Lucifer's Feast (A European Nightmare)
Created | Updated Apr 21, 2019
Lucifer's Feast (A European Nightmare)
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by Alfred Noyes
Editor's note: This poem was written shortly before the beginning of the First World War. I'm grateful to Tavaron for the discussion that made me remember it. We were talking about people who considered strong imagery in 'bad taste' even when the purpose was to wake people up to the dangers of nationalism. We both go on record as saying that Rammstein and other artists should keep up the good work of shocking people into thinking before the world hurls itself down yet another abyss.
To celebrate the ascent of man, one gorgeous night Lucifer gave a feast. Its world-bewildering light Danced in Belshazzar's tomb, and the old kings dead and gone Felt their dust creep to jewels in crumbling Babylon. Two nations were His guests – the top and flower of Time, The fore-front of an age which now had learned to climb The slopes where Newton knelt, the heights that Shakespeare trod, The mountains whence Beethoven rolled the voice of God. Lucifer's feasting-lamps were like the morning stars, But at the board-head shone the blood-red lamp of Mars. League upon glittering league, white front and flabby face Bent o'er the groaning board. Twelve brave men droned the grace; But with instinctive tact, in courtesy to their Host, Omitted God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, And to the God of Battles raised their humble prayers. Then, then, like thunder, all the guests drew up their chairs. By each a drinking-cup, yellow, almost, as gold. (The blue eye-sockets gave the thumbs a good firm hold) Adorned the flowery board. Could even brave men shrink? Why if the cups were skulls, they had red wine to drink! And had not each a napkin, white and peaked and proud, Waiting to wipe his mouth? A napkin? Nay, a shroud! This was a giant's feast, on hell's imperial scale. The blades glistened. The shrouds – O, in one snowy gale, The pink hands fluttered them out, and spread them on their knees. Who knew what gouts might drop, what filthy flakes of grease, Now that o'er every shoulder, through the coiling steam, Inhuman faces peered, with wolfish eyes a-gleam, And grey-faced vampire Lusts that whinneyed in each ear Hints of the hideous courses? None may name them here? None? And we may not see! The distant cauldrons cloak The lava-coloured plains with clouds of umber smoke. Nay, by that shrapnel-light, by those wild shooting stars That rip the clouds away with fiercer fire than Mars, They are painted sharp as death. If these can eat and drink Chatter and laugh and rattle their knives, why should we shrink From empty names? We know those ghastly gleams are true: Why should Christ cry again – They know not what they do? They, heirs of all the ages, sons of Shakespeare's land, They, brothers of Beethoven, smiling, cultured, bland, Whisper with sidling heads to ghouls with bloody lips. Each takes upon his plate a small round thing that drips And quivers, a child's heart. Miles on miles The glittering table bends o'er that first course, and smiles; For, through the wreaths of smoke, the grey Lusts bear aloft The second course, on leaden chargers, large and soft, Bodies of women, steaming in an opal mist, Red-branded here and there where vampire-teeth have kissed. But white as pig's flesh, newly killed, and cleanly dressed, A lemon in each mouth and roses round each breast, Emblems to show how deeply, sweetly satisfied, The breasts, the lips, can sleep, whose children fought and died For – what? For country? God, once more Thy shrapnel-light! Let those dark slaughter-houses burst upon our sight, These kitchens are too clean, too near the tiring room! Let Thy white shrapnel rend those filthier veils of gloom, Rip the last fogs away and strip the foul thing bare! One lightning-picture – see – yon bayonet-bristling square Mown down, mown down, mown down, wild swathes of crimson wheat, The white-eyed charge, the blast, the terrible retreat, The blood-greased wheels of cannon thundering into line O'er that red writhe of pain, rent groin and shattered spine, The moaning faceless face that kissed its child last night, The raw pulp of the heart that beat for love's delight, The heap of twisting bodies, clotted and congealed In one red huddle of anguish on the loathsome field, The seas of obscene slaughter spewing their blood-red yeast, Multitudes pouring out their entrails for the feast, Knowing not why, but dying, they think, for some high cause, Dying for "hearth and home," their flags, their creeds, their laws. Ask of the Bulls and Bears, ask if they understand How both great grappling armies bleed for their own land; For in that faith they die! These hoodwinked thousands die Simply as heroes, gulled by hell's profoundest lie. Who keeps the slaughter-house? Not these, not these who gain Nought but the sergeant's shilling and the homeless pain! Who pulls the ropes? Not these, who