University of Virginia Library

THE LAST SONG OF LUCIFER

(To Be Read Like a Meditation)

In the following narrative, Lucifer is not Satan, King of Evil, who in the beginning led the rebels from Heaven, establishing the underworld.

Lucifer is here taken as a character appearing much later, the first singing creature weary of established ways in music, moved with the lust of wandering. He finds the open road between the stars too lonely. He wanders to the kingdom of of Satan, there to sing a song that so moves demons and angels that he is, at its climax, momentary emperor of Hell and Heaven, and the flame kindled of the tears of the demons devastates the golden streets.

Therefore it is best for the established order of things that this wanderer shall be cursed with eternal silence and death. But since then there has been music in every temptation, in every demon voice.

Along with a set of verses called “The Heroes of Time,” and another “The Tree of Laughing Bells,” I exchanged “The Last Song of Lucifer” for a night's lodging in New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Ohio, as narrated in A Handy Guide for Beggars.

The fourteenth chapter of Isaiah contains these words on Lucifer:

“Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols: the worm is spread under thee and the worms cover thee.

“How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!

“For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God. ...

All the kings of the nations, even all of them, lie in glory, every one in his own house.

“But thou art cast out of thy grave like an abominable branch, and as the raiment of those that are slain, thrust through with a sword, that go down to the stones of the pit; as a carcas trodden under feet.

“Thou shalt not be joined with them in burial, because thou hast destroyed thy land.”

When Lucifer was undefiled,

Lucifer dreams of his fate and then forgets the dream.

When Lucifer was young,
When only angel-music
Fell from his glorious tongue,
Dreaming in his innocence
Beneath God's golden trees
By genius pure his fancy fell—
By sweet divine disease—
To a wilderness of sorrows dim
Beneath the ether seas.
That father of radiant harmony,
Of music transcendently bright—
Truest to art since Heaven began,
Wrapped in royal, melodious light—
That beautiful light-bearer, lofty and loyal
Dreamed bitter dreams of enigma and night.
But soon the singer woke and stood
And tuned his harp to sing anew
And scorned the dreams (as well he should)
For only to the evil crew
Are dreams of dread and evil true,
Remembered well, or understood.
But when a million years were done

The dream is fulfilled.

And a million, million years beside,
He broke his harp-strings one by one;
He sighed, aweary of rich things,
He spread his pallid, heavy wings
And flew to find the deathless stains,
The wounds that come with wanderings.
He chose the solemn paths of Hell,

He will never dream again, but the demons dream of wandering and singing, and doing all things just as he did in his day.

He sang for that dumb land too well,
Defying their disdain
Till he was cursed and slain.
Ah—he shall never dream again—
Mourn, for he shall not dream again—
But the demons dream in pain,
Of wandering in the night,
And singing in the night,
Singing till they reign.
Oh, hallowed are the demons,

Music is holy, even in the infernal world.

A-dreaming songs again,
And holy to my heart the ancient music-art,
That echo of a memory in demon-haunted men,
That hope of music, sweet hope, vain,
That sets the world a-seeking—
A passion pure, a subtle pain
Too dear for song or speaking.
Oh, who would not with the demons be,
For the fullness of their memory
Of that dayspring song,
Of that holy thing
That Lucifer alone could sing,
That Hell and Earth so hopelessly
And gloriously are seeking!
[OMITTED]

Now follows what every demon says in his heart, remembering that time

[OMITTED]
Oh, Lucifer, great Lucifer,
Oh, fallen, ancient Lucifer,
Master lost, of the angel choir—
Silent, suffering Lucifer:

How the singer made his lyre.

Once your alchemies of Hell
Wrought your chains to a magic lyre
All strung with threads of purple fire,
Till the hell-hounds moaned from your bitter spell—
The sweetest song since the demons fell—
Haunting song of the heart's desire.
Oh, Lucifer, great Lucifer,

How the song began.

