 | The Serpent Play |  |
87
ACT V.
Scene I.
—In the Paradise of Cœlis.Actors, Spectators.
Sunrise, the constant friend, that ever kept
The appointed time, shone on the Gala-day,
And ere the troop set forth its Serpent Play,
The chilly dews from the arena swept.
So, early, with the heavenly Riser, move
The Minstrel and his Actors on a stage
Where flocks and kine already rove;
Sent there by Cœlis for the lordly sage,
Who with a soul deep-versed in strategy
Can see beyond where eyes can see,
While looking round the chosen plain.
It is his part to improvise,
Where the mock-village is to stand
And streets and temples shall arise;
Where shall rush in the hostile band
Amid the games and with the slain
Cover the earth, while mourners rave
For vengeance or a common grave.
The appointed time, shone on the Gala-day,
And ere the troop set forth its Serpent Play,
The chilly dews from the arena swept.
So, early, with the heavenly Riser, move
The Minstrel and his Actors on a stage
Where flocks and kine already rove;
Sent there by Cœlis for the lordly sage,
Who with a soul deep-versed in strategy
Can see beyond where eyes can see,
While looking round the chosen plain.
It is his part to improvise,
Where the mock-village is to stand
And streets and temples shall arise;
Where shall rush in the hostile band
Amid the games and with the slain
Cover the earth, while mourners rave
For vengeance or a common grave.
88
Now the sight-seekers round him gather
With faces smiling at the weather:
A warm spring-morn, as all foretold.
The maids are smart in blue and red
Interlaced with golden thread,
Set off with antique ornaments of gold.
The footmen bring out oaken benches,
A stately butler in their track;
The handmaids follow, heedless of the clack,
With crimson cushions on their back;
Jeered at by stable-boys and country wenches.
The peasants still arrive in swarms
That stream in from the distant farms,
With yeomen in their Sunday tunics dressed:
A gala-day their day of rest.
With faces smiling at the weather:
A warm spring-morn, as all foretold.
The maids are smart in blue and red
Interlaced with golden thread,
Set off with antique ornaments of gold.
The footmen bring out oaken benches,
A stately butler in their track;
The handmaids follow, heedless of the clack,
With crimson cushions on their back;
Jeered at by stable-boys and country wenches.
The peasants still arrive in swarms
That stream in from the distant farms,
With yeomen in their Sunday tunics dressed:
A gala-day their day of rest.
Now harlequins begin to nail
From tree to tree a painted sail,
When houses flutter to and fro
Daubed on the canvas; then expands
A village o'er the vacant lands,
And soon so real becomes the show
It seems the work of fairy hands.
And where the actors by the score
Are chaffering maids fast knitting at their door,
It seems their native home, so true
Stands out the village in the distant view.
From tree to tree a painted sail,
When houses flutter to and fro
Daubed on the canvas; then expands
A village o'er the vacant lands,
And soon so real becomes the show
It seems the work of fairy hands.
And where the actors by the score
Are chaffering maids fast knitting at their door,
It seems their native home, so true
Stands out the village in the distant view.
Now Voragine with his elected bride
Vivia, so rosy-cheeked and fair;
Volupsa leaning at his side,
Descends the castle slope as down a stair,
So serpentine and steep of flight
That thrice they vanish and come back in sight.
Then fifers pierce the lazy ears
But wake a spirit deeper lying,
While drummers shake the heart with fears,
And trumpeters their skill are plying.
At every step full-welcome greets
The chief and maidens, kindly proud,
And serious grows the merry crowd
That bows them to their cushioned seats.
Vivia, so rosy-cheeked and fair;
Volupsa leaning at his side,
Descends the castle slope as down a stair,
89
That thrice they vanish and come back in sight.
Then fifers pierce the lazy ears
But wake a spirit deeper lying,
While drummers shake the heart with fears,
And trumpeters their skill are plying.
At every step full-welcome greets
The chief and maidens, kindly proud,
And serious grows the merry crowd
That bows them to their cushioned seats.
