  Where Prospero points, the light passes from the pageant of War to the centre of the Yellow Sands. There, in mellow splendor, a serene female Figure, rising majestic from the altar, calls to the thronging shadows. THE SPIRIT OF TIME Children of men, my passionate children, hark! To-day and Yesterday I am To-morrow: Out of my primal dark You dawn—my joy, my sorrow. Lovers of life, you rapturous lovers, lo The lives you clutch are by my lightnings riven: Yea, on my flux and flow, Like sea-birds tempest-driven. Yet from my founts of life, fecund, divine, Still dauntless lovers dare my dark tribunal, Building a common shrine To hold their love communal. So out of War up looms unconquered Art: Blind forces rage, but masters rise to mould them. Soldiers and kings depart; Time’s artists—still behold them! As the Spirit of Time ceases to speak, the light passes to the entrances of the Greek ground-circle, where now—from either side—enters a Pageant of the great Theatres of the world—from the ancient Theatre of Dionysus to the Comedie Francaise—in symbolic groups, with their distinctive banners and insignia. The names of these are blazoned on their group standards, and the groups themselves [like those that follow] are announced from either end of the high balcony above the inner stage by two spirit Trumpeters, the one beneath a glowing disk of the sun, the other beneath a sickle moon. While these, below, have ranged themselves on the ground-circle and steps above—the groups of War, Lust, and Death have dwindled away in the background darkness—leaving only Prospero, Miranda, and Ariel, grouped in light at the centre. Then on either wing of the stage, at right and left, appears luminous a colossal mask—the one of Tragedy, the other of Comedy. Through the mouths of these, now come forth, in national pageant groups, First come the great Actors, in the guise of their greatest rÔles—from Thespis and Roscius of old to Irving, Salvini, Coquelin, Booth, of modern times, the comic actors tumbling forth from the Mask of Comedy, the tragic from the Tragic Mask. They are followed by national groups of the great Dramatists from Æschylus to Ibsen, who pass in review before Prospero. Among these, with the Elizabethan Dramatists, grouped with Marlowe, Green, Jonson, Beaumont, and Fletcher, and others, appears the modest figure of Shakespeare, at first unemphasized. For one moment, however, as Shakespeare himself approaches Prospero, he pauses, Prospero rises, and the two figures—strangely counterparts to their beholders—look in each other’s eyes: a moment only. For Prospero, slipping off his cloak, lays it on the shoulders of Shakespeare, who sits in Prospero’s place, while Prospero moves silently off with the group of Dramatists. Finally, when these pageants of Time have passed, and the stately Spirit of Time vanished in dark on the Yellow Sands, the only light remains on the figure of Shakespeare—and the two with him: Ariel tiptoe behind him, peering over his shoulder; Miranda beside him, leaning forward, with lips parted to speak. Then to these, out of the dimness, comes forth Caliban. Groping, dazed, he reaches his arms toward the dark circle, where the stately Spirit has vanished. In a voice hoarse with feeling, he speaks aloud. CALIBAN Lady of the Yellow Sands! O Life! O Time! Thy tempest blindeth me: Thy beauty baffleth.— A little have I crawled, a little only Out of mine ancient cave. All that I build I botch; all that I do destroyeth my dream. Yet—yet I yearn to build, to be thine Artist And stablish this thine Earth among the stars— Beautiful! [Turning to the light, where the Three are grouped.] —O bright Beings, help me still! More visions—visions, Master! [With gesture of longing, he crouches at Shakespeare’s feet, gazing up in his face, which looks on him with tenderness. With Caliban, Miranda too appeals to the Cloaked Figure.] MIRANDA [Wistfully.] —Master? [To her raised eyes, he returns a pensive smile.] SHAKESPEARE [As Prospero]“Child, Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this unsubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.” [Then, while the light focusses and fades in darkness on the pensive form of Shakespeare, the choirs of Ariel’s Spirits repeat, unseen, in song:] THE SPIRITS OF ARIEL “We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.” FINIS |
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