buy their crust of bread With the salt sweat of labour! These but bury their dead Then sweat again for food! Christ, is the hour not come, To send forth one great voice and strike this dark hell dumb, A voice to out-crash the cannon, one united cry To sweep these wild-beast standards down that stain the sky, To hurl these Lions and Bears and Eagles to their doom, One voice, one heart, one soul, one fire that shall consume The last red reeking shreds that flicker against the blast And purge the Augean stalls we call "our glorious past"! One voice from dawn and sunset, one almighty voice, Full-throated as the sea – ye sons o' the earth, rejoice! Beneath the all-loving sky, confederate kings ye stand, Fling open wide the gates o' the world-wide Fatherland. Poor fools, we dare not dream it! We that pule and whine Of art and science, we, whose great souls leave no shrine Unshattered, we that climb the Sinai Shakespeare trod, The Olivets where Beethoven walked and talked with God, We that have weighed the stars and reined the lightning, we That stare thro' heaven and plant our footsteps in the sea, We whose great souls have risen so far above the creeds That we can jest at Christ and leave Him where He bleeds, A legend of the dark, a tale so false or true That howsoe'er we jest at Him, the jest sounds new. (Our weariest dinner-tables never tire of that! Let the clown sport with Christ, never the jest falls flat!) Poor fools, we dare not dream a dream so strange, so great, As on this ball of dust to found one "world-wide state," To float one common flag above our little lands, And ere our little sun grows cold to clasp our hands In friendship for a moment! Hark, the violins Are swooning through the mist. The great blue band begins, Playing, in dainty scorn, a hymn we used to know, How long was it, ten thousand thousand years ago? There is a green hill far away Beside a City wall! – And O, the music swung a-stray With a solemn dying fall; For it was a pleasant jest to play Hymns in the Devil's Hall. And yet, and yet, if aught be true, This dream we left behind, This childish Christ, be-mocked anew To please the men of mind, Yet hung so far beyond the flight Of our most lofty thought That – Lucifer laughed at us that night. Not with us, as he ought. Beneath the blood-red lamp of Mars, Cloaked with a scarlet cloud He gazed along the line of stars Above the guzzling crowd: Sinister, thunder-scarred, he raised His great world-wandering eyes, And on some distant vision gazed Beyond our cloudy skies. "Poor bats," he sneered, "their jungle-dark Civilisation's noon! Poor wolves, that hunt in packs and bark Beneath the grinning moon; Poor fools, that cast the cross away, Before they break the sword; Poor sots, who take the night for day; Have mercy on me, Lord. "Beyond their wisdom's deepest skies I see Thee hanging yet, The love still hungering in Thine eyes, Thy plaited crown still wet! Thine arms outstretched to fold them all Beneath Thy sheltering breast; But – since they will not hear Thy call, Lord, I forbear to jest. "Lord, I forbear! The day I fell I fell at least thro' pride! Rather than these should share my hell Take me, thou Crucified! O, let me share Thy cross of grief, And let me work Thy will, As morning star, or dying thief. Thy fallen angel still. "Lord, I forbear! For Thee, at least, In pain so like to mine, The mighty meaning of their feast Is plain as bread and wine: O, smile once more, far off, alone! Since these nor hear nor see, From my deep hell, so like Thine own, Lord Christ, I pity Thee." Yet once again, he thought, they shall be fully tried, If they be devils or fools too light for hell's deep pride. The champ of teeth was over, and the reeking room Gaped for the speeches now. Across the sulphurous fume Lucifer gave a sign. The guests stood thundering up! "Gentlemen, charge your glasses!" Every yellow cup Frothed with the crimson blood. They brandished them on high! "Gentlemen, drink to those who fight and know not why!" And in the bubbling blood each nose was buried deep. "Gentlemen, drink to those who sowed that we might reap! Drink to the pomp, pride, circumstance, of glorious war, The grand self-sacrifice that made us what we are! And drink to the peace-lovers who believe that peace Is War, red, bloody War; for War can never cease Unless we drain the veins of peace to fatten War! Gentlemen, drink to the brains that made us what we are! Drink to self-sacrifice that helps us all to shake The world with tramp of armies. Germany, awake! England, awake! Shakespeare's, Beethoven's Fatherland, Are you not both aware, do you not understand, Self-sacrifice is competition? It is the law Of Life, and so, though both of you are wholly right, Self-sacrifice requires that both of you should fight." And "Hoch! hoch! hoch!" they cried; and "Hip, hip, hip, Hurrah!" This raised the gorge of Lucifer. With one deep "Bah," Above those croaking toads he towered like Gabriel; Then straightway left the table and went home to hell. |