All is prepared, a nation seems to rise
Where woods and pastures only yesterday
Between the sunrise and the sunset lay:
A lone Soul-seeker's Paradise!
The Serpent's haunt, and yet a place of musing
Where brook and ferns had learned to speak;
But not all their silence losing;
Their tongues but known to those who secrets seek.
Where woods and pastures only yesterday
Between the sunrise and the sunset lay:
A lone Soul-seeker's Paradise!
The Serpent's haunt, and yet a place of musing
Where brook and ferns had learned to speak;
But not all their silence losing;
Their tongues but known to those who secrets seek.
In chatty groups of three or four
That seem of chance, the actors wait
A signal from the Troubadour,
But, in dumb show, look busied in debate.
Two huntsmen, then, their shoulders laden,
A deer between them forward bear,
And rudely hustle swain and maiden
Who laugh to see the promised fare.
They carry to the front the noble beast,
Now pointing to its antlers, now its haunches,
And short of breath speak of the coming feast,
While each beholder into rapture launches.
There the antlered beauty lies,
As 'twere for some high sacrifice,
Its weeping nostrils like a breath
That sighed out pity for its death.
The tender Vivia feels regret,
Though with her eyes upon the creature set
She longs to have her absent brother near,
Himself to see that lordly forest deer:
‘O that his bride and he may yet appear!’
That seem of chance, the actors wait
A signal from the Troubadour,
But, in dumb show, look busied in debate.
Two huntsmen, then, their shoulders laden,
A deer between them forward bear,
And rudely hustle swain and maiden
Who laugh to see the promised fare.
They carry to the front the noble beast,
Now pointing to its antlers, now its haunches,
90
While each beholder into rapture launches.
There the antlered beauty lies,
As 'twere for some high sacrifice,
Its weeping nostrils like a breath
That sighed out pity for its death.
The tender Vivia feels regret,
Though with her eyes upon the creature set
She longs to have her absent brother near,
Himself to see that lordly forest deer:
‘O that his bride and he may yet appear!’
The Troubadour now gives the sign
His finger lifting with a scowl malign.
The music answers, and the idlers flow
Into their ranks, then in a double row
With easy paces caper to and fro.
Some pass the bottle while they dance,
The outpoured laughter to enhance;
Elsewhere village games succeed:
Some hurl the quoit, some run to fetch
The bounding ball they cannot catch;
Some race in pairs the noble steed.
His finger lifting with a scowl malign.
The music answers, and the idlers flow
Into their ranks, then in a double row
With easy paces caper to and fro.
Some pass the bottle while they dance,
The outpoured laughter to enhance;
Elsewhere village games succeed:
Some hurl the quoit, some run to fetch
The bounding ball they cannot catch;
Some race in pairs the noble steed.
But why this sudden change o'er Voragine
Who only scans the painted scene?
His prowess pales, he meets his hour,
Divested of his earthly power!
That scene is but the valley that he smote,
Come to accuse him from its wilds remote,
Yes, he had seen it all before,
And now he knows the Troubadour!
Before his eyes what treachery is bared!
All flashes on him in a deadly throe,
Himself and all his kindred snared,
And at the mercy of a wily foe.
How had he let escape the day
When the proud Minstrel at his mercy lay!
But love is blinding and too fast
The hour of safety from him passed!
They smile at passion who would meditate
How to avert the sluggish tide of fate!
Who only scans the painted scene?
His prowess pales, he meets his hour,
Divested of his earthly power!
That scene is but the valley that he smote,
Come to accuse him from its wilds remote,
91
And now he knows the Troubadour!
Before his eyes what treachery is bared!
All flashes on him in a deadly throe,
Himself and all his kindred snared,
And at the mercy of a wily foe.
How had he let escape the day
When the proud Minstrel at his mercy lay!
But love is blinding and too fast
The hour of safety from him passed!
They smile at passion who would meditate
How to avert the sluggish tide of fate!
Scene II.
—On the Mount in the Paradise of Cœlis.Cœlis; Actors, Spectators, below.
