 | The Drama of Kings |  |
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PRELUDE BEFORE THE CURTAIN.
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The Lord. The Archangels. The Celestial Spectators.
Chorus.
Ring within ring,
Seventy times seven,
Ring within ring
Is blossoming
The Rose of Heaven:
From the darkness under
To the radiance o'er,
Bursting asunder
Threefold at the core;
Threefold is glowing
The Eternal Light,
Close round it snowing
Are the Seraphs white,
And next more dim
The Cherubim;
And from rings to rings,
Circles of wings
Seventy times seven,
Inward close
The leaves of the Rose
Of Heaven!
Seventy times seven,
Ring within ring
Is blossoming
The Rose of Heaven:
From the darkness under
To the radiance o'er,
Bursting asunder
Threefold at the core;
Threefold is glowing
The Eternal Light,
Close round it snowing
Are the Seraphs white,
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The Cherubim;
And from rings to rings,
Circles of wings
Seventy times seven,
Inward close
The leaves of the Rose
Of Heaven!
The Heart of the Rose,
Like the flame on an altar,
Burns dim and sweet,
And the leaves of the Rose
Are folded close,
That they tremble and falter,
To feel it beat:
From ring to ring,
Ever widening,
Seventy times seven,
The glory flows
From the Heart of the Rose
Of Heaven!
And dimmer growing
From the burning Heart,
Still fainter flowing
Thro' every part,
The sweet life sighs
To the outermost leaves
Most frail and wan;
And there it lies,
Trembles and dies,
For the outermost leaves
Are the soul of Man.
Like the flame on an altar,
Burns dim and sweet,
And the leaves of the Rose
Are folded close,
That they tremble and falter,
To feel it beat:
From ring to ring,
Ever widening,
Seventy times seven,
The glory flows
From the Heart of the Rose
Of Heaven!
And dimmer growing
From the burning Heart,
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Thro' every part,
The sweet life sighs
To the outermost leaves
Most frail and wan;
And there it lies,
Trembles and dies,
For the outermost leaves
Are the soul of Man.
Ring within ring
Seventy times seven,
Ring within ring
Is blossoming
The Rose of Heaven!
And for evermore
The flame at the core
Burns on, consuming
The circlet blooming,
Suffused and bright,
Next to the Light:—
Yea, as oil feedeth flame,
The innermost part
Of the seventy times seven
Melts;—and the same
Becomes one with the Heart
Of the Rose of Heaven.
Seventy times seven,
Ring within ring
Is blossoming
The Rose of Heaven!
And for evermore
The flame at the core
Burns on, consuming
The circlet blooming,
Suffused and bright,
Next to the Light:—
Yea, as oil feedeth flame,
The innermost part
Of the seventy times seven
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Becomes one with the Heart
Of the Rose of Heaven.
And evermore
Burning on to the core
The rings of the Rose
Narrow inward, and turn
More white and bright,
Yea, the rings of the Rose
Contract and burn
Till they reach the Light;
And ever-renewed
From root and seed,
With the fire for food
Whose flame they feed,
First dim and wan
As the soul of Man,
They lessen, brightening
From fold to fold
Seventy times seven,
Whitening and lightening
Till they die in gold
On the Heart of the Rose of Heaven.
Burn and close,
O leaves of the Rose!
Spread and shine,
O Flower divine!
Ring within ring
Seventy times seven,
Ring within ring,
Grow blossoming,
O beautiful Rose of Heaven!
Burning on to the core
The rings of the Rose
Narrow inward, and turn
More white and bright,
Yea, the rings of the Rose
Contract and burn
Till they reach the Light;
And ever-renewed
From root and seed,
With the fire for food
Whose flame they feed,
First dim and wan
As the soul of Man,
They lessen, brightening
From fold to fold
Seventy times seven,
Whitening and lightening
Till they die in gold
On the Heart of the Rose of Heaven.
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O leaves of the Rose!
Spread and shine,
O Flower divine!
Ring within ring
Seventy times seven,
Ring within ring,
Grow blossoming,
O beautiful Rose of Heaven!
Clouds rise. Lucifer appears upon the Stage.
Lucifer.
Hail, ye Spectators! whose immortal eyes
Within the Theatre Divine have seen
So many moving plays and interludes
To while away the tedious perfect time!
To-night, once more upon this stage of Earth
[Behold it! fair as ever, green and bright,
Carpeted still with flowers as beautiful
As any gems that blossom in the hair
Of you great Angels, and still canopied
With the ethereal azure star-enwrought]
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I come Choragus to your highnesses,
Announcing now a sort of tragedy,
A Choric trilogy of tragedies
In the Greek fashion; and I have selected
The fairest cherubs and the sweetest-voiced
To play the part of Chorus. What we play
Is called for briefness Δραμα Κυριων,
The actors mortal, Earth the scene, the Time
The Present—if I dare use an abstract term
Fashion'd by purblind world-philosophers,
To ears that measure out eternity.
A Spirit.
Is it not then forbidden for the poet
To dramatise contemporary woes?
Have ye forgot the sin of Phrynichos?
This sin was the celebration of the miseries of the Ionians, in a tragedy called the Capture of Miletos. When, however, two years after the Battle of Salamis, Phrynichos chronicled the defeat of Xerxes, he met with an enthusiastic reception, and his success encouraged Æschylos to write the Persæ,—in some respects the very finest of the extant Greek tragedies, for the very reasons which make it inferior in ghastly tremendousness to the Orestean Trilogy.
Lucifer.
Is that Euripides or Æschylos?
Or some poor poet blest to nothingness
Whose name has perish'd from the Attic scroll?
Excuse me, then, the Author forms his theme
In his own fashion, and I must confess
He ever aims at planning novelty.
The Author is a most distinguished person,
Perhaps there is no mightier honour'd here,
But for the present chooses to remain
Unknown, unseen. What we present to night
Is but a fragment of a series
Beginning with the first Man and the Snake.
Or some poor poet blest to nothingness
Whose name has perish'd from the Attic scroll?
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In his own fashion, and I must confess
He ever aims at planning novelty.
The Author is a most distinguished person,
Perhaps there is no mightier honour'd here,
But for the present chooses to remain
Unknown, unseen. What we present to night
Is but a fragment of a series
Beginning with the first Man and the Snake.
Orchestra, now begin the overture!
And all ye sleepy Seraphs who delight
In lolling under rosy-coloured clouds
And blowing silvern trumpets, all ye Angels
Who only turn your slothful eyes on Art
When like a naked Phryne she awakes
Celestial appetite and dainty dream,
All triflers in the blue ethereal courts,
All idle gentlemen in singing robes,
Close eyes, shut ears!—for we prepare a show
Most tragic and most solemn; we design
To treat of mighty matters movingly,
Nor shall our actors in their skill disdain
The higher pathos—ye shall look on scenes
To make the very angels moan, and draw
Tears from the eyelids of the Son of God!
And all ye sleepy Seraphs who delight
In lolling under rosy-coloured clouds
And blowing silvern trumpets, all ye Angels
Who only turn your slothful eyes on Art
When like a naked Phryne she awakes
Celestial appetite and dainty dream,
All triflers in the blue ethereal courts,
All idle gentlemen in singing robes,
Close eyes, shut ears!—for we prepare a show
Most tragic and most solemn; we design
To treat of mighty matters movingly,
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The higher pathos—ye shall look on scenes
To make the very angels moan, and draw
Tears from the eyelids of the Son of God!
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