Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

  What Lazarus in grief may get;

  Nor less sincere those priests were yet.

  Second in the dismounted list

  Was one, a laic votarist,

  The cross and chaplet by his side,

  Sharing the peace of eventide

  In frame devout. A Latin he,

  But not, as seemed, of high degree.

  Such public reverence profound

  In crossing Salem’s sacred bound

  Is not so common, in late day,

  But that the people by the way

  In silent-viewing eyes confessed

  The spectacle had interest.

  Nazarene Hebrews twain rode next,

  By one of the escort slyly vexed.

  In litter borne by steady mules

  A Russian lady parts the screen;

  A rider, as the gate is seen,

  Dismounts, and her alighting rules—

  Her husband. Checkered following there,

  Like envoys from all Adam’s race,

  Mixed men of various nations pace,

  Such as in crowded steamer come

  And disembark at Jaffa’s stair.

  Mute mid the buzz of chat and prayer,

  Plain-clad where others sport the plume,

  What countrymen are yonder three?

  The critic-coolness in their eyes

  Disclaims emotion’s shallow sea;

  Or misapply they precept wise,

  Nil admirari? Or, may be,

  Rationalists these riders are,

  Men self-sufficing, insular.

  Nor less they show in grave degree

  Tolerance for each poor votary.

  Now when the last rays slanting fall,

  The last new comer enters in:

  The gate shuts after with a din.

  Tarries the student on the wall.

  Dubieties of recent date—

  Scenes, words, events—he thinks of all.

  As, when the autumn sweeps the down,

  And gray skies tell of summer gone,

  The swallow hovers by the strait—

  Impending on the passage long;

  Upon a brink and poise he hung.

  The bird in end must needs migrate

  Over the sea: shall Clarel too

  Launch o’er his gulf, e’en Doubt, and woo

  Remote conclusions?

  Unresigned,

  He sought the inn, and tried to read

  The Fathers with a filial mind.

  In vain; heart wandered or repined.

  The Evangelists may serve his need:

  Deep as he felt the beauty sway,

  Estrangement there he could but heed,

  Both time and tone so far away

  From him the modern. Not to dwell,

  Rising he walked the floor, then stood

  Irresolute. His eye here fell

  Upon the blank wall of the cell,

  The wall before him, and he viewed

  A place where the last coat of lime—

  White flakes whereof lay dropped below—

  Thin scaling off, laid open so

  Upon the prior coat a rhyme

  Pale penciled. In one’s nervous trance

  Things near will distant things recall,

  And common ones suggest romance:

  He thought of her built up in wall,

  Cristina of Coll’alto; yes,

  The verse here breaking from recess—

  Tho’ immaterial, but a thought

  In some sojurning traveler wrought—

  Scribbled, overlaid, again revealed—

  Seemed like a tragic fact unsealed:

  So much can mood possess a man.

  He read: obscurely thus it ran:—

  “For me who never loved the stride,

  Triumph and taunt that shame the winning side—

  Toward Him over whom, in expectation’s glow,

  Elate the advance of rabble-banners gleam—

  Turned from a world that dare renounce Him so,

  My unweaned thoughts in steadfast trade-wind stream.

  If Atheists and Vitriolists of doom

  Faith’s gathering night with rockets red illume—

  So much the more in pathos I adore

  The low lamps flickering in Syria’s Tomb.”—

  “What strain is this?—But, here, in blur:—

  ‘After return from Sepulcher:

  B. L.’ ”—On the ensuing day

  He plied the host with question free:

  Who answered him, “A pilgrim—nay,

  How to remember! English, though—

  A fair young Englishman. But stay:”

  And after absence brief he slow

  With volumes came in hand: “These, look—

  He left behind by chance.”—One book,

  With portrait of a mitered man,

  Treated of high church Anglican,

  Confession, fast, saint-day—deplored

  That rubric old was not restored.

  But under Finis there was writ

  A comment that made grief of it.

  The second work had other cheer—

  Started from Strauss, disdained Renan—

  By striding paces up to Pan;

  Nor rested, but the goat-god here

  Capped with the red cap in the twist

  Of Proudhon and the Communist.

  But random jottings in the marge

  Disclosed some reader of the text

  Whose fervid comments did discharge

  More dole than e’en dissent. Annexed,

  In either book was penciled small:

  “B. L.: Oxford: St. Mary’s Hall.”

  Such proved these volumes—such, as scanned

  By Clarel, wishful to command

  Some hint that might supply a clew

  Better enabling to construe

  The lines their owner left on wall.