To his hill-slope again at break of day
Was Cœlis summoned to fulfil
Within his own some stronger will
That like the weight of love upon him lay.
He dared not mingle in a feast
That was to mock man's pitying thought
For sorrows that had ceased,
Though on the stage once more to memory brought.
Nature, so radiant, gives not back the groan
And lends no sanction to its stern rehearsal;
Though sympathising millions hear the moan,
What once has been has no reversal.
92
That all within the clear expanse inhale,
Down from the tumbling mountains to the vale,
These call not back the bitterness of death.
CŒLIS.
‘O Psyche, the saviour, in whom we inherit
The gifts of an all-loving, plenteous Spirit,
Who onward for ever thy dream dost pursue;
Our hope, as we follow, in whom we renew;
In thy passion immersed all things glow around me;
On pinions uplifted in bliss thou hast bound me;
Steeped in thy light, in thy holy emotion,
I drain thy last philtre, the life-giving potion.’
So rapt, he glances o'er the fields:
The dense spectators, the fast-swelling train
Have there no meaning, though his eyes
They vex, and are to him as reveries
That buzz outside the archway of the brain.
There, little earnest, maid and swain
The lover's antics rudely feign,
And care not who rejects or yields.
There they act their courtship dances;
Near and nearer each advances;
Swift the music, swift the pace:
So in pairs the lovers drift,
Till all the youths at length uplift
Their arms and ask a maid's embrace.
The dense spectators, the fast-swelling train
Have there no meaning, though his eyes
They vex, and are to him as reveries
That buzz outside the archway of the brain.
There, little earnest, maid and swain
The lover's antics rudely feign,
And care not who rejects or yields.
There they act their courtship dances;
Near and nearer each advances;
Swift the music, swift the pace:
So in pairs the lovers drift,
Till all the youths at length uplift
Their arms and ask a maid's embrace.
93
It was but a re-acted scene;
But how it smites on Voragine,
When winds the bugle's call defiant
From the lung-clangour of a giant,
And echoes through far-reaching alleys:
The Serpent's track into the hostile valleys!
Those slaughter-sounds,—how like his own
Even to the last high-bounding thrill,
That seemed to summon to his former will
His troops, that dire defeat had never known!
But where was now the army he had led!
Not near to serve him in his narrow strait:
His enemies are now within the gate,
And he their country's blood has shed.
But how it smites on Voragine,
When winds the bugle's call defiant
From the lung-clangour of a giant,
And echoes through far-reaching alleys:
The Serpent's track into the hostile valleys!
Those slaughter-sounds,—how like his own
Even to the last high-bounding thrill,
That seemed to summon to his former will
His troops, that dire defeat had never known!
But where was now the army he had led!
Not near to serve him in his narrow strait:
His enemies are now within the gate,
And he their country's blood has shed.
As thus he muses, troops o'er-stride
These scenes of peace, these pastures wide;
They issue from the wooded lands
To where the flowery vale expands,
And through the dancers spread confusion,
Who act so well their clamourous fear
It needs must be that death is near;
The mutual fury crushing all illusion.
Are these the troops of Voragine
Clad as were his, and his Cross-banner flying?
'Tis but in mockery of a former scene!
The women to the soldiers cling,
And for defence their arms about them fling,
But soon in that embrace are dying.
Torch-bearers set the painted scene a blaze,
The pine-trees crackle in the conflagration:
The awed spectators rise and in amaze
Shout out: 'Tis an invading nation!
The Warrior, his sister and his bride
Sit pale; they must the end abide.
These scenes of peace, these pastures wide;
They issue from the wooded lands
To where the flowery vale expands,
And through the dancers spread confusion,
Who act so well their clamourous fear
It needs must be that death is near;
The mutual fury crushing all illusion.
Are these the troops of Voragine
Clad as were his, and his Cross-banner flying?
'Tis but in mockery of a former scene!
The women to the soldiers cling,
And for defence their arms about them fling,
But soon in that embrace are dying.
94
The pine-trees crackle in the conflagration:
The awed spectators rise and in amaze
Shout out: 'Tis an invading nation!
