The Serpent Play :: :: University of Virginia Library

—The Hill-side in the Paradise of Cœlis.
Cœlis, Psyche.
'Neath the mid-torment of soul-rending wails
Cœlis looks down upon the mortal fray:
Then doth he know the Serpent Play
O'er all things great on earth prevails.
He sees, he shudders, thought is as a fire
Struggling to burn in ice, that numbs all pain,
And only leaves a phantom of desire
To call on Psyche now his soul is slain.
He drops as one by death infected
Whose stabs he saw on his loved kindred fall.
And is content to die with all
If to the common lot by fate elected.
Like a cleft elm that screams in falling,
For help on outraged nature calling,
He 'neath the crushing vengeance bends,
And, with a bitter cry, his struggle ends.
So stunned, the Serpent seems to wind
About him and his body bind;
Closing upon his limbs that break
Like saplings which the winter winds o'ertake,
But know no torture while they crack
In the all-sundering rack.

But he was not to die alone,
For he had found the holy being;
Through his clear soul the Soul of All foreseeing.

109

Prostrate, even Her he cannot seek,
Yet 'tis her voice, leading a melody
That covers, as with flowers, the blessed who die.
He feels again; he hears her speak:
The Spirit of death-conquering Spring,
In bridal beauty She is nigh;
And from his vision all past things have gone.
'Tis hope no more; with loving eyes
Doth She the one elixir bring;
He tastes it, and he lives the while he dies.
O Death! is this thy sting?

Where beams in circling courses trace
The climate of the skies,
And unto Psyche's holy place
The happy souls arise,
Do loving voices still repeat
Their music round her blessed seat.

The spirits who in watchings long
This future did behold,
She calls up from the mortal throng
And leads them to her fold.
On their soul's lyre her fingers play
The bliss of everlasting day.

And now the mid-air choirs outpour
The anthem of an Evermore:

110

‘Only the good awake
And gather to the chambers of the Blest!
Arise ye holy and partake
The soul's high gift; once known for aye possessed!
Only the pure arise!
Only the wicked stay below at rest,
Self-exiled from the skies,
Forgetful as the ground-mist that beneath
Feedeth the worms' cold breath.
High souls death's rusty fetters break,
To the new life awake,
And gather to the chambers of the Blest!’

What senses now from earthly senses surge!
His soul creates; from him all things emerge.
He thinks of Psyche; her encircling streams
Of pointing light strike to the shaded skies;
He thinks of his Volupsa; the same beams
Pass through her as he gazes in her eyes
Which steeped in human love before him shine,
Their sympathy the speech of intercourse divine.
The heavens are measureless, the dead are free;
With their brief day on earth their sorrows cease.
O Grave, this is thy victory;
O Soul, this is thy peace!