7 AMAIMON VISITS THE THEBAID

Each night at moonrise is let forth from hell In a fair woman’s shape—yea, I know well How fair it is!—Amaimon; and thus stands A darkling shade against stilled seas of sands Made wonderful with moonlight; and speaks not. What need?—Amaimon knows I have forgot No one of those soft curves Amaimon wears. So have I need of penance and long prayers: Because since ever time began to be, No woman, living, was lovelier than she, Nor statelier,—yea, buoyant with that power Her beauty loaned, she moved as moves a flower, Mire-rooted, nodding by a pool wherein Its double drowns, and dancing when its twin Struggles in wind-stirred waters. Nay, most sweet Of women, I serve that Man whose tortured feet Spurned Zeus from heaven, and for human sake Trod evil down, even as folk tread a snake And end all, once for all; by night and day My prayers assail the ears of God, nor stay For any bodily weakness till I gain Surety of pardon through my body’s pain. Hath God not pardoned me? Men tell of them That bent with sickness touched my cassock’s hem And straight were hale. They tell how these poor hands Raised dead folk even. Throughout distant lands My fame is spread, where emperors quake to tell Their harlots of some recent miracle Which I—nay, which High God performed through me That God’s sole glory be proclaimed, and be A scourge to scoffers. So, being fain to die, I bide that day when High God lifts on high My soul, and sets me with His cherubim, Remembering how I have striven for Him And smitten heresy—yea, with sword and flame Laid waste how many homes!—in His dear name, Whose wrath is quenchless. It is well with me: O woman the fiend mimics, how is it with thee? —With thee, enswirled in some unending sweep Of ageless flame, whose fires forever leap Like adders round the damned their coils consume Not ever, nor relinquish! These illume Bright tender bodies, such as Cæsar kissed But yesterday, and now long torments twist.... Ey, what a host of women howl in hell Who were when they wore flesh so lovable, And whom men loved as I— But thou art dead, Rotted, and damned, long since. When I am sped To heaven’s loftiest courts, and thereamong Made free of heaven, how shall I force my tongue To honor Him that damned thee? and how be Content with heaven? What, through eternity Hear thy voice—thine, my lost love, loved in vain, And lost, lost, lost, with only heaven to gain!— Hear thy voice call in agony to God, Who likewise hears—and heeds not! Ey, once shod With gold and clad in fair white linen cloth, Shall I then be quite changed? and not be wroth With God? but be as God is? and never know Regret for thee, nor pity for the woe Of shrieking fire-wrapped folk swept to and fro Where Satan gibes at them and the worm stings? Lust, who is overlord of living things; Lust, by the heavings of whose leathery wings The flames of hell are fanned to signal-fires That mark each haven each human heart desires; Lust, who with ceaseless and illusive snares Derides our dreams and prompts us in our prayers; Lust, who is strong and patient and cautelous, And whom fiends name Amaimon in Satan’s house: Plays thus at dice, our stake being my soul’s bliss. Nay, God is love (Amaimon whispers this), Nor pedant-like peers from far heaven’s vault To estimate His children’s least light fault As folk weigh gold, to the last hair-breadth’s worth. Grant that this woman, living upon earth, A little leaned to Marcion’s mad creed, That High God grieves when unbelievers bleed And Holy Church’s servants, or with rod Or rack or rope, attest the might of God:— “Because a father’s love, pre-eminent In Him, contrives no curious punishment, But, even as earthly fathers check a child, Reproves, and for love’s sake is reconciled”:— Thus runneth Marcion’s foul heresy. This woman, then, must burn. It yet may be All need not burn for all eternity; And God at last may pardon Donatists, And Athanasians, and Tritheists— Ho, even Marcionites!—as lacking wit Always to read aright God’s holy writ, And, therefore, worthier of pity than hate. For God is love; and love or soon or late Forgives,—yea, even pardons thy dread to see In God some burlier counterpart of thee. Such blasphemies Amaimon whispers me Nightly at moonrise: and I answer not. What need?—Amaimon knows I have forgot No one of those soft curves Amaimon wears. So have I need of penance and long prayers.