The Warrior, his sister and his bride
Sit pale; they must the end abide.
The troops drive off the frighted cattle,
As lawful spoil of victors after battle.
The shepherds gather up their dead
And kiss them with hot lips, revenge imbibing,
Then the fresh turf upon the bodies spread.
No home is left, but earth that welters
In the warm blood, the pile accepts and shelters.
This done around the slaughtered crowd the living
And on their spades a fervid oath inscribing,
They brandish them with gestures unforgiving.
And where is Cœlis in that hour? The clang
Of myriad heart-throbs fills him with a pang
Of suffering for all; but panic-held
He waits as by a higher power compelled.
He can interpret all he now beholds;
He sees one fate his family enfolds;
Sees that before that bugle blew,
Or Voragine gave challenge throat to throat,
Those slaughter-sounds the welkin smote,
And that the fields of doom that battle knew,
Fought by the present foes in shadowy fight;
Rehearsed throughout all time ere they beheld the light.
As lawful spoil of victors after battle.
The shepherds gather up their dead
And kiss them with hot lips, revenge imbibing,
Then the fresh turf upon the bodies spread.
No home is left, but earth that welters
In the warm blood, the pile accepts and shelters.
This done around the slaughtered crowd the living
And on their spades a fervid oath inscribing,
They brandish them with gestures unforgiving.
And where is Cœlis in that hour? The clang
Of myriad heart-throbs fills him with a pang
Of suffering for all; but panic-held
He waits as by a higher power compelled.
He can interpret all he now beholds;
He sees one fate his family enfolds;
Sees that before that bugle blew,
Or Voragine gave challenge throat to throat,
Those slaughter-sounds the welkin smote,
And that the fields of doom that battle knew,
Fought by the present foes in shadowy fight;
Rehearsed throughout all time ere they beheld the light.
95
Scene III.
—A Tent in the Paradise of Cœlis.Actors, Spectators.
And yet 'twas this the Troubadour foresaid:
In rustic games and strife the hours had sped.
The second scene begins; in council spent,
With purpose hidden, deep, uncertain,
Even when the players lift the curtain.
There have they pitched a lofty tent
That rises like an alpine height
And hides the battle-field from sight,
By flames made doubly desolate.
While glows the canvas snowy white,
O'er it the Serpent-banner soars
In honour of so great a holiday,
And those of safety reassures
Who deemed the battle scarce a play.
And there the peasant-senators debate.
Hayus within the open tent is seen
Now as a mitred priest of stately mien,
In purple vestment; and he bears
In his right hand a cross of gold,
And at his side a poignard wears
Concealed within his garment's fold.
In rustic games and strife the hours had sped.
The second scene begins; in council spent,
With purpose hidden, deep, uncertain,
Even when the players lift the curtain.
There have they pitched a lofty tent
That rises like an alpine height
And hides the battle-field from sight,
By flames made doubly desolate.
While glows the canvas snowy white,
O'er it the Serpent-banner soars
In honour of so great a holiday,
And those of safety reassures
Who deemed the battle scarce a play.
And there the peasant-senators debate.
Hayus within the open tent is seen
Now as a mitred priest of stately mien,
In purple vestment; and he bears
In his right hand a cross of gold,
And at his side a poignard wears
Concealed within his garment's fold.
Outside the tent, meantime, the huntsmen stood
Grasping the knives still dyed in harmless blood.
Fierce, motionless, without a breath,
They kept their eyes intent on Voragine
And his afflicted maiden kin;
With looks that threatened death for death.
Then, cried the Priest with voice that smote
The towers and echoing walls remote,—
‘Here the dumb speak, again the murdered feel,
While sufferers to sufferers appeal!’
Then he looked round on many faces
Whereon erewhile was not a care;
That now are masked in madness and despair.
Grasping the knives still dyed in harmless blood.
96
They kept their eyes intent on Voragine
And his afflicted maiden kin;
With looks that threatened death for death.
