 | The Serpent Play |  |
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,
12
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,
14
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.
| The Serpent Play | |