  42. TIDINGS

  Some of the strangers late arrived

  Tarried with Abdon at the inn;

  And, ere long, having viewed the town

  Would travel further, and pass on

  To Siddim, and the Dead Sea win

  And Saba. And would Clarel go?

  ’Twas but for days. They would return

  By Bethlehem, and there sojourn

  Awhile, regaining Zion so.

  But Clarel undetermined stood,

  And kept his vacillating mood,

  Though learning, as it happed, that Vine

  And Rolfe would join the journeying band.

  Loath was he here to disentwine

  Himself from Ruth. Nor less Lot’s land,

  And sea, and Judah’s utmost drought

  Fain would he view, and mark their tone:

  And prove if, unredeemed by John,

  John’s wilderness augmented doubt.

  As chanced, while wavering in mind,

  And threading a hushed lane or wynd

  Quick warning shout he heard behind

  And clattering hoofs. He hugged the wall,

  Then turned; in that brief interval

  The dust came on him, powdery light,

  From one who like a javelin flew

  Spectral with dust, and all his plight

  Charged with the desert and its hue;

  A courier, and he bent his flight—

  (As Clarel afterward recalled)

  Whither lay Agar’s close inwalled.

  The clank of arms, the clink of shoe,

  The cry admonitor
y too,

  Smote him, and yet he scarce knew why;

  But when, some hours having flitted by,

  Nearing the precincts of the Jew

  His host, he did Nehemiah see

  Waiting in arch, and with a look

  Which some announcement’s shadow took,

  His heart stood still—Fate’s herald, he?

  “What is it? what?”—The saint delayed.—

  “Ruth?”—“Nathan;” and the news conveyed.

  The threat, oft hurled, as oft reviled

  By one too proud to give it heed,

  The menace of stern foemen wild,

  No menace now was, but a deed:

  Burned was the roof on Sharon’s plain;

  And timbers charred showed clotted stain:

  But, spirited away, each corse

  Unsepulchered remained, or worse.

  Ah, Ruth—woe, Agar! Ill breeds ill;

  The widow with no future free,

  Without resource perhaps, or skill

  To steer upon grief’s misty sea.

  To grieve with them and lend his aid,

  Straight to the house see Clarel fare,

  The house of mourning—sadder made

  For that the mourned one lay not there—

  But found it barred. He, waiting so,

  Doubtful to knock or call them—lo,

  The rabbi issues, while behind

  The door shuts to. The meeting eyes

  Reciprocate a quick surprise,

  Then alter; and the secret mind

  The rabbi bears to Clarel shows

  In dark superior look he throws:

  Censorious consciousness of power:

  Death—and it is the Levite’s hour.

  No word he speaks, but turns and goes.

  The student lingered. He was told

  By one without, a neighbor old,

  That never Jewish modes relent:

  Sealed long would be the tenement

  To all but Hebrews—of which race

  Kneeled comforters by sorrow’s side.

  So both were cared for. Clogged in pace

  He turned away. How pass the tide

  Of Ruth’s seclusion? Might he gain

  Relief from dull inaction’s pain?

  Yes, join he would those pilgrims now

  Which on the morrow would depart

  For Siddim, by way of Jericho.

  But first of all, he letters sent,

  Brief, yet dictated by the heart—

  Announced his plan’s constrained intent

  Reluctant; and consigned a ring

  For pledge of love and Ruth’s remembering.

  43. A PROCESSION

  But what!—nay, nay: without adieu

  Of vital word, dear presence true,

  Part shall I?—break away from love?

  But think: the circumstances move,

  And warrant it. Shouldst thou abide,

  Cut off yet wert thou from her side

  For time: tho’ she be sore distressed,

  Herself would whisper: “Go—’tis best.”

  Unstable! It was in a street,

  Half vault, where few or none do greet,

  He paced. Anon, encaved in wall

  A fount arrests him, sculpture wrought

  After a Saracen design—

  Ruinous now and arid all

  Save dusty weeds which trail or twine.

  While lingering in way that brought

  The memory of the Golden Bowl

  And Pitcher broken, music rose—

  Young voices; a procession shows:

  A litter rich, with flowery wreath,

  Singers and censers, and a veil.

  She comes, the bride; but, ah, how pale:

  Her groom that Blue-Beard, cruel Death,

  Wedding his millionth maid to-day;

  She, stretched on that Armenian bier,

  Leaves home and each familiar way—

  Quits all for him. Nearer, more near—

  Till now the ineffectual flame

  Of burning tapers borne he saw:

  The westering sun puts these to shame.