You who have sung in vain,
Ecstasy of sweet regret,
Ecstasy of pain,
Strain that the angels can never forget,
Haunting the children of punishment yet,
Bowing them, bringing their tears in the darkness;
Oh, the night-caves of Chaos are breathing it yet!
The last that your bosom may ever deliver,
Oh, musical master of æons and æons. ...
Nor devils nor dragons may ever forget,
Though the walls of our prison should crumble and shiver,
And the death-dews of Chaos our armor should wet,
For the song of the infamous Lucifer
Was an anthem of glorious scorning
And courage, and horrible pain—
Was the song of a Son of the Morning,
A song that was sung in vain.
Oh, singing was only in Heaven
Ere Lucifer's melody came,
But when Lucifer's harp-strings grew loud in their sighing,
When he called up the dragons by name—
The song was the sorrow of sorrows,
The song was the Hope of Despair,
Or the smile of a warrior falling—
A prayer and a curse and a prayer—
Or a soul going down through the shadows and calling,
Or the laughter of Night in his lair;
The song was the fear of ten thousand tomorrows—
On the racks of grief and of pain—
The herald of silences, dreadful, unending,
When the last little echo should listen in vain. ...
It was memory, memory,

How the song made the demons dream they were still fighting for Satan.

Visions of glory,—
Memory, memory,
Visions of fight.
The pride of the onset,
The banners that fluttered,
The wails of the battle-pierced angels of light.
Song of the times of the Nether Empire
The age when our desperate band
Heaped our redoubts with the horrible fire
On the fringes of Holier Land—
Conquering always, conquering never,
Building a throne of sand—
When Satan still wielded that glorious scepter—
The sword of his glorious hand.
Then rang the martial music
Sung by the hosts of God
In the first of the shameful years of fear
When we bit the purple sod:
He sang that shameful battle-story—
He twanged each threaded torture-flame;
Wherever his leprous fingers came
They drew from the strings a groan of glory:
Then we dreamed at last,

How the song enchanted them till they were in fancy the good warriors of God, and they shouted their enemy's battle-cry.

Then we lost the past,
We dreamed we were angels in battle-array:
We tore our hearts with God's battle-yell
And the sound crashed up from the smoky fen
And the battle sweat stood forth
On the awful brows of our fighting men:
And the magical singer, grim and wild,
Swept his harp again, and smiled,
And the harp-strings lifted our cries that day
Till the thundering charge reached the City on High—
God's charge, that he thought
Had passed for aye,
When our last fond hope went down to die.
Oh, throbbing, sweet enthralling spell!
Madly, madly, oh, my heart—
Heart of anguish, heart of Hell—

How, at the climax of the song Lucifer almost restored the first day of creation, when the Universe was happy and sinless.

Beat the music through your night—
Pierced the strain that the wanderer
Wrought with fingers white;
For last he sang—of the morning—
The song of the Sons of the Morning—
The fire of the star-souled Lucifer
Before he had known a stain;
That song which came when the suns were young
And the Dayspring knew his place—
That joy, full born, that unknown tongue,

How the tears of the distracted demons became a heaven-climbing flame.

That shouting chant of the Sons of God
When first they saw Jehovah's face.
And the Wanderer laughed, then sang it at last
Till it leaped as a flame to the forest on high
And the tears of the demons were fire in the sky.
And just for a breath he conquered and reigned,

How Lucifer seemed to make himself God.

For one quick pulse of time he stood;
By flame was crowned where God had been
Himself the Word sublime—
Himself the Most High Love unstained,
The Great, Good King of the Stars and Years—
Crowned, enthroned, by a leaping flame—
The fire of our love-born tears.
And the angels bowed down, for his glory was vast—

How the angels were conquered by the sound of his music from afar, and the Demons were torn with love.

Loving their conquerer, weeping aghast—
While we sobbed, for a moment repenting the past,
And the mock-hope came, that eats and stings,
The hope for innocent dawns above,
The joy of it beat in our ears like wings,
Our iron cheeks seared with the tears of love—
Was it not enough,
Was it not enough
That our cheeks were seared with the tears of Love?
So we cursed the harping of Lucifer

Demons and angels curse the singer.

The lyre was lost from his leper hands
And the hell-hounds tore his living heart.
And the angels cursed great Lucifer
For his purple flame consumed their lands
Till golden ways were desert sands;
They hurled him down, afar, apart.
Beneath where the Gulfs of Silence end,

The Punishment.

Where never sighs nor songs descend,
Never a hell-flare in his eyes
Alone, alone, afar he lies. ...
Fearfully alone, beyond immortal ken
He is further down in the deep of pain
Than is Hell from the grief of men;
And his memories of music
Are rare as desert-rain.
Ended forever the ecstasy
And song too sweet for scorning—
The song that was still in vain;
And the shout of the battle-charge of God—
Ended forever the Song of the Morning—
The Song that was sung in vain.