The Tower of Babel A Poetical Drama: By Alfred Austin |
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 | The Tower of Babel |  |
SCENE III.
—Same hour. The tents of Aran. Noema, without, in the moonlight.NOEMA.
If he came now I should be ta'en unarmed:
And in this mystic hour of midmost night,
My heart would prove a traitor to my heart,
And help him seize its sleeping citadel.
He must not come! O no! he must not come.
'Tis different in the gaze of barefaced day.
The earthy then is round us, clear and nigh,
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Our mundane substance, mortal accidents,
And the subservient company of ills
That wait upon our actions. Then we see
In a too faithful mirror what we are,
And sadly doff night's fanciful array.
Then this repulsive gaoler, this coarse flesh,
Which on our aspirations keepeth ward,
Mockingly warns us not to dare too far
Beyond the precincts of our prison-house.
But dark confers a treacherous liberty,
And, stealing earthly semblance from the earth,
Gives unto things and shapes terrestrial
A heavenly complexion. Why, look now!
See, the cowled night seems rapt in mental prayer
Before the dim shrine of eternity!
There moveth nothing mortal in the air,
Nor on the ground; but, 'twixt the dewy grass
And spangled vault, absolute ecstasy!
It is the hour when, finding reason foiled,
Love presses home his final arguments,
And touches his conclusion. O sweet Night!
Thou art the very atmosphere of love,
And every star proclaims thee amorous!
'Twere too much for a mortal, came he now!
Detain him in the sky, ye twinkling orbs,
That must have power to charm, lest that I should
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But hark! What sings? There is no other voice
Of such unclouded music. It is he!
And Fate hath had no pity on my fears.
AFRAEL.
(singing).
When I gaze on thy soul, then my soul grows calm,
And when I can hear thy voice,
My own soul silently sings a psalm
Like the Heavens when they rejoice.
But when on the glamour of face and form
That are thine, my senses fall,
I am tossed, I am whirled, like the leaves in the storm,
When the thunder-demons call.
And when I can hear thy voice,
My own soul silently sings a psalm
Like the Heavens when they rejoice.
But when on the glamour of face and form
That are thine, my senses fall,
I am tossed, I am whirled, like the leaves in the storm,
When the thunder-demons call.
Oh! when shall my yearning pulses reach
The haven towards which they roll?
Was there ever a sea without its beach,
E'en a desert without its goal?
And surely, surely, despite of Fate,
And this pitiless air and sky,
I yet shall pass through the dreamful gate
And possess thee ere thou die!
The haven towards which they roll?
Was there ever a sea without its beach,
E'en a desert without its goal?
And surely, surely, despite of Fate,
And this pitiless air and sky,
I yet shall pass through the dreamful gate
And possess thee ere thou die!
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It was in music that he took farewell,
In music he returns. But when he showed
'Gainst the blue background of the shining morn,
His outline shone but as a ridge of cloud,
Flecked by a rising but still hidden moon.
Now burns he brighter than the brightest star,
And makes illumination in the air.
Oh! he is beautiful beyond the range
Even of clear imagination's eye,
And Fancy, in creative madness, ne'er
Projected such a vision!
| The Tower of Babel | |