 | The Serpent Play |  |
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ACT I.
Proscenium.—The Gates which lead to the Paradise of Cœlis.Cœlis, Messenger.
MESSENGER.
Scarce need you private tidings, for the war
Is its own chronicler: the Ophidian streams
Are thick with blood, here clinging to the bank
In clots like the red fungus, there in floods
Down-bearing through the gulleys to the town
Its grim advices. In the spattered dust
Lie stretched the fallen corpses of the foe
Like a hewn forest. Rampant victory
Appals the leaders, and the priests have fled
Their sanctuary. Hayus only stays
To meet us with unhoped for terms of peace.
His foresight, keen as vision, has o'erruled
The councils: they accept the conquering Cross
That roots out Serpent-worship from the world.
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A sanguinary peace then ends the war.
Would I had gone to learn the people's wants;
To yield them even more than they desired:
Then had they risen higher than their creed,
Now their sole refuge.
MESSENGER.
So it might have been,
Had you first striven to cleanse the common faith
Of its idolatry. In days scarce gone
Well we remember how our villagers
Obeyed your word, at which the worship dropped.
But little trust in friends have jealous foes:
They know we have already doomed their creed
In setting ours aside.
CŒLIS.
Why is it crushed
When by example 'twas so sure to fall?
Our aims are now degraded, 'tis too late
To remedy the wrong: yet from this time
May Voragine show mercy to their souls,
Not flash the Cross before them to impose
Belief that adds new torture to their wounds.
Say this from me.
MESSENGER.
I only can obey.
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alone.
Be ever distant from this blessèd seat
His ruthless bloodhounds, Conquest and Defeat!
Can these, that even the reptile rite debase,
An old religion by a new replace?
Alas! if one so must the other fall,
For what is new is never natural.
In this contented home our people find
The lull of peace; not so my shaken mind!
But shall I murmur when so many cares
In nature's uncomplaining heart abide?
These horrors on her fall, and she forbears!
She chides not; she has none to chide.
Yet may we see a shudder underlie
Her smile, that masks no base hypocrisy
But inner depths of goodness so conceals
That ages must elapse ere she herself reveals.
We worshipped her in every tree that grew,
Once deemed each rustling leaf her secret knew:
The juicy fruits, to golden goblets swelled,
Which to our lips the stooping branches held,
We deemed her conscious gift. But time outwore
The freshness that her new creation bore;
And thought sank deeper into things outside,
While they themselves sublimely deified.
God journeyed onward like a mighty wind,
But left the Soul that governs all behind,
Even from the sun-flame to the tended flower
That dies not out, though lasting but an hour.
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Scene I.
—The Paradise of Cœlis among the Ophidian Hills.Cœlis, alone.
CŒLIS.
‘Here, like a quiet child, while Summer plays
Around the dwelling, as in earlier days,
Purpling the vineyards, sparkling on the rills;
Gliding from flower to flower, till overflows
The perfume-breath of the full-bosomed rose,
I hail my paradise, my native hills!
Here am I still; here my lost sires repose
Under the mortal ban, that, ere their birth,
Blighted the future of this alien earth,
And in death-twilight bade their senses close.
Weak was the will that in a guardless hour
Was shackled by the Serpent's power!
Shall not some soul his subtle chain unbind
And live for ever as at first designed?
Not by the ways that sorcerous spirits choose!
But who can find the true one? The recluse
Sees promised lands beyond the grave:
He listens for the angels' voices
That say the mystic Cross shall save,
And with clasped hands he, to the last, rejoices.
Some gather in a crucible of clay
The herbs that hold earth's throeful sweat,
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And to acquit themselves of nature's debt.
But from earth's essence who shall souls renew,
Or from its flowers the life-elixir brew?
O Love, thou only way! My spirit sate
With gazing through thee: then shall it arise
To visions of a heavenly paradise,
And with them reach what seem the empty skies!
The Sun, my flaming sword, is at the gate
And waves the way I seek.’
His fathers' grave
Lay nigh, yet there the more to life he clave,
New meanings catching up from olden lore.
‘The Serpent broke man's will of yore,’
He cries, ‘and now the soul bemoans its realm
Long passed away, death left, to overwhelm
The thought that dares lost hope explore.’
