II TO SATAN
To thee my verses,
Unbridled and daring,
Shall mount, O Satan,
King of the banquet.
Away with thy sprinkling,
O Priest, and thy droning,
For never shall Satan,
O Priest, stand behind thee.
See how the rust is
Gnawing the mystical
Sword of St. Michael;
And how the faithful
Wind-plucked archangel
Falls into emptiness!
Frozen the thunder in
Hand of Jehovah.
Like to pale meteors, or
Planets exhausted,
Out of the firmament
Rain down the angels.
Here in the matter
Which never sleeps,
King of phenomena,
King of all forms,
Thou, Satan, livest!
Thine is the empire
Felt in the dark eyes'
Tremulous flashing,
Whether their languishing
Glances resist, or,
Glittering and tearful, they
Call and invite.
How shine the clusters
With happy blood,
So that the furious
Joy may not perish!
So that the languishing
Love be restored,
And sorrow be banished
And love be increased!
Thy breath, O Satan,
My verses inspires
When from my bosom
The gods I defy
Of Kings pontifical,
Of Kings inhuman:
Thine is the lightning that
Sets minds to shaking.
For thee Arimane,
Adonis, Astarte;
For thee lived the marbles,
The pictures, the parchments,
When the fair Venus
Anadiomene
Blessed the Ionian
Heavens serene.
For thee were roaring the
Forests of Lebanon,
Of the fair Cyprian
Lover reborn;
For thee rose the chorus,
For thee raved the dances,
For thee the pure shining
Loves of the virgins,
Under the sweet-odoured
Palms of Idume,
Where break in white foam
The Cyprian waves.
What if the barbarous
Nazarene fury,
Fed by the base rites
Of secret feastings,
Lights sacred torches
To burn down the temples,
Scattering abroad
The scrolls hieroglyphic?
In thee find refuge
The humble-roofed plebs,
Who have not forgotten
The gods of their household.
Thence comes the power,
Fervid and loving, that,
Filling the quick-throbbing
Bosom of woman,
Turns to the succour
Of nature enfeebled,
A sorceress pallid,
With endless care laden.
Thou to the trance-holden
Eye of the alchemist,
Thou to the view of the
Bigoted mago,
Showest the lightning-flash
Of the new time
Shining behind the dark
Bars of the cloister.
Seeking to fly from thee
Here in the world-life,
Hides him the gloomy monk
In Theban deserts.
O soul that wanderest
Far from the straight way,
Satan is merciful.
See Héloïsa!
In vain you wear yourself
Thin in rough gown; I
Still murmur the verses
Of Maro and Flaccus
Amid the Davidic
Psalming and wailing;
And—Delphic figures
Close to thy side—
Rosy, amid the dark
Cowls of the friars,
Enters Licorida,
Enters Glicera.
Then other images
Of days more fair
Come to dwell with thee
In thy secret cell.
Lo! from the pages of
Livy, the Tribunes
All ardent, the Consuls,
The crowds tumultuous,
Awake; and the fantastic
Pride of Italian
Drives thee, O Monk,
Up to the Capitol;
And you, whom the flaming
Pyre never melted,
Conjuring voices,
Wiclif and Huss,
Send to the broad breeze
The cry of the watchman:
“The age renews itself;
Full is the time!”
Already tremble
The mitres and crowns.
Forth from the cloister
Moves the rebellion.
Under his stole, see,
Fighting and preaching,
Brother Girolamo
Savonarola.
Off goes the tunic
Of Martin Luther;
Off go the fetters
That bound human thought.
It flashes and lightens,
Girdled with flame.
Matter, exalt thyself!
Satan has won!
A fair and terrible
Monster unchained
Courses the oceans,
Courses the earth;
Flashing and smoking,
Like the volcanoes, he
Climbs over mountains,
Ravages plains,
Skims the abysses;
Then he is lost
In unknown caverns
And ways profound,
Till lo! unconquered,
From shore to shore,
Like to the whirlwind,
He sends forth his cry.
Like to the whirlwind
Spreading its wings...
He passes, O people,
Satan the great!
Hail to thee, Satan!
Hail, the Rebellion!
Hail, of the reason the
Great Vindicator!
Sacred to thee shall rise
Incense and vows!
Thou hast the god
Of the priests disenthroned!