Herman Melville- Complete Poems

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Herman Melville- Complete Poems Page 35

by Herman Melville

His henchman here, the Arab wight,

  Bare solid texts from Bible old—

  True Rock of Ages, he averred.

  To read before a learned board,

  When home regained should meet his sight,

  A monograph he would indite—

  The theme, that crag.

  He went his way,

  To win the tower. Little they say;

  But Clarel started at the view

  Which showed opposed the anchorite

  Ascetical and—such a Jew.

  20. UNDER THE MOUNTAIN

  From Ur of the Chaldees roved the man—

  Priest, shepherd, prince, and pioneer—

  Swart Bedouin in time’s dusky van;

  Even he which first, with mind austere,

  Arrived in solitary tone

  To think of God as One—alone;

  The first which brake with hearth and home

  For conscience’ sake; whom piety ruled,

  Prosperity blest, longevity schooled,

  And time in fullness brought to Mamre’s tomb

  Arch founder of the solid base of Christendom.

  Even this. For why disown the debt

  When vouchers be? Yet, yet and yet

  Our saving salt of grace is due

  All to the East—nor least the Jew.

  Perverse, if stigma then survive,

  Elsewhere let such in satire thrive—

  Not here. Quite other end is won

  In picturing Margoth, fallen son

  Of Judah. Him may Gabriel mend.

  Little for love, or to unbend,

  But swayed by tidings, hard to sift,

  Of robbers by the river-drift

  In force recruited; they suspend

  Their going hence to Jordan’s trees.

  Released from travel, in good hour

  Nehemiah dozed within the tower.

  Uplands they range, and woo the breeze

  Where crumbled aqueducts and mounds

  Override long slopes and terraces,

  And shattered pottery abounds—

  Or such would seem, yet may but be

  The shards of tile-like brick dispersed

  Binding the wall or bulwark erst,

  Such as in Kent still serve that end

  In Richborough castle by the sea—

  A Roman hold. What breadth of doom

  As of the worlds in strata penned—

  So cosmic seems the wreck of Rome.

  Not wholly proof to natural sway

  Of serious hearts and manners mild,

  Uncouthly Margoth shared the way.

  He controverted all the wild,

  And in especial, Sodom’s strand

  Of marl and clinker: “Sirs, heed me:

  This total tract,” and Esau’s hand

  He waved; “the plain—the vale—Lot’s sea—

  It needs we scientists remand

  Back from old theologic myth

  To geologic hammers. Pray,

  Let me but give ye here the pith:

  As the Phlegræan fields no more

  Befool men as the spookish shore

  Where Jove felled giants, but are known—

  The Solfatara and each cone

  Volcanic—to be but on a par

  With all things natural; even so

  Siddim shall likewise be set far

  From fable.”

  Part overhearing this,

  Derwent, in rear with Rolfe: “Old clo’!

  We’ve heard all that, and long ago:

  Conceit of vacant emphasis:

  Well, well!”—Here archly, Rolfe: “But own,

  How graceful your concession—won

  A score or two of years gone by.

  Nor less therefrom at need ye’ll fly,

  Allow. Scarce easy ’tis to hit

  Each slippery turn of cleric wit.”

  Derwent but laughed; then said—“But he:

  Intelligence veneers his mien

  Though rude: unprofitably keen:

  Sterile, and with sterility

  Self-satisfied.” “But this is odd!

  Not often do we hear you rail:

  The gown it seems does yet avail,

  Since from the sleeve you draw the rod.

  But look, they lounge.”

  Yes, all recline,

  And on the site where havoc clove

  The last late palm of royal line,

  Sad Montezuma of the grove.

  The mountain of the Imp they see

  Scowl at the freedom which they take

  Relaxed beneath his very lee.

  The bread of wisdom here to break,

  Margoth holds forth: the gossip tells

  Of things the prophets left unsaid—

  With master-key unlocks the spells

  And mysteries of the world unmade;

  Then mentions Salem: “Stale is she!

  Lay flat the walls, let in the air,

  That folk no more may sicken there!

  Wake up the dead; and let there be

  Rails, wires, from Olivet to the sea,

  With station in Gethsemane.”

  The priest here flushed. Rolfe rose: and, “How—

  You go too far!” “A long Dutch mile

  Behind the genius of our time.”

  “Explain that, pray.” “And don’t you know?

  Mambrino’s helmet is sublime—

  The barber’s basin may be vile:

  Whether this basin is that helm

  To vast debate has given rise—

  Question profound for blinking eyes;

  But common sense throughout her realm

  Has settled it.”

  There, like vain wight

  His fine thing said, bidding friends good night,

  He, to explore a rift they see,

  Parted, bequeathing, as might be,

  A glance which said—Again ye’ll pine

  Left to yourselves here in decline,

  Missing my brave vitality!