Then, cried the Priest with voice that smote
The towers and echoing walls remote,—
‘Here the dumb speak, again the murdered feel,
While sufferers to sufferers appeal!’
Then he looked round on many faces
Whereon erewhile was not a care;
That now are masked in madness and despair.
HAYUS.
Who shall our peace and love restore!
The sire is buried in his field
That shall no harvest to his children yield,
That he shall sow and reap no more.
Let it lie waste, and be a grave
Ye hearts that sorrow and for vengeance crave!
Afresh the huntsmen grasp their knives
And lift them flashing! The keen blades
Are aimed no more at harmless lives.
‘Ye antlered Stags! We only chafe
To reach his heart who slew our wives!
Graze on, well-watered be your glades!
Peace be with you; ah! you are safe.’
And lift them flashing! The keen blades
Are aimed no more at harmless lives.
‘Ye antlered Stags! We only chafe
To reach his heart who slew our wives!
Graze on, well-watered be your glades!
Peace be with you; ah! you are safe.’
The Priest lifts up his head once more,
As of a drowning man remote from shore,
And cries, ‘Youths, stand you there with brows indented?
Can you ever love again
Who saw your first betrothed ones slain;
Is the dark outrage unresented?’
Nigh him a mournful woman stoops:
And as he points the more she droops.
He sees her fidget at her breast;
‘There,’ cries he, ‘did her slaughtered baby rest!’
She starts, she feels it to her cleave,
And its last breath against her bosom heave.
As of a drowning man remote from shore,
97
Can you ever love again
Who saw your first betrothed ones slain;
Is the dark outrage unresented?’
Nigh him a mournful woman stoops:
And as he points the more she droops.
He sees her fidget at her breast;
‘There,’ cries he, ‘did her slaughtered baby rest!’
She starts, she feels it to her cleave,
And its last breath against her bosom heave.
‘O my lost people!’ cries the Troubadour,
‘Revenge is not all balm; let us implore
His solace whom we all adore.
Almighty One,
Lift our hearts gently to thy throne!’
‘Revenge is not all balm; let us implore
His solace whom we all adore.
Almighty One,
Lift our hearts gently to thy throne!’
These words the Troubadour strains forth,
All kneel, all eyes on Heaven are bent;
All anger is subdued, all wrath;
Upraised and calm is every face,
And vanishes the boundless space
Between them and the firmament.
All kneel, all eyes on Heaven are bent;
All anger is subdued, all wrath;
Upraised and calm is every face,
And vanishes the boundless space
Between them and the firmament.
HAYUS.
‘Supremest Lord,
High on thy olive-branch hang up the sword,
And these dead hearts inspire:
To know thy will is now their one desire!
98
As stars in-breathed thy will when first they turned
And rushed into the paths Thou didst vacate,
To these dead hearts thy will bequeath
Who now in outer anguish seethe,
But thy commandments venerate.’
Then knelt in prayer the Troubadour,
But spoke no word, his hands together wringing,
His arms, in his despair, up-flinging
That seemed to lift the graves, and call
On the Most High to witness all!
His eyes in this last pang he raises,
Then flings his body in the dust.
The multitude intensely gazes;
On them like a blighting gust
His anguish falls: the curtains are descending;
O'er the closed tent the Serpent-banner strides!
The second scene of this dread Play is ending;
And no applause the tragedy derides.
99
Scene IV.
—The Tent in the Paradise of Cœlis; and, moving round the heights, a car bearing Pandolpb and Beatrice.Actors, Spectators, Troops.
In sudden haste starts back each flapping sail.
‘Where are we?’ asks the Minstrel, dazed and pale:
‘No longer in His Presence who unrolled
The Will Supreme!’
He shivers in the cold,
Slow to proceed and slow the fiat to unfold.
‘No longer in the burning clime above
Where we beheld the God of Love,
As he revealed his mighty will!’
‘Where are we?’ asks the Minstrel, dazed and pale:
‘No longer in His Presence who unrolled
The Will Supreme!’
He shivers in the cold,
Slow to proceed and slow the fiat to unfold.