  But, hark: responsive marching choirs,

  Robed men and boys, in rhythmic law

  A contest undetermined keep:

  Ay, as the bass in dolings deep

  The serious, solemn thought inspires—

  In unconcern of rallying sort

  The urchin-treble shrills retort;

  But, true to part imposed, again

  The beards dirge out. And so they wind

  Till thro’ the city gate the train

  Files forth to sepulcher.

  Behind

  Left in his hermitage of mind,

  What troubles Clarel? See him there

  As if admonishment in air

  He heard. Can love be fearful so?

  Jealous of fate? the future? all

  Reverse—mischance? nay, even the pall

  And pit?—No, I’ll not leave her: no,

  ’Tis fixed; I waver now no more.—

  But yet again he thought it o’er,

  And self-rebukeful, and with mock:

  Thou superstitious doubter—own,

  Biers need be borne; why such a shock

  When passes this Armenian one?

  The word’s dispatched, and wouldst recall?

  ’Tis but for fleeting interval.

  44. THE START

  The twilight and the starlight pass,

  And breaks the morn of Candlemas.

  The pilgrims muster; and they win

  A common terrace of the inn,

  Which, lifted on Mount Acra’s cope,

  Looks off upon the town aslope

  In gray of dawn. They hear the din

  Of mongrel Arabs—the loud coil

  And uproar of high words they wage

  Harnessing for the pilgrimage.

  ’Tis special—marks the Orient life,

  Which, roused from indolence to toil,

  Indignant starts, enkindling strife.

  Tho’ spite the fray no harm they share,

  How fired they seem by burning wrong;

  And small the need for strenuous care,

  And languor yet shall laze it long.

  Wonted to man and used to fate

  A pearl-gray ass there stands sedate

  While being saddled by a clown

  And buffeted. Of her anon.

  Clarel regards; then turns his eye

  Away from all, beyond the town,

  Where pale against the tremulous sky

  Olivet shows in morning shy;

  Then on the court again looks down.

  The mountain mild, the wrangling crew—

  In contrast, why should these indue

  With vague unrest, and swell the sigh?

  Add to the burden? tease the sense

  With unconfirmed significance?

  To horse. And, passing one by one

  Their host the Black Jew by the gate,

  His grave salute they take, nor shun

  His formal God-speed. One, elate

  In air Auroral, June of life,

  With quick and gay response is rife.

  But he, the Israelite alone,

  ’Tis he reflects Jehovah’s town;

  Experienced he, the vain elation gone;

  While flit athwart his furrowed face

  Glimpses of that ambiguous thought

  Which in some aged men ye trace
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  When Venture, Youth and Bloom go by;

  Scarce cynicism, though ’tis wrought

  Not all of pity, since it scants the sigh.

  They part. Farewell to Zion’s seat.

  Ere yet anew her place they greet,

  In heart what hap may Clarel prove?

  Brief term of days, but a profound remove.

  END OF PART FIRST

  PART 2

  The Wilderness

  1. THE CAVALCADE

  ADOWN THE Dolorosa Lane

  The mounted pilgrims file in train

  Whose clatter jars each open space;

  Then, muffled in, shares change apace

  As, striking sparks in vaulted street,

  Clink, as in cave, the horses’ feet.

  Not from brave Chaucer’s Tabard Inn

  They pictured wend; scarce shall they win

  Fair Kent, and Canterbury ken;

  Nor franklin, squire, nor morris-dance

  Of wit and story good as then:

  Another age, and other men,

  And life an unfulfilled romance.

  First went the turban—guide and guard

  In escort armed and desert trim;

  The pilgrims next: whom now to limn.

  One there the light rein slackly drew,

  And skimming glanced, dejected never—

  While yet the pilgrimage was new—

  On sights ungladsome howsoever.

  Cordial he turned his aspect clear

  On all that passed; man, yea, and brute

  Enheartening by a blithe salute,

  Chirrup, or pat, in random cheer.

  This pleasantness, which might endear,

  Suffused was with a prosperous look

  That bordered vanity, but took

  Fair color as from ruddy heart.

  A priest he was—though but in part;

  For as the Templar old combined

  The cavalier and monk in one;

  In Derwent likewise might you find

  The secular and cleric tone.

  Imported or domestic mode,

  Thought’s last adopted style he showed;

  Abreast kept with the age, the year,

  And each bright optimistic mind,

  Nor lagged with Solomon in rear,

  And Job, the furthermost behind—

  Brisk marching in time’s drum-corps van

  Abreast with whistling Jonathan.

  Tho’ English, with an English home,