The Masque Of Forsaken Gods

SCENE: A moonlit glade on a summer midnight         THE POET         What consummation of the toiling moon         O'ercomes the midnight blue with violet,         Wherein the stars turn grey! The summer's green,         Edgd and strong by day, is dull and faint         Beneath the moon's all-dominating mood,         That in this absence of the impassioned sun,         Sways to a sleep of sound and calm of color         The live and vivid aspect of the world -         Subdued as with the great expectancy         Which blurs beginning features of a dream,         Things and events lost 'neath an omening         Of central and oppressive bulk to come.         Here were the theatre of a miracle,         If such, within a world long alienate         From its first dreams, and shut with skeptic years,         Might now befall.         THE PHILOSOPHER         The Huntress rides no more         Across the upturned faces of the stars:         'Tis but the dead shell of a frozen world,         Glittering with desolation. Earth's old gods -         The gods that haunt like dreams each planet's youth -         Are fled from years incredulous, and tired         With penetrating of successive masks,         That give but emptiness they served to hide.         Remains not faith enough to bring them back -         Pan to his wood, Diana to her moon,         And all the visions that made populous         An eager world where Time grows weary now.         Yet Youth, that lives, might for a little claim         The pantheon of dream, on such a night,         When 'neath the growing marvel of the moon         The films of time wear perilously thin,         And thought looks backward to the simpler years,         Till all the vision seems but just beyond.         If one have faith, it may be that he shall         Behold the gods - once only, and no more,         Because of Time's inhospitality,         For which they may not stay.         THE POET         Within the marvel of the light, what flower         Of active wonder from quiescence springs!         Is it a throng of luminous white clouds,         Phantoms of some old storm's death-driven Titans,         That float beneath the moon, and speak with voices         Like the last echoes of a thunder spent?         'Tis the forsaken gods, that win a foothold         About the magic circle which the moon         Draws like some old enchantress round the glade.         THE PHILOSOPHER         I see them not: the vision is addressed         Only to thine acute and eager youth.         JOVE         All heaven and earth were once my throne;         Now I have but the wind alone         For shifting judgment-seat.         The pillared world supported me:         Yet man's old incredulity         Left nothing for my feet.         PAN         Man hath forgotten me:         Yet seems it that my memory         Saddens the wistful voices of the wood;         Within each erst-frequented spot         Echo forgets my music not,         Nor Earth my tread where trampling years have stood.         ARTEMIS         Time hath grown cold         Toward beauty loved of old.         The gods must quake         When dreams and hopes forsake         The heart of man,         And disillusion's ban         More chill than stone,         Rears till the former throne         Of loveliness         Is dark and tenantless.         Now must I weep -         Homeless within the deep         Where once of old         Mine orbd chariot rolled, -         And mourn in vain         Man's immemorial pain         Uncomforted         Of light and beauty fled.         APOLLO         Time wearied of my song -         A satiate and capricious king         Who for his pleasure bade me sing,         First of his minstrel throng.         Till, cloyed with melody,         His ear grew faint to voice and lyre;         Forgotten then of Time's desire,         His thought was void of me.         APHRODITE         I, born of sound and foam,         Child of the sea and wind,         Was fire upon mankind -         Fuelled with Syria, and with Greece and Rome.         Time fanned me with his breath;         Love found new warmth in me,         And Life its ecstasy,         Till I grew deadly with the wind of death.         A NYMPH         How can the world be still so beautiful         When beauty's self is fled? Tis like the mute         And marble loveliness of some dead girl;         And we that hover here, are as the spirit         Of former voice and motion, and live color         In that which shall not stir nor speak again.         ANOTHER NYMPH         Nay, rather say this lovely, lifeless world         Is but a rigid semblance, counterfeiting         The world which was. Nor have the gods retained         Such power as once informed and rendered vital         The cryptic irresponsiveness of stone, -         That statue which Pygmalion made and loved.         AT         I, who was discord among men,         Alone of all Time's hierarchy         Find that Time hath no need of me,         No lack that I might fill again.         THE POET         Tell me, O gods, are ye forever doomed         To fall and flutter among spacial winds,         Finding release nor foothold anywhere -         Debarred from doors of all the suns, like spirits         Whose names are blotted from the lists of Time,         Though they themselves yet wander undestroyed?         THE GODS TOGETHER         Throneless, discrowned, and impotent,         In man's sad disillusionment,         We passed with Earth's returnless youth,         Who were the semblances of truth,         The veils that hid the vacantness         Infinite, naked, meaningless,         The blank and universal Sphinx         Each world beholds at last - and sinks.         New gods protect awhile the gaze         Of man - each one a veil that stays -         Till the new gods, discredited,         Like mist that melts with noon, are fled -         That power oppressive, limitless,         The tyranny of nothingness.         Our power is dead upon the earth         With the first dews and dawns of Time;         But in the far and younger clime         Of other worlds, it hath re-birth.         Yea, though we find not entrance here -         Astray like feathers on the wind,         To neither earth nor heaven consigned -         Fresh altars in a distant sphere         Are keen with fragrance, bright with fire,         New hearths to warm us from the night,         Till, banished thence, we pass in flight         While all the flames of dream expire.