‘No longer in the burning clime above
Where we beheld the God of Love,
As he revealed his mighty will!’
And thus the Minstrel lingers still
Like one death-stricken by an earthly chill,
Although the sun o'er his encampment flame.
And closer draws his robes around,
Trembling in ecstasy profound.
‘Beloved, who for your parents mourn,
Friends life-severed, wives from husbands torn,
You have a Father! His kind grace
You found; I see it shine in every face;
All base revenge has passed and left no trace.
Were you all punished for your crimes
Committed in the peaceful times,
And was the visitation sent
For your offences, bidding you repent?
Like one death-stricken by an earthly chill,
Although the sun o'er his encampment flame.
And closer draws his robes around,
Trembling in ecstasy profound.
‘Beloved, who for your parents mourn,
Friends life-severed, wives from husbands torn,
You have a Father! His kind grace
You found; I see it shine in every face;
All base revenge has passed and left no trace.
Were you all punished for your crimes
Committed in the peaceful times,
And was the visitation sent
For your offences, bidding you repent?
100
Or has the wondrous verdict freed
Your lives and no accuser come
To brand you, or to justify the deed
That to those ashes gave your home?’
Your lives and no accuser come
To brand you, or to justify the deed
That to those ashes gave your home?’
There still is silence, but resolve is there,
That doth some awful purpose bear.
The Warrior, calm, is yet aghast,
And sits two trembling maids between,
His present ever nearer to his past.
That doth some awful purpose bear.
The Warrior, calm, is yet aghast,
And sits two trembling maids between,
His present ever nearer to his past.
HAYUS.
I know your will; it is His Will: I saw
Unrolled the sentence of His law.
'Tis not revenge, the despicable crime!
For Heaven is high, her verdicts are sublime.
She bids us with our dead to bury hate,
Not on revenge our sorrow satiate!
Not vengeance?
A stern Chorus
thunders,
‘No!’
The huntsmen then in voices fierce and fell
Cry out, ‘This woman shall our verdict tell;
She smarts beneath the murderer's blow.’
Held up, the woman staggers, sliding
Before the priest as o'er a Serpent's path.
She is the vessel of a stagnant wrath
Which is the flood-time of its grief abiding.
She, once more childless, hides her face
As if so deep a sorrow were disgrace.
She like a dying Pythoness appears:
The pitying audience moans for her its fears.
None hear her voice, she whispers low;
She shivers in the winter of her woe.
The Priest supports her to the seats,
And to the eager crowd repeats
The few short words the woman said.
Cry out, ‘This woman shall our verdict tell;
She smarts beneath the murderer's blow.’
Held up, the woman staggers, sliding
Before the priest as o'er a Serpent's path.
She is the vessel of a stagnant wrath
Which is the flood-time of its grief abiding.
101
As if so deep a sorrow were disgrace.
She like a dying Pythoness appears:
The pitying audience moans for her its fears.
None hear her voice, she whispers low;
She shivers in the winter of her woe.
The Priest supports her to the seats,
And to the eager crowd repeats
The few short words the woman said.
‘Not in revenge Heaven lifts the rod!’
Thrice from his mouth and ever louder,
His voice more stern his bearing prouder,
Thrice the verdict he delivers,
And every heart there present quivers
As when a text from Holy Writ
A demon's soul in man has lit,
While still is flaming in his eyes
The wrath to come! How shall it end?
Again his words as bolts descend:
‘Not to avenge! but, to chastise!’
Thus as he cruelly lets fall
The Word of God, it crushes all.
They seem to see in their dismay
An angry God among them at the play,
Who brings with Him his judgment-day.
Thrice from his mouth and ever louder,
His voice more stern his bearing prouder,
Thrice the verdict he delivers,
And every heart there present quivers
As when a text from Holy Writ
A demon's soul in man has lit,
While still is flaming in his eyes
The wrath to come! How shall it end?
Again his words as bolts descend:
‘Not to avenge! but, to chastise!’
Thus as he cruelly lets fall
The Word of God, it crushes all.
