Satan Absolved: A Victorian Mystery. Blunt Wilfrid Scawen

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      Ye have all cause to weep

      Since you depend on Man. I told it and foretold.

      Truly thou didst.

      Dear fools! But have ye heart to hold

      Such plaint before the Lord, to apprise Him of this thing

      In its full naked fact and call your reckoning?

      We dare not face his frown. He lives in ignorance.

      His pride is in His Earth. If He but looks askance

      We tremble and grow dumb.

      And ye will bear it then?

      We dare not grieve His peace. He loves this race of men.

      The truth should hardly grieve.

      He would count it us for pride.

      He holds Mankind redeemed, since His Son stooped and died.

      We dare not venture.

      See, I have less than you to lose.

      Give me your brief.

      Ay, speak. Thee He will not refuse.

      Mayhap thou shalt persuade Him.

      And withal find grace.

      The Lord is a just God. He will rejudge this case,

      Ay, haply, even mine. O glorious occasion!

      To champion Heaven’s whole right without shift or evasion

      And plead the Angels’ cause! Take courage, my sad heart,

      Thine hour hath come to thee, to play this worthiest part

      And prove thy right, thine too, to Heaven’s moralities,

      Not worse than these that wait, only alas more wise!

      Hush! Silence! The Lord God! (Entereth the Lord God, to whom the Angels minister. He taketh His seat upon the throne).

      Thank ye, my servants all.

      Thank ye, good Seraphim. To all and several,

      Sons of the House, God’s blessing – who ne’er gave God pain.

      Impeccable white Spirits, tell me once again

      How goeth it with the World, my ordered Universe,

      My Powers and Dominations? Michael, thou, rehearse

      The glory of the Heavens. Tell me, star and star,

      Do they still sing together in their spheres afar?

      Have they their speech, their language? Are their voices heard?

      All’s well with the World. Each morn, as bird to answering bird,

      The Stars shout in Thy glory praise unchanged yet new.

      They magnify Thy name.

      Truth’s self were else untrue.

      Time needs be optimist nor foul its own abode.

      Else were Creation mocked – and haply I not God.

      In sooth all’s well with the World. And thou my Raphael,

      How fare the Spirit hosts? Say, is thy world, too, well?

      All’s well with the World. We stand, as aye, obedient.

      We have no thought but Thee, no asking, no intent

      More than to laud and worship, O most merciful,

      Being of those that wait.

      The contemplative rule

      Out-ministers the active. These have right to boast,

      Who stand aye in His presence, beyond the Angel host.

      And none of ye grow weary?

      Nay in truth.

      Not one?

      God is a jealous God. He doubteth Thee.

      Nay, none.

      We are not as the Angels.

      These have their devoirs,

      The search, the novelty. Ye drowse here in your choirs,

      Sleep-walkers all, – while these, glad messengers, go forth

      Upon new joyous errands, Earthwards, South and North,

      To visit men and cities. What is strange as Man?

      What fair as his green Globe in all Creation’s plan?

      What ordered as his march of life, of mind, of will?

      What subtle as his conscience set at grips with ill?

      Their service needs no sleep who guide Man’s destinies.

      Speak, Gabriel, thou the last. Is Man grown grand and wise?

      Hath he his place on Earth, prince of Time’s fashionings,

      Noblest and fairest found, the roof and crown of things?

      Is the World joyful all in his most perfect joy?

      Hath the good triumphed, tell, o’er pain and Time’s annoy,

      Since Our Son died, who taught the way of perfect peace?

      Thou knowest it how I love these dear Humanities.

      Is all quite well with Man?

      All’s well with the World, ay well.

      All’s well enough with Man.

      Alas, poor Gabriel.

      How meanest thou “enough”? Man holdeth then Earth’s seat,

      Master of living things. He mild is and discreet,

      Supreme in My Son’s peace. The Earth is comforted

      With its long rest from toil, nor goeth aught in dread,

      Seeing all wars have ceased, the mad wars of old time.

      The lion and the lamb lie down in every clime.

      There is no strife for gold, for place, for dignities,

      All holding My Son’s creed! The last fool hath grown wise.

      He hath renounced his gods, the things of wood and stone!

      The Christian name prevaileth. Its dominion

      Groweth in all the lands. From Candia to Cathay

      The fear of Christ is spread, and wide through Africa.

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