep,
And souls of men and spirits of lost hours
And spring's sequestered firstlings, the sky flowers,
Bound to his golden powers?
Michael.
I wait no longer on their stammering tongues!
Once more I pray thee rise and come away.
The Valley darkens fast, and Heaven stays
Thy single voice to make its concord full.
Raphael.
These voices we have hearkened lack as well,
To make such concord as I care to hear.
Michael.
Then curse thee for a stubborn heart!—Nay, nay,
I will not curse thee whom I love. ... Take heed
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Mistaking thee for one of these, should smite.
Raphael.
Already from the deeps approacheth one,
Staining the limbs and faces of the dead
With amber as he flies. What clime has blown
Azaziel's radiance to so blear a tinct?
Azaziel.
Flying past.
Woe! Woe! unto the dwellers in this Vale.
Woe unto them who wait the second death!
Prepare to meet the Worm that dieth not!
Raphael.
Azaziel, hear! What meaneth ...?
Michael.
He is past,
Bearing his message further. How it sobs
And falters on the wind!
Raphael.
In the deeps begins
A myriad lamentation. ...
Michael.
Nearer now,
And mixed with keener individual cry. ...
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The sea of death sways moaning and recoils,
Bristling with serried surf of forms uplift,
Postures of supplication and despair,
Forlorn attitudes!
Michael.
From the starless sky
A star shoots screaming, hushes in mid-flight,
And stands at gaze above the vasty caves,
The cañons and the agèd wells of dark
Toward which this Valley plunges.
Raphael.
Far below
Disastrous splendor glares above the abyss,
And in the midst a bulk of sinuous shade
That lifts and swings a snaky head aloft
Surveying where to strike. ...
Michael.
Away! Away!
Even now his pendulous neck doth sweep the Vale
From wall to wall, incredibly advanced
Leagues hither, though his lewder folds are still
Hid backward in the abyss. Away! Away!
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To linger here even spirits dare not.
Raphael.
Go;
I tarry. Let me take thy mighty sword.
A minstrel's hand can swing a blade at need.
Michael.
Not so. Forgive me this my violence!
Thy soul is all distraught and desperate,
And I must save thee in thine own despite.
He overpowers Raphael, and bears him aloft just as the enormous swinging head of the Serpent blots out the scene.
| The Poems and Plays of William Vaughn Moody | |