He looks up towards the height; there stands
His castle o'er the triple-circling road.
He muses on his legend-haunted lands:
These were the ancient Snake's abode
In days of old romance, as told the bards;
And every gate even now the Serpent guards,
As, coiled upon a golden field,
For ages it hath lain across his father's shield.
He thinks how once a leafy parasite
It clomb the trees and with a reptile's might
Strangled their trunks, the forests all enthralling,
Till foe to man upon its belly crawling.
Lay nigh, yet there the more to life he clave,
New meanings catching up from olden lore.
‘The Serpent broke man's will of yore,’
He cries, ‘and now the soul bemoans its realm
Long passed away, death left, to overwhelm
The thought that dares lost hope explore.’
He looks up towards the height; there stands
His castle o'er the triple-circling road.
He muses on his legend-haunted lands:
These were the ancient Snake's abode
In days of old romance, as told the bards;
And every gate even now the Serpent guards,
As, coiled upon a golden field,
For ages it hath lain across his father's shield.
He thinks how once a leafy parasite
It clomb the trees and with a reptile's might
Strangled their trunks, the forests all enthralling,
Till foe to man upon its belly crawling.
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His steps now pause before a brook:
'Twas but the waters o'er the pebbles shook,
Yet seemed they spirit-voices meeting,
And nature's gossip-lore repeating.
One shrilly said: ‘Look up and see.’
One murmured low: ‘The apple-tree.’
The first then babbled: ‘It is blazing
With ruddy fruits.’
The other said: ‘It burns and shoots,
And eyes are gazing.’
And then another: ‘Have a fear,
The Snake is here.’
Then murmurs reach him through the bracken,
Of air-gusts that delight to teaze,
While fern-plumes in their stately silence shaken
Wave to and fro in concert with the breeze.
He listens as to woman's voice they listen
Who watch to see her beauty glisten
While her voice murmurs: so he yields to sleep,
Charmed by the sights and sounds that o'er him sweep.
Sultry, the air for lofty life is burning;
He dozes on, his thoughts returning;
Into green spires of flame the fern-stems leap;
Balls of hot fire the glowing apples seem:
He dares not wonder, lest his dream
Should vanish and flash down the naked stream.
The fern-flames speak with tongues that never tame,
The apples burn and utter silent flame.
The brook swells higher; hissings fierce
Through its frothy torrent pierce.
Then comes a vision of the ancient Snake,
Even as one sees by day when wide-awake;
Its head is rolling in the fern,
Its coils are round the boughs where the red apples burn.
'Twas but the waters o'er the pebbles shook,
Yet seemed they spirit-voices meeting,
And nature's gossip-lore repeating.
One shrilly said: ‘Look up and see.’
One murmured low: ‘The apple-tree.’
The first then babbled: ‘It is blazing
With ruddy fruits.’
The other said: ‘It burns and shoots,
And eyes are gazing.’
And then another: ‘Have a fear,
The Snake is here.’
Then murmurs reach him through the bracken,
Of air-gusts that delight to teaze,
While fern-plumes in their stately silence shaken
Wave to and fro in concert with the breeze.
He listens as to woman's voice they listen
Who watch to see her beauty glisten
While her voice murmurs: so he yields to sleep,
Charmed by the sights and sounds that o'er him sweep.
Sultry, the air for lofty life is burning;
He dozes on, his thoughts returning;
Into green spires of flame the fern-stems leap;
Balls of hot fire the glowing apples seem:
He dares not wonder, lest his dream
Should vanish and flash down the naked stream.
The fern-flames speak with tongues that never tame,
The apples burn and utter silent flame.
The brook swells higher; hissings fierce
Through its frothy torrent pierce.
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Even as one sees by day when wide-awake;
Its head is rolling in the fern,
Its coils are round the boughs where the red apples burn.
Then the Snake whispers, and voices are hushed;
Into its accents the silence has rushed;
Crisp is the roll of its tongue and intense
Are the glozings it pours on voluptuous sense.
And still 'tis in whisper that seemeth to say:
‘Thy moments are weary, prolong not thy day;
Thy life-time is weary, prolong not the chase
After days without ending; from all they recede;
Of all mortals alike is fantastic the creed;
Who hope and who mock end alike in the race.
