The Last Song of Lucifer
To Be Read Like a Meditation
Lucifer dreams of his fate and then forgets the dream. When Lucifer was undefiled, When Lucifer was young, When only angel-music Fell from his glorious tongue, Dreaming in his innocence Beneath God’s golden trees By genius pure his fancy fell— By sweet divine disease— To a wilderness of sorrows dim Beneath the ether seas. That father of radiant harmony, Of music transcendently bright— Truest to art since heaven began, Wrapped in royal, melodious light— That beautiful light-bearer, lofty and loyal Dreamed bitter dreams of enigma and night. But soon the singer woke and stood And tuned his harp to sing anew And scorned the dreams (as well he should) For only to the evil crew Are dreams of dread and evil true, Remembered well, or understood. The dream is fulfilled. But when a million years were done And a million million years beside, He broke his harp-strings one by one; He sighed, aweary of rich things, He spread his pallid, heavy wings And flew to find the deathless stains, The wounds that come with wanderings. He will never dream again, but the demons dream of wandering and singing, and doing all things just as he did in his day. He chose the solemn paths of Hell, He sang for that dumb land too well, Defying their disdain Till he was cursed and slain. Ah—he shall never dream again— Mourn, for he shall not dream again— But the demons dream in pain, Of wandering in the night And singing in the night, Singing till they reign. Music is holy, even in the infernal world. Oh hallowed are the demons, A-dreaming songs again, And holy to my heart! the ancient music-art, That echo of a memory in demon-haunted men, That hope of music, sweet hope, vain, That sets the world a-seeking— A passion pure, a subtle pain If Lucifer’s song could be completely remembered, one would be willing to pay the great price. Too dear for song or speaking. Oh, who would not with the demons be, For the fullness of their memory Of that dayspring song, Of that holy thing That Lucifer alone could sing, That Hell and Earth so hopelessly NOW FOLLOWS WHAT EVERY DEMON SAYS IN HIS HEART, REMEMBERING THAT TIME And gloriously are seeking! * * * * * * * * * * How the singer made his lyre. Oh, Lucifer, great Lucifer, Oh, fallen, ancient Lucifer, Master, lost, of the angel choir— Silent, suffering Lucifer: Once your alchemies of Hell Wrought your chains to a magic lyre All strung with threads of purple fire, Till the hell-hounds moaned from your bitter spell— The sweetest song since the demons fell— Haunting song of the heart’s desire. How the song began. Oh, Lucifer, great Lucifer, You who have sung in vain, Ecstasy of sweet regret, Ecstasy of pain, Strain that the angels can never forget, Haunting the children of punishment yet, Bowing them, bringing their tears in the darkness; Oh, the night-caves of Chaos are breathing it yet! The last that your bosom may ever deliver, Oh, musical master of æons and æons.... Nor devils nor dragons may ever forget, Though the walls of our prison should crumble and shiver, And the death-dews of Chaos our armor should wet, For the song of the infamous Lucifer Was an anthem of glorious scorning And courage, and horrible pain— Was the song of a Son of the Morning, A song that was sung in vain. Oh singing was only in Heaven Ere Lucifer’s melody came, But when Lucifer’s harp-strings grew loud in their sighing, When he called up the dragons by name— The song was the sorrow of sorrows, The song was the Hope of Despair, Or the smile of a warrior falling— A prayer and a curse and a prayer— Or a soul going down through the shadows and calling, Or the laughter of Night in his lair; The song was the fear of ten thousand tomorrows— On the racks of grief and of pain— The herald of silences, dreadful, unending, When the last little echo should listen in vain.... How the song made the demons dream they were still fighting for Satan. It was memory, memory, Visions of glory,— Memory, memory, Visions of fight. The pride of the onset, The banners that fluttered, The wails of the battle-pierced angels of light. Song of the times of the Nether Empire The age when our desperate band Heaped our redoubts with the horrible fire On the fringes of Holier Land— Conquering always, conquering never, Building a throne of sand— When Satan still wielded that glorious scepter— The sword of his glorious hand. Then rang the martial music Sung by the hosts of God In the first of the shameful years of fear When we bit the purple sod: He sang that shameful battle-story— He twanged each threaded torture-flame; Wherever his leprous fingers came They drew from the strings a groan of glory: How the song enchanted them til they were in fancy the good warriors of God, and they shouted their enemy’s battle-cry. Then we dreamed at last, Then we lost the past, We dreamed we were angels in battle-array: We tore our hearts with God’s battle-yell And the sound crashed up from the smoky fen And the battle sweat stood forth On the awful brows of our fighting men: And the magical singer, grim and wild Swept his harp again, and smiled, And the harp-strings lifted our cries that day Till the thundering charge reached the City on High— God’s charge, that he thought Had passed for aye, When our last fond hope went down to die. How, at the climax of the song Lucifer almost restored the first day of creation, when the Universe was happy and sinless. Oh throbbing, sweet, enthralling spell! Madly, madly, oh my heart— Heart of anguish, heart of Hell— Beat the music through your night— Pierced the strain that the wanderer Wrought with fingers white; For last he sang—of the morning— The song of the Sons of the Morning— The fire of the star-souled Lucifer Before he had known a stain; That song which came when the suns were young And the Dayspring knew his place— That joy, full born, that unknown tongue, How the tears of the distracted demons become a heaven-climbing flame. That shouting chant of the Sons of God When first they saw Jehovah’s face. And the Wanderer laughed, then sang it at last Till it leaped as a flame to the forests on high And the tears of the demons were fire in the sky. How Lucifer seemed to make himself God. And just for a breath he conquered and reigned, For one quick pulse of time he stood; By flame was crowned where God had been Himself the Word sublime— Himself the Most High Love unstained, The Great, Good King of the Stars and Years— Crowned, enthroned, by a leaping flame— The fire of our love-born tears. How the angels were conquered by the sound of his music from afar, and the Demons were torn with love. And the angels bowed down, for his glory was vast— Loving their conqueror, weeping, aghast— While we sobbed, for a moment repenting the past, And the mock-hope came, that eats and stings, The hope for innocent dawns above, The joy of it beat in our ears like wings, Our iron cheeks seared with the tears of love— Was it not enough, Was it not enough That our cheeks were seared with the tears of Love? Demons and angels curse the singer. So we cursed the harping of Lucifer The lyre was lost from his leper hands And the hell-hounds tore his living heart. And the angels cursed great Lucifer For his purple flame consumed their lands Till golden ways were desert sands; They hurled him down, afar, apart. The Punishment. Beneath where the Gulfs of Silence end, Where never sighs nor songs descend, Never a hell-flare in his eyes Alone, alone, afar he lies.... Fearfully alone, beyond immortal ken He is further down in the deep of pain Than is Hell from the grief of men; And his memories of music Are rare as desert-rain. Ended forever the ecstasy And song too sweet for scorning— The song that was still in vain; And the shout of the battle-charge of God— Ended forever the Song of the Morning— The Song that was sung in vain.