Classic Poem

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.

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 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.
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
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
And gloriously are seeking!
...
...

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.

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 aeons and aeons. . . .
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. . . .

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:

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.

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,
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 forest on high
And the tears of the demons were fire in the sky.

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.

And the angels bowed down, for his glory was vast —
Loving their conquerer, 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?

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.
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.