Seize on rapture while yet it is nigh; a new mortal,
Thou enterest the world through a glorious portal,
All riches to scatter, all homage possess:
Seize on love without stint and all beauty caress.’
Into its accents the silence has rushed;
Crisp is the roll of its tongue and intense
Are the glozings it pours on voluptuous sense.
And still 'tis in whisper that seemeth to say:
‘Thy moments are weary, prolong not thy day;
Thy life-time is weary, prolong not the chase
After days without ending; from all they recede;
Of all mortals alike is fantastic the creed;
Who hope and who mock end alike in the race.
Seize on rapture while yet it is nigh; a new mortal,
Thou enterest the world through a glorious portal,
All riches to scatter, all homage possess:
Seize on love without stint and all beauty caress.’
On this the dreamer sees a phantom throng
Of rosy maidens float along;
Towards him they droop their wavy arms,
Alluring him with lagging charms;
And ever with a fonder face
Comes on new beauty with its newer grace.
O frantic pleasures, soul-dissolving!
O passion that once felt endures,
And bliss for evermore assures!
The brightest stars in heaven decline,
But joys about the heart revolving
With it ascend and still their own past light out-shine!
Of rosy maidens float along;
Towards him they droop their wavy arms,
Alluring him with lagging charms;
And ever with a fonder face
Comes on new beauty with its newer grace.
O frantic pleasures, soul-dissolving!
O passion that once felt endures,
And bliss for evermore assures!
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But joys about the heart revolving
With it ascend and still their own past light out-shine!
Scene II.
—The Temple of the Serpent Kausis, in the Paradise of Cœlis.Cœlis, alone.
CŒLIS.
‘Is sleep a darkness when my inner sight
Fills spaces where dissolving worlds belonged?
New visions, soul-enchanted, thronged
Around me in the vanished light!
Whence came they but from this creative will?
Then may it not the empty regions fill
With shapes more lasting from its own recesses,
When thus a living light the soul possesses?
But where shall this, my dream-creation be?
The sun-realms teem with works of One alone;
She thinks and all is real! She can see
The things Her soul hath imaged forth and done.
In virgin generation she conceives,
And to the expanding range her boundless nature gives.
Still the Snake rules below! With fated power
He filched from man all time, all save an hour:
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To plead the heirship to that lost estate?’
The snaky pillars of the temple hide
Among the leaves at the brookside;
None now, save Cœlis, ever dare
To breathe the false, infectious air.
Within, a serpent-idol hangs
With hideous coil and poison-dripping fangs;
And hissings as from hollow caves below
Enter the breezes, blowing where they blow,
And many a wayfarer affright
Who ventures thither by the pathless night.
Since Cœlis bade the Serpent-worship end,
For the Ophidian rites would none contend;
Still, unseen spirits round the temple rage
And bring to earth again a darker age.
There are the graves, and there the days gone by
Flit round them, memory on memory;
There thick as matted cobwebs lie
The souls of priestly warriors at rest,
And every knoll in consciousness invest.
Cœlis looks up the sloping grass
Where locust-trees in leafy shade bestride
The ancient path on either side,
And flutter o'er the sward while high the breezes pass.
He sees slow-crumbling through the boughs
The fane that holds his fathers' vows,
Where now the weird, unhallowed noises
Change into imploring voices,
That hymn the cabalistic prayer,
Poured from the writings on the walls engraved;
That ever speak though none be there:
Even as survive the old-world memories
That writ in fire by the Prime-mover
Break out upon the phosphorescent seas
And turn, like scrolls, their glowing pages over.
O records worthy to be saved!
Among the leaves at the brookside;
None now, save Cœlis, ever dare
To breathe the false, infectious air.
Within, a serpent-idol hangs
With hideous coil and poison-dripping fangs;
And hissings as from hollow caves below
Enter the breezes, blowing where they blow,
And many a wayfarer affright
Who ventures thither by the pathless night.
Since Cœlis bade the Serpent-worship end,
For the Ophidian rites would none contend;
Still, unseen spirits round the temple rage
And bring to earth again a darker age.
There are the graves, and there the days gone by
Flit round them, memory on memory;
There thick as matted cobwebs lie
The souls of priestly warriors at rest,
And every knoll in consciousness invest.