They seem to see in their dismay
An angry God among them at the play,
Who brings with Him his judgment-day.
HAYUS.
Not to avenge, but to chastise!
They who an infant's strength despise,
102
Our God elects for high example.
The Chorus
shrilly shouts:
‘For ever!’
HAYUS.
Could they our peace of mind restore us
We might forgive: this can they never:
It is an hour of retribution
And for their sin is no ablution.
CHORUS.
For ever blood must wash out blood!
The Priest less stern, in silence stood,
His people mute; again his eyes
Fall on them; every voice replies
In shriller chorus: ‘Blood for blood!’
HAYUS.
Then shall there be three signs from Heaven:
Behold the first!
The Cross he raises.
As soon as they perceive the signal given
By bugle blast all ears are riven,
That through the distant gorges winds
And hill and vale in echoing tumult binds.
When near the summons ceases to be heard,
Afar, unto the utmost mazes
The chill recesses of the gorge are stirred.
The Warrior dreads, no eye can see
What fearful vengeance is in store:
Yet is it war's fair strategy,
Though he shall shout of victory no more.
Could he the dear loved woman save!
But how? Fierce eyes their every movement follow.
O anguish, must a common grave
The innocent and guilty swallow?
He bids the maidens go; they cannot rise,
Their quivering limbs have not the power,
Held in the terror of that hour;
And death seems glazing in their eyes.
As soon as they perceive the signal given
By bugle blast all ears are riven,
That through the distant gorges winds
And hill and vale in echoing tumult binds.
When near the summons ceases to be heard,
103
The chill recesses of the gorge are stirred.
The Warrior dreads, no eye can see
What fearful vengeance is in store:
Yet is it war's fair strategy,
Though he shall shout of victory no more.
Could he the dear loved woman save!
But how? Fierce eyes their every movement follow.
O anguish, must a common grave
The innocent and guilty swallow?
He bids the maidens go; they cannot rise,
Their quivering limbs have not the power,
Held in the terror of that hour;
And death seems glazing in their eyes.
Back from the gorge a trumpet-note
Is thrice repeated, then with sound
Of heavy tramp, confused and loud,
As when deep thunders crush the ground,
The dust advancing cloud on cloud,
All ears as by their destiny are smote.
A troop of horsemen clad for fight
With sabres drawn bursts into sight,
And vultures startled at the bugle-shock,
Flap their disordered wings, and from their rock
Scale with stretched necks the skyey hollow,
And o'er the ill-fated fields the troopers follow.
Between the arena and the hills
That savage band the narrow passage fills;
A panic spreads, by many ways
To make escape the crowd essays,
But all who fly the flashing steel dismays.
Now are there screams and woman's wails,
Terror in every face prevails.
No blow is struck, no threat is spoken;
Each horseman falls into his place,
And thus in line those troops the people face,
Encircling all in ranks unbroken.
Their banner-bearers on white chargers seated
Display the fluttering Serpent to the crowd,
Its blood-red coils, its movements proud,
Now in the troubled ether shaking,
Now over all in frightful billows breaking.
Is thrice repeated, then with sound
Of heavy tramp, confused and loud,
As when deep thunders crush the ground,
The dust advancing cloud on cloud,
All ears as by their destiny are smote.
A troop of horsemen clad for fight
With sabres drawn bursts into sight,
And vultures startled at the bugle-shock,
Flap their disordered wings, and from their rock
Scale with stretched necks the skyey hollow,
And o'er the ill-fated fields the troopers follow.
Between the arena and the hills
That savage band the narrow passage fills;
A panic spreads, by many ways
104
But all who fly the flashing steel dismays.
Now are there screams and woman's wails,
Terror in every face prevails.
No blow is struck, no threat is spoken;
Each horseman falls into his place,
And thus in line those troops the people face,
Encircling all in ranks unbroken.
Their banner-bearers on white chargers seated
Display the fluttering Serpent to the crowd,
Its blood-red coils, its movements proud,
Now in the troubled ether shaking,
Now over all in frightful billows breaking.
