Three short works | Page 3

thee! Then shalt thou sit on the eternal thrones
of heaven and of hell--shalt overthrow the planets, stars, and
worlds--shalt loose thy steed in fields of emeralds and diamonds--shalt
make his litter of the wings torn from the angels,--shalt cover him with
the robe of righteousness! Thy saddle shall be broidered with the stars
of the empyrean,--and then thou wilt destroy it! After thou hast
annihilated everything, --when naught remains but empty space,--thy
coffin shattered and thine arrows broken, then make thyself a crown of
stone from heaven's highest mount, and cast thyself into the abyss of
oblivion. Thy fall may last a million aeons, but thou shalt die at last.
Because the world must end; all, all must die,--except Satan! Immortal
more than God! I live to bring chaos into other worlds!

DEATH.
But thou hast not, as I, this vista of eternal nothingness before thee;
thou dost not suffer with this death-like cold, as I.
SATAN.
Nay, but I quiver under fierce and unrelaxing hearts of molten lava,
which burn the doomed and which e'en I cannot escape.
For thou, at least, hast only to destroy. But I bring birth and I give life. I
direct empires and govern the affairs of States and of hearts.
I must be everywhere. The precious metals flow, the diamonds glitter,
and men's names resound at my command. I whisper in the ears of
women, of poets, and of statesmen, words of love, of glory, of ambition.
With Messalina and Nero, at Paris and at Babylon, within the self-same
moment do I dwell. Let a new island be discovered, I fly to it ere man
can set foot there; though it be but a rock encircled by the sea, I am
there in advance of men who will dispute for its possession. I lounge, at
the same instant, on a courtesan's couch and on the perfumed beds of
emperors. Hatred and envy, pride and wrath, pour from my lips in
simultaneous utterance. By night and day I work. While men ate
burning Christians, I luxuriate voluptuously in baths perfumed with
roses; I race in chariots; yield to deep despair; or boast aloud in pride.
At times I have believed that I embodied the whole world, and all that I
have seen took place, in verity, within my being.
Sometimes I weary, lose my reason, and indulge in such mad follies
that the most worthless of my minions ridicule me while they pity me.
No creature cares for me; nowhere am I loved,--neither in heaven, of
which I am a son, nor yet in hell, where I am lord, nor upon earth,
where men deem me a god. Naught do I see but paroxysms of rage,
rivers of blood, or maddened frenzy. Ne'er shall my eyelids close in
slumber, never my spirit find repose, whilst thou, at least, canst rest thy
head upon the cool, green freshness of the grave. Yea, I must ever

dwell amid the glare of palaces, must listen to the curses of the starving,
or inhale the stench of crimes that cry aloud to heaven.
God, whom I hate, has punished me indeed! But my soul is greater
even than His wrath; in one deep sigh I could the whole world draw
into my breast, where it would burn eternally, even as I.
When, Lord, shall thy great trumpet sound? Then a great harmony shall
hover over sea and hill. Ah! would that I could suffer with humanity;
their cries and sobs should drown the sound of mine!
[Innumerable skeletons, riding in chariots, advance at a rapid pace,
with cries of joy and triumph. They drag broken branches and crowns
of laurel, from which the dried and yellow leaves fall continually in the
wind and the dust.]
Lo, a triumphal throng from Rome, the Eternal City! Her Coliseum and
her Capitol are now two grains of sands that served once as a pedestal;
but Death has swung his scythe: the monuments have fallen. Behold!
At their head comes Nero, pride of my heart, the greatest poet earth has
known!
[Nero advances in a chariot drawn by twelve skeleton horses. With the
sceptre in his hand, he strikes the bony backs of his steeds. He stands
erect, his shroud flapping behind him in billowy folds. He turns, as if
upon a racecourse; his eyes are flaming and he cries loudly:]
NERO.
Quick! Quick! And faster still, until your feet dash fire from the flinty
stones and your nostrils fleck your breasts with foam. What! do not the
wheels smoke yet? Hear ye the fanfares, whose sound reached even to
Ostia; the clapping of the hands, the cries of joy? See how the populace
shower saffron on my head! See how my pathway is already damp with
sprayed perfume! My chariot whirls on;