Cœlis looks up the sloping grass
Where locust-trees in leafy shade bestride
The ancient path on either side,
And flutter o'er the sward while high the breezes pass.
He sees slow-crumbling through the boughs
The fane that holds his fathers' vows,
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Change into imploring voices,
That hymn the cabalistic prayer,
Poured from the writings on the walls engraved;
That ever speak though none be there:
Even as survive the old-world memories
That writ in fire by the Prime-mover
Break out upon the phosphorescent seas
And turn, like scrolls, their glowing pages over.
O records worthy to be saved!
The wind is now upon the shivered rills;
Soughing sounds creep o'er the hollows;
A twilight film hangs o'er the hills
And through its shrouds the shadow follows.
To the low breeze the anthemed voices come
And whirl about their holy home.
The spirits of the dead are singing,
Down the darkened glacis bringing
The tongueless prayers that through the walls are ringing.
ANTHEM OF THE DEAD.Soughing sounds creep o'er the hollows;
A twilight film hangs o'er the hills
And through its shrouds the shadow follows.
To the low breeze the anthemed voices come
And whirl about their holy home.
The spirits of the dead are singing,
Down the darkened glacis bringing
The tongueless prayers that through the walls are ringing.
‘O Spirit, self-burning!
Soul of Decay!
Summer adjourning
In wintry array,
That ever returning
Thou sweepest away!
Leave us the fruit-time;
Leave us the root-time;
Winter is long!
Leave us the corn-time, leave us the grass-time,
Thou art the Strong!
Let the old sluices
Run down with the juices
Of olive and vine:
The oil flows from thee and thy blood is the wine.
Then shall we drink through thy wintery pastime
And shout o'er the wiles that thy wisdom instils,
And the good out of ill that thy cunning fulfils:
Shout to the hour when our breath we surrender
To thee our loved Spirit, our Lord, our Defender.’
Soul of Decay!
Summer adjourning
In wintry array,
That ever returning
Thou sweepest away!
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Leave us the root-time;
Winter is long!
Leave us the corn-time, leave us the grass-time,
Thou art the Strong!
Let the old sluices
Run down with the juices
Of olive and vine:
The oil flows from thee and thy blood is the wine.
Then shall we drink through thy wintery pastime
And shout o'er the wiles that thy wisdom instils,
And the good out of ill that thy cunning fulfils:
Shout to the hour when our breath we surrender
To thee our loved Spirit, our Lord, our Defender.’
Trembling but bold, he mounts the stair,
When all is hushed: he cannot hear
A breath, so deep appears the lull of prayer.
Then he essays to draw the bar
When seems a thunder-bolt to grate afar;
The unlocked heaven is shuddering for war.
And now, the winds through cloud-realms vaulting higher,
The thunder throbs pierced by the forkèd fire,
And sky-lakes plunge down heights sublime,
On the world's waters beating hurried time.
Yet in the rivers through the thunder pouring
And in the rushing wind-tides ever roaring,
To his strong soul one harmony abounds.
The several storms that rage, in concert play,
While the wide-engulphing sounds
Hold the racked hills and valleys in dismay.
And he is less alone on earth!
For lonely is the man whose spirit is
In concert only with eternal bliss,
And clashes with the concert of world-mirth.
When all is hushed: he cannot hear
A breath, so deep appears the lull of prayer.
Then he essays to draw the bar
When seems a thunder-bolt to grate afar;
The unlocked heaven is shuddering for war.
And now, the winds through cloud-realms vaulting higher,
The thunder throbs pierced by the forkèd fire,
And sky-lakes plunge down heights sublime,
On the world's waters beating hurried time.
Yet in the rivers through the thunder pouring
And in the rushing wind-tides ever roaring,
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The several storms that rage, in concert play,
While the wide-engulphing sounds
Hold the racked hills and valleys in dismay.
And he is less alone on earth!
For lonely is the man whose spirit is
In concert only with eternal bliss,
And clashes with the concert of world-mirth.
Scene III.
—The Hall of Voragine.Volupsa and Cœlis.
Is he not lone when none his cares partake,
And woman would his faith in nature shake?
Yet there was one he loved, and ever sought
When hope's excesses their own misery wrought.