Hopeless, then whispers Voragine
To Vivia: ‘Is there aught that you have seen?’
She answers, ‘Pandolph and his Beatrice.’
To Vivia: ‘Is there aught that you have seen?’
She answers, ‘Pandolph and his Beatrice.’
VORAGINE.
They move along the heights; they pause; and now
Dismayed they look upon us from the mountainbrow.
They move again, towards Cœlis winds their car,
As they gaze on us still.
VIVIA.
Let it suffice
That they are safe.
105
They yet may bring us aid;
If not, their coming has been well delayed.
They vanish now.
VIVIA.
They reappear; they are
With Cœlis on his mount; and now their car
Wheels swiftly forward from the danger gone,
And Cœlis, watching us, is there alone.
Scene V.
—The Paradise of Cœlis.Actors, Spectators, Troops, and the Serpent Kausis.
The stage into a nation grows;
The actors swell into avenging foes.
With sadder look the Troubadour
Advances towards the people, hushed,
While he uplifts the Cross once more;
So drops away their fitful roar
Like falling waves upon the boulders crushed.
Till it befal to learn their fates
The panting crowd his voice awaits:
Some deem that out of such a multitude
They may themselves the crush elude,
106
Ere they have dropped beneath a sabre's wound.
HAYUS.
‘Hear, Voragine! When thou didst lead
Thy arms against us, what was our offence?
Then be the ending of thy deed
A terror for all coming time;
And be the sentence passed upon thy crime
Worse than the pangs of life-long penitence.
I curse thee through the Power above
Whose dearest work thou didst efface;
I curse thee through his utmost love
Who suffered death to spare the human race!
I curse thy kindred and thy bride,
And all who shared in thee a hero's pride!
Our fate we feel; be thine as hard a fate
And like our homes these homes be desolate!
The dogs of war to thee return,
Let loose upon us in that cruel fray;
Again with thirst of blood they burn
On this their second festal day.
So endeth this long-memorable Play!’
He lifts the Cross a third time, at whose flash
He turns his face, then out of sight retires,
But in departing hears the armour's crash.
The watchful troops had caught the sign
And in their bosoms wrath divine
The rage of vengeance fires.
The horsemen in their fury leap
At helpless crowds and o'er their bodies sweep,
Sabreing alike the old and young.
The people to and fro are driven,
Shrieking for pity never given
By those who trample down the astonished throng.
Some towards the open gates are rushing
To but encounter sights more dire:
The Serpent Kausis guards the gates,
And there his maddened prey awaits,
Rolling o'er them his eyes of fire;
Their bodies in an instant crushing.
He turns his face, then out of sight retires,
But in departing hears the armour's crash.
The watchful troops had caught the sign
And in their bosoms wrath divine
The rage of vengeance fires.
107
At helpless crowds and o'er their bodies sweep,
Sabreing alike the old and young.
The people to and fro are driven,
Shrieking for pity never given
By those who trample down the astonished throng.
Some towards the open gates are rushing
To but encounter sights more dire:
The Serpent Kausis guards the gates,
And there his maddened prey awaits,
Rolling o'er them his eyes of fire;
Their bodies in an instant crushing.
When eyes no longer upward gaze,
Fresh dimmed by death, like fiery snakes outburst
Red flames upon the height accursed,
Swift coils of fire the castle racking,
Like bones its oaken rafters cracking,
Till every house was fuel in the blaze,
That like a sea to the far valley spread
Where Hayus lay, self-smitten, with the dead.
Fresh dimmed by death, like fiery snakes outburst
Red flames upon the height accursed,
Swift coils of fire the castle racking,
Like bones its oaken rafters cracking,
Till every house was fuel in the blaze,
That like a sea to the far valley spread
Where Hayus lay, self-smitten, with the dead.
108
Scene VI.
—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.
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.
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?
For he had found the holy being;
Through his clear soul the Soul of All foreseeing.
109
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 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.
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:
‘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!’
The anthem of an Evermore:
110
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!
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!
| The Serpent Play | |