Festus

on the east,
Making amends for the long northern night
They passed ere either knew the other loved.
It is the hour of hearts, when all hearts feel
As they could love to mad death, finding aught
To give back fire; for love, like nature, is
War⁠—sweet war! Arms! To arms! so they be
Woman! Old people may say what they please⁠—
The heart of age is like an emptied wine-cup,
Its life lies in a heel-tap⁠—how can they judge?
’Twere a waste of time to ask how they wasted theirs.
But while the blood is bright, breath sweet, skin smooth,
And limbs all made to minister delight⁠—
Ere yet we have shed our locks like trees their leaves,
And we stand staring bare into the air⁠—
He is a fool who is not for love and beauty.
I speak unto the young, for I am of them,
And alway shall be. What are years to me?
Traitors! that vice-like fang the hand ye lick:
Ye fall like small birds beaten by a storm
Against a dead wall, dead. I pity ye.
Oh! that such mean things should raise hope or fear;
Those Titans of the heart, that fight at Heaven
And sleep by fits on fire; whose slightest stir’s
An earthquake. I am bound and blest to youth!
Oh! give me to the young⁠—the fair⁠—the free⁠—
The brave, who would breast a rushing burning world
Which came between them and their hearts’ delight.
None but the brave and beautiful can love.
Oh, for the young heart like a fountain playing!
Flinging its bright fresh feelings up to the skies
It loves and strives to reach⁠—strives, loves in vain:
It is of earth, and never meant for Heaven.
Let us love both, and die. The sphinx-like heart,
Consistent in its inconsistency,
Loathes life the moment that life’s riddle is read:
The knot of our existence is untied,
And we lie loose and useless. Life is had;
And then we sigh, and say, can this be all?
It is not what we thought⁠—it is very well⁠—
But we want something more⁠—there is but death.
And when we have said, and seen, and done, and had,
Enjoyed and suffered, all we have wished and feared⁠—
From fame to ruin, and from love to loathing⁠—
There can come but one more change⁠—try it⁠—death.
Oh! it is great to feel we care for nothing⁠—
That hope, nor love, nor fear, nor aught of earth
Can check the royal lavishment of life;
But like a streamer strown upon the wind,
We fling our souls to fate and to the future.
And to die young is youth’s divinest gift⁠—
To pass from one world fresh into another,
Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret,
And feel the immortal impulse from within
Which makes the coming, life⁠—cry, alway, on!
And follow it while strong⁠—is Heaven’s last mercy.
There is a fire-fly in the southern clime
Which shineth only when upon the wing;
So is it with the mind: when once we rest,
We darken. On! said God unto the soul
As to the earth, for ever. On it goes,
A rejoicing native of the infinite⁠—
As a bird of air⁠—an orb of heaven.

X

Scene⁠—The centre.

	Festus and Lucifer.
Lucifer	Behold us in the fire-crypts of the world! Through seas and buried mountains tomblike tracts, Fit to receive the skeleton of Death When he is dead⁠—through earthquakes, and the bones Of earthquake-swallowed cities, have we wormed Down to the ever burning forge of fire, Whereon in awful and omnipotent ease Nature, the delegate of God, brings forth Her everlasting elements, and breathes Around that fluent heat of life which clothes Itself in lightnings, wandering through the air, And pierces to the last and loftiest pore Of Earth’s snow-mantled mountains. In these vaults Are hid the archives of the universe; And here, the ashes of all ages gone, Each finally inurned. These pillars stand, Earth’s testimony to eternity.
Festus	All that is solid now was fluid once; Water, or air, or fire, or some one Permanent, permeating, element; As in this focal, world-evolving fire Like what I see around⁠—the vacuous power Whereon the world is based, e’en as wherein It rolls, I must believe.
Lucifer	The original Of all things is one thing. Creation is One whole. The differences a mortal sees Are diverse only to the finite mind.
Festus	This marble-walled immensity o’erroofed With pendant mountains glittering, awes my soul. God’s hand hath scooped the hollow of this world; Yea, none but His could; and I stand in it, Like a forgotten atom of the light, Some star hath lost upon its lightning flight.
Lucifer	Here mayst thou lay thy hand on nature’s heart, And feel its thousand yeared throbbings cease. High overhead, and deep beneath our feet, The sea’s broad thunder booms, scarce heard; around, The arches, like uplifted continents Of starry matter, burning inwardly, Stand; and, hard by, earth’s gleaming axle sleeps, All moving, all unmoved.
Festus	Age here on age Lie heaped like withered leaves. And must it end?
Lucifer	God worketh slowly: and a thousand years He takes to lift His hand off. Layer on layer He made earth, fashioned it and hardened it Into the great, bright, useful thing it is; Its seas, life-crowded, and soul-hallowed lands He girded with the girdle of the sun, That sets its bosom glowing like Love’s own Breathless embrace, close-clinging as for life;⁠— Veined it with gold, and dusted it with gems, Lined it with fire, and round its heart-fire bowed Rock-ribs unbreakable: until at last Earth took her shining station as a star, In Heaven’s dark hall, high up the crowd of worlds. All this and thus did God; and yet it ends. The ball He rolled and rounded, melts away E’en now to its constituent atomies.
Festus	It is enough. Though here were posited All secrets of existence, natural Or supernatural, dwell not here would I, Though ’twere to drain profoundest fountains. No! I love it not, the science nor the scene. I long to know again the fresh green earth, The breathing breeze, the sea and sacred stars. These recollections crowd upon my soul, As constellations on the evening skies, And will not be forgotten. Let us leave!
Lucifer	Aught that reminds the exile of his home Is surely pleasant. I, friend, am content.
Festus	I cannot be content with less than Heaven. O Heaven, I love thee ever! sole and whole, Living and comprehensive of all life; Thee, agy world, thee, universal Heaven, And heavenly universe! thee, sacred seat Of intellective Time, the throned stars And old oracular night;⁠—by night or day, To me thou canst not but be beautiful, Boundless, all-central, universal sphere! Whether the sun