  21. THE PRIEST AND ROLFE

  Derwent fetched breath: “A healthy man:

  His lungs are of the soundest leather.”

  “Health’s insolence in a Saurian,”

  Said Rolfe. With that they fell together

  Probing the purport of the Jew

  In last ambiguous words he threw.

  But Derwent, and in lenient way,

  Explained it.

  “Let him have his say,”

  Cried Rolfe; “for one I spare defiance

  With such a kangaroo of science.”

  “Yes; qualify though,” Derwent said,

  “For science has her eagles too.”

  Here musefully Rolfe hung the head;

  Then lifted: “Eagles? ay; but few.

  And search we in their æries lone

  What find we, pray? perchance, a bone.”

  “A very cheerful point of view!”

  “’Tis as one takes it. Not unknown

  That even in Physics much late lore

  But drudges after Plato’s theme;

  Or supplements—but little more—

  Some Hindoo’s speculative dream

  Of thousand years ago. And, own,

  Darwin is but his grandsire’s son.”

  “But Newton and his gravitation!”

  “Think you that system’s strong persuasion

  Is founded beyond shock? O’ermuch

  ’Twould seem for man, a clod, to clutch
/>   God’s secret so, and on a slate

  Cipher all out, and formulate

  The universe.” “You Pyrrhonist!

  Why, now, perhaps you do not see—

  Your mind has taken such a twist—

  The claims of stellar chemistry.”

  “What’s that?” “No matter. Time runs on

  And much that’s useful, grant, is won.”

  “Yes; but more’s claimed. Now first they tell

  The human mind is free to range.

  Enlargement—ay; but where’s the change?

  We’re yet within the citadel—

  May rove in bounds, and study out

  The insuperable towers about.”

  “Come; but there’s many a merry man:

  How long since these sad times began?”

  That steadied Rolfe: “Where’s no annoy

  I too perchance can take a joy—

  Yet scarce in solitude of thought:

  Together cymbals need be brought

  Ere mirth is made. The wight alone

  Who laughs, is deemed a witless one.

  And why? But that we’ll leave unsought.”

  “By all means!—O ye frolic shapes:

  Thou Dancing Faun, thou Faun with Grapes!

  What think ye of them? tell us, pray.”

  “Fine mellow marbles.”

  “But their hint?”

  “A mine as deep as rich the mint

  Of cordial joy in Nature’s sway

  Shared somewhere by anterior clay

  When life was innocent and free:

  Methinks ’tis this they hint to me.”

  He paused, as one who makes review

  Of gala days; then—warmly too—

  “Whither hast fled, thou deity

  So genial? In thy last and best,

  Best avatar—so ripe in form—

  Pure as the sleet—as roses warm—

  Our earth’s unmerited fair guest—

  A god with peasants went abreast:

  Man clasped a deity’s offered hand;

  And woman, ministrant, was then

  How true, even in a Magdalen.

  Him following through the wilding flowers

  By lake and hill, or glad detained

  In Cana—ever out of doors—

  Ere yet the disenchantment gained

  What dream they knew, that primal band

  Of gipsy Christians! But it died;

  Back rolled the world’s effacing tide:

  The ‘world’—by Him denounced, defined—

  Him first—set off and countersigned,

  Once and for all, as opposite

  To honest children of the light.

  But worse came—creeds, wars, stakes. Oh, men

  Made earth inhuman; yes, a den

  Worse for Christ’s coming, since his love

  (Perverted) did but venom prove.

  In part that’s passed. But what remains

  After fierce seethings? golden grains?

  Nay, dubious dregs: be frank, and own.

  Opinion eats; all crumbles down:

  Where stretched an isthmus, rolls a strait:

  Cut off, cut off! Can’st feel elate

  While all the depths of Being moan,

  Though luminous on every hand,

  The breadths of shallow knowledge more expand?

  Much as a light-ship keeper pines

  Mid shoals immense, where dreary shines

  His lamp, we toss beneath the ray

  Of Science’ beacon. This to trim

  Is now man’s barren office.—Nay,”

  Starting abrupt, “this earnest way

  I hate. Let doubt alone; best skim,

  Not dive.”

  “No, no,” cried Derwent gay,

  Who late, upon acquaintance more,

  Took no mislike to Rolfe at core,

  And fain would make his knell a chime—

  Being pledged to hold the palmy time

  Of hope—at least, not to admit

  That serious check might come to it:

  “No, sun doubt’s root—’twill fade, ’twill fade!

  And for thy picture of the Prime,

  Green Christianity in glade—

  Why, let it pass; ’tis good, in sooth:

  Who summons poets to the truth?”

  How Vine sidelong regarded him

  As ’twere in envy of his gift

  For light disposings: so to skim!

