University of Virginia Library

O Spirits seated in your just degrees,
Greater and lesser, wiser and most wise,
All beautiful and some most beautiful,
Thus far have ye beheld our Tragedy
Rise to its crest of meaning like a wave,
And break to the low murmur of mere foam
Call'd glory. Ye have seen the Star of France
Rise bloody; ye have seen it wax and burn,
Suffusing and consuming other lights
Around it; ye have watch'd it wane and fade;
Ye have beheld it rise i' the west again
With sicklier and yet less baleful light—
Less bloody, yet more like those leprous-spheres
Which follow and proclaim a pestilence;
And lastly, ye have seen it die once more
Frail as a taper in the wind of war,
While rising suddenly as the round moon
In harvest storms, Germania brighteneth
Above the wild eyes of the wondering world.

Is this the end? I hear ye smiling ask.
Why, God forbid. Tho' for a time we pause,
We shall continue our strange Tragedy
To-morrow and to-morrow, for indeed
The end is dark even to all us who play;
For mark you, much must yet be said and done,
Many strange Leaders go and come, ere Heaven
Sees the last scene and awful spectacle
Concluding the strange Drama of the Soul.
Thus far of evil there hath issued forth
This good—a lesser evil; and the air
Is clearer for the thunders ye have heard
Shaking the thrones of Europe and appalling
The foolish-hearted people. Ye have seen,
How Buonaparte swept away with fire
The living lies and blots of monarchy;
How, when at last the Man became a pest,
The lesser evil fair as present good
Rose and destroyed him; how by slow degrees
That lie of lies, the sandstone Church of Rome,
Was slowly decomposing with the wash
Of the great tide of years; how Germany,
Grown subtle to the conscience and the will,
Sat like an eagle breeding in a cave,
Nursing her strength and teaching her fierce young
Dark secret flights to try their fledgeling wings;
How in these memorable later days
Cæsar's last Ghost rose up and walk'd abroad,
So hideous in the open common day
That Cæsarism, second lie of lies,
Perish'd for ever from the face of things;
How, in his turn, above the wandering world,
Stands up the Kaiser, with the living lie
Of Right Divine upon his lips, yet blest
For the time being as a feeble good,
Because the base of his imperial throne
Is set upon the conscience and the will
Of a great people now awakening
From torpor to a living hope and aim.

Wherefore, I say, these Kings whom ye have seen
Were God's unwilling servants, but for whom
The Titan Soul of Man were still asleep,
Trancëd to sorrow and forgetfulness;
And now that Soul is waken'd, now, O friends,
Begins the serious matter of our play,
For scene by scene we purpose to set forth,
To the same audience and on other nights,
The mighty spiritual brightening,
And the last laying of these ghosts of Kings.

“O foolish mortal race,” I hear ye cry,
“Who will, yet will not learn, and live, and take
Their birthright, and be free!” Ay, friends, indeed,
Man is a scholar eager indeed to learn,
But most forgetful having learn'd. His wits
Go wandering, his vacant eyes are caught
By foolish pictures and by idle gleams,
Glibly he learns and instantly forgets.
Again, again, and o'er and o'er again,
He tries the same old lesson, utters it
So loud and well that out of every star
Angels look out with gleaming eyes and hope;—
But in a moment his bewildered brain
Shuts like a lantern, and is dark as night.
O spirits seated in your just degrees,
O lights, O lamps, O principles divine,
Be patient. Of each failure, of each loss,
Of each sad repetition, in his soul
Something remains—a word—a gleam—a thought—
A dim sensation—a faint memory—
And these perchance are working under God
More strangely and more surely than ye know.

Ay, but I weary. O I weary. Sleep
Were better. Would the mighty play were o'er!
Again and yet again the same old scenes,
The same set speeches, the same blind despairs
And miserable hopes, the same sick fear
Of quitting the poor stage; so that I lose
All count of act and scene and speech, confuse
Scenes present and scenes past, actors long still
With actors flaunting now their little hour.
How like each other all the players speak
Who play the tyrants! how the kings and queens
Each follow each like bees from out a hive!
Still the old speeches, the old scenes, despite
The surface-change of costume and the trick
Of posture. Ay, I weary! O to see
The great black Curtain fall, the music cease,
All darken, the House empty of its host
Of strange intelligences who behold
Our Drama, till the great Hand, creeping forth
In silence, one by one puts out the lights.