Volupsa from the early day
Whereof the memory was childish play,
Had kept his heart as 'neath a vow:
But his meek love is humbled now;
To him it seems but as a summer rose
That bloomed, then dropped where the sweetbriar grows.
CŒLIS.
Volupsa! Life with us is lonely;
All day you speak to few but me,
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Yourself with eyes of pleasure see.
VOLUPSA.
But, Cœlis, soon we both shall welcome others:
Your darling sister Vivia and our brothers!
We shall be blithe for many a day
And laugh o'er all the absent voices say!
The more that length of waiting makes us weary,
The more will every heart be cheery:
Those whom we love are on their homeward way.
We need no other pleasure seek
Than to look on towards days so surely pending:
Time may creep slowly, yet has many a week
One happy morrow for its ending.
CŒLIS.
Your brother! Tell me his return is sure:
No other morrow shall my heart implore
Than that of peace. But time, I fear, effaces
In my young brother's breast the love of home:
New life in him wears out the early traces;
Here all is old; he will not come;
Not even when to his princess wed,—
Unless it hap we all are dead!
VOLUPSA.
His absence is but of a year:
Sooner than you surmise he will appear.
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No, he must stay in foreign courts
And there enjoy the savage sports;
Hunt the scared fox, run down the boar,
Stalk the red deer, pursue the roe,
And chase the plunging buffalo,
With times of hawking kept in store.
VOLUPSA.
Not strange it is to see a comely youth
Pursue his pleasures with the lords,—
Though strong may be the contrast it affords
To your pursuits of hidden truth.
Dear Cœlis, better were it far
That you had followed in the raging war
With my brave brother Voragine,
Who has so many battles seen!
Better than to be lost in fruitless musing!
Eyes pierce not nature and the heart
In her high symphony has little part:
Thought there but gambles and is ever losing.
CŒLIS.
Had I his tastes I could be wise:
I go but as the arrow flies.
Who shapes the bow the arrow shapes,
And none for long his doom escapes.
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Whence come these sayings sad and wild?
You were so cheerful when a child!
Too short for us was then the day,
And only tired-out eyes put off our play.
Now with a startling earnestness you meet
The same light hours half-way.
CŒLIS.
Can we repeat
Our infancy? Did we not then rehearse
With upstart zest our youth, our later age,
Before they came, and, on our little stage,
In arbitrary games all things reverse?
There lay our life, and only there
Can we look back devoid of care.
The times at last are true: the latest cry
Is war and Voragine's sage strategy:
How he the unsuspecting foe decoys;
How he their crops at harvest season,—
Their very towns with greedy fire destroys.
He makes men's lives the penalty of treason!
It is a feverish tale.
VOLUPSA.
He but performs
His duty when their fortresses he storms.
Despite these deeds is he not kind?
There never was a truer mind.
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Brave though he be, and fearing not to die,
Where is the pride of his humanity?
To him the higher life is lost
Who honour gains at honour's cost.
Look at our people, how their fields are teeming
With plenty for the year's supply!
The harvest-moon is nightly beaming
With gratulations of the Deity.
VOLUPSA.
Yes; it is sad; but how can we evade
The woes whereof this world is made!
Even you at last to this dark war assented.
CŒLIS.
And from that hour to this have I repented.
Even better had it been to share the fate
Of those who hope though they but death await:
Blessed are the souls who, early though they die,
Have striven to touch the highest destiny.
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Scene IV.
—The Harvest-plains outside the Paradise of Cœlis. Night.Cœlis, alone.
CŒLIS.
The moon is at the full and overflows;
The wheat is gathered into sheaves,
And heaven its quiet brilliance throws
On reapers who from toil repose
On the warm ground with flocks and beeves.
They, tired of grazing; tired of reaping;
O'er all the harvest-moon is sleeping;
All in illumined slumber bask and I
Alone keep the Eternal company.
The reapers lie full length, their hooks at hand;
The shepherds, at their midnight ease,
Their heads have pillowed on their knees:
Time moves not, sharing in their peace
And loitering on the yellow land.
A spell is upon all, the vultures sleep
Above in rocky nests, the wolves are charmed,
None fear the others, none the vigil keep,
But undefended here they sleep unharmed.
O friendly tomb! whence with re-opening eyes
These dreamy dead shall on the morrow rise!
| The Serpent Play | |