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A DRAMA OF EXILE.
And which of you complains of loss by them, For whose delight and use ye have your life And honour in creation? Ponder it! This regent and sublime Humanity, Though fallen, exceeds you! this shall film your sun, Shall hunt your lightning to its lair of cloud,—Turn back your rivers, footpath all your seas, Lay flat your forests, master with a look Your lion at his fasting, and fetch down Your eagle flying. Nay, without this rule Of mandom, ye would perish,—beast by beast Devouring; tree by tree, with strangling roots And trunks set tuskwise. Ye would gaze on God With imperceptive blankness up the stars, And mutter, "Why, God, hast Thou made us thus?" And, pining to a sallow idiocy, Stagger up blindly against the ends of life; Then stagnate into rottenness, and drop Heavily—poor, dead matter—piecemeal down The abysmal spaces—like a little stone Let fall to chaos. Therefore, over you, Accept this sceptre; therefore be content To minister with voluntary grace And melancholy pardon, every rite And service in you, to this sceptred hand. Be ye to man as angels be to God, Servants in pleasure, singers of delight, Suggesters to his soul of higher things Than any of your highest. So, at last, He shall look round on you, with lids too straight To hold the grateful tears, and thank you well; And bless you when he prays his secret prayers, And praise you when he sings his open songs, For the clear song-note he has learnt in you, Of purifying sweetness; and extend Across your head his golden fantasies, Which glorify you into soul from sense! Go, serve him for such price. That not in vain;