  Clarel surmised the expression’s drift,

  Thereby anew was led to sift

  Good Derwent’s mind. For Rolfe’s discourse—

  Prior recoil from Margoth’s jeer

  Was less than startled shying here

  At earnest comment’s random force.

  He shrunk; but owned ’twas weakness mere.

  Himself he chid: No more for me

  The petty half-antipathy:

  This pressure it need be endured:

  Weakness to strength must get inured;

  And Rolfe is sterling, though not less

  At variance with that parlor-strain

  Which counts each thought that borders pain

  A social treason. Sterling—yes,

  Despite illogical wild range

  Of brain and heart’s impulsive counterchange.

  22. CONCERNING HEBREW

  As by the wood drifts thistle-down

  And settles on soft mosses fair,

  Stillness was wafted, dropped and sown;

  Which stillness Vine, with timorous air

  Of virgin tact, thus brake upon,

  Nor with chance hint: “One can’t forbear

  Thinking that Margoth is—a Jew.”

  Hereat, as for response, they view

  The priest.

  “And, well, why me?” he cried;

  “With one consent why turn to me?

  Am I professional? Nay, free!

  I grant that here by Judah’s side

  Queerly it jars with frame implied

  To list this geologic Jew

  His way Jehovah’s world construe:

  In Gentile ’twould not seem so odd.

  But here may preconceptions thrall?

  Be many Hebrews we recall

  Whose contrast with the breastplate bright

  Of Aaron flushed in altar-light,

  And Horeb’s Moses, rock and rod,

  Or closeted alone with God,

  Quite equals Margoth’s in its way:

  At home we meet them every day.

  The Houndsditch clothesman scarce would seem

  Akin to seers. For one, I deem

  Jew banker, merchant, statesman—these,

  With artist, actress known to fame,

  All strenuous in each Gentile aim,

  Are Nature’s off-hand witnesses

  There’s nothing mystic in her reign:

  Your Jew’s like wheat from Pharaoh’s tomb:

  Sow it in England, what will come?

  The weird old seed yields market grain.”

  Pleased by his wit while some recline,

  A smile uncertain lighted Vine,

  But died away.

  “Jews share the change,”

  Derwent proceeded: “Range, they range—

  In liberal sciences they roam;

  They’re leavened, and it works, believe;

  Signs are, and such as scarce deceive:

  From Holland, that historic home

  Of erudite Israel, many a tome

  Talmudic, shi
pped is over sea

  For antiquarian rubbish.”

  “Rest!”

  Cried Rolfe; “e’en that indeed may be,

  Nor less the Jew keep fealty

  To ancient rites. Aaron’s gemmed vest

  Will long outlive Genevan cloth—

  Nothing in Time’s old camphor-chest

  So little subject to the moth.

  But Rabbis have their troublers too.

  Nay, if thro’ dusty stalls we look,

  Haply we disinter to view

  More than one bold freethinking Jew

  That in his day with vigor shook

  Faith’s leaning tower.”

  “Which stood the throe,”

  Here Derwent in appendix: “look,

  Faith’s leaning tower was founded so:

  Faith leaned from the beginning; yes,

  If slant, she holds her steadfastness.”

  “May be;” and paused: “but wherefore clog?—

  Uriel Acosta, he was one

  Who troubled much the synagogue—

  Recanted then, and dropped undone:

  A suicide. There’s Heine, too,

  (In lineage crossed by blood of Jew,)

  Pale jester, to whom life was yet

  A tragic farce; whose wild death-rattle,

  In which all voids and hollows met,

  Desperately maintained the battle

  Betwixt the dirge and castanet.

  But him leave to his Paris stone

  And rail, and friendly wreath thereon.

  Recall those Hebrews, which of old

  Sharing some doubts we moderns rue,

  Would fain Eclectic comfort fold

  By grafting slips from Plato’s palm

  On Moses’ melancholy yew:

  But did they sprout? So we seek balm

  By kindred graftings. Is that true?”

  “Why ask? But see: there lived a Jew—

  No Alexandrine Greekish one—

  You know him—Moses Mendelssohn.”

  “Is’t him you cite? True spirit staid,

  He, though his honest heart was scourged

  By doubt Judaic, never laid

  His burden at Christ’s door; he urged—

  ‘Admit the mounting flames enfold

  My basement; wisely shall my feet

  The attic win, for safe retreat?’ ”

  “And he said that? Poor man, he’s cold.

  But was not this that Mendelssohn

  Whose Hebrew kinswoman’s Hebrew son,

  Baptized to Christian, worthily won

  The good name of Neander so?”

  “If that link were, well might one urge

  From such example, thy strange flow,

  Conviction! Breaking habit’s tether,

 

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