Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

Anon! But I—” and hung oppressed—

  “Years, three-score years, seem much to men;

  Three hundred—five—eight hundred, then;

  And add a thousand; these I know!

  That eighth dim cycle of my woe,

  The which, ahead, did so delay,

  To me now seems but yesterday:

  To Rome I wandered out of Spain,

  And saw thy crowning, Charlemagne,

  On Christmas eve. Is all but dream?

  Or is this Shaveh, and on high,

  Is that, even that, Jerusalem?—

  How long, how long? Compute hereby:

  The years, the penal years to be,

  Reckon by years, years, years, and years

  Whose calendar thou here mayst see

  On grave-slabs which the blister sears—

  Of ancient Jews which sought this clime,

  Inscriptions nigh extinct,

  Or blent or interlinked

  With dotard scrawl of idiot Time.

  Transported felon on the seas

  Pacing the deck while spray-clouds freeze;

  Pacing and pacing, night and morn,

  Until he staggers overworn;

  Through time, so I, Christ’s convict grim,

  Deathless and sleepless lurching fare—

  Deathless and sleepless through remorse for Him;

  Deathless, when sleepless were enough to bear.”

  Rising he slouched along the glen,

  Halting at base of crag—detached

  Erect, as from the barrier snatched,

  And upright lodged below; and then:

  “Absalom’s Pillar! See the shoal

  Before it—pebble, flint, and stone,

  With malediction, jeer or groan

  Cast through long ages. Ah, what soul

  That was but human, without sin,

  Did hither the first just missile spin!

  Culprit am I—this hand flings none;

  Rather through yon dark-yawning gap,

  Missed by the rabble in mishap

  Of peltings vain—abject I’d go,

  And, contrite, coil down there within,

  Lie still, and try to ease the throe.

  “But nay—away!

  Not long the feet unblest may stay.

  They come: the vengeful vixens strive—

  The harpies, lo—hag, gorgon, drive!”

  There caught along, as swept by sand

  In fierce Sahara hurricaned,

  He fled, and vanished down the glen.

  The Spahi, who absorbed had been

  By the true acting, turned amain,

  And letting go the mental strain,

  Vented a resonant, “Bismillah!”

  Strange answering which pealed from on high—

  “Dies irœ, dies illa!”

  They looked, and through the lurid fume

  Profuse of torches that but die,

  And ghastly there the cliffs illume;

  The skull-capped man they mark on high—

  Fitful revealed, as when, through rift

  Of clouds which dyed by sunset drift,

  The Matterhorn shows its cragged austerity.

  20. AFTERWARD

  “Seedsmen of old Saturn’s land,

  Love and peace went hand in hand,

  And sowed the Era Golden!

  “Golden time for man and mead:

  Title none, nor title-deed,

  Nor any slave, nor Soldan.

  “Venus burned both large and bright,

  Honey-moon from night to night,

  Nor bride, nor groom waxed olden.

  “Big the tears, but ruddy ones,

  Crushed from grapes in vats and tuns

  Of vineyards green and golden!

  “Sweet to sour did never sue,

  None repented ardor true—

  Those years did so embolden.

  “Glum Don Graveairs slunk in den:

  Frankly roved the gods with men

  In gracious talk and golden.

  “Thrill it, cymbals of my rhyme,

  Power was love, and love in prime,

  Nor revel to toil beholden.

  “Back, come back, good age, and reign,

  Goodly age, and long remain—

  Saturnian Age, the Golden!”

  The masquer gone, by stairs that climb,

  In seemly sort, the friars withdrew;

  And, waiting that, the Islesman threw

  His couplets of the Arcadian time,

  Then turning on the pilgrims: “Hoo!

  “The bird of Paradise don’t like owls:

  A handful of acorns after the cowls!”

  But Clarel, bantered by the song,

  Sad questioned, if in frames of thought

  And feeling, there be right and wrong;

  Whether the lesson Joel taught

  Confute what from the marble’s caught

  In sylvan sculpture—Bacchant, Faun,

  Or shapes more lax by Titian drawn.

  Such counter natures in mankind—

  Mole, bird, not more unlike we find:

  Instincts adverse, nor less how true

  Each to itself. What clew, what clew?

  21. IN CONFIDENCE

  Towers twain crown Saba’s mountain hight;

  And one, with larger outlook bold,

  Monks frequent climb or day or night

  To peer for Arabs. In the breeze

  So the ship’s lifted topmen hold

  Watch on the blue and silver seas,

  To guard against the slim Malay,

  That perilous imp whose slender proa

  Great hulls have rued—as in ill hour

  The whale the sword-fish’ lank assay.

  Upon that pile, to catch the dawn,

  Alert next day see Derwent stand

  With Clarel. All the mountain-land

  Disclosed through Kedron far withdrawn,

  Cloven and shattered, hushed and banned,

  Seemed poised as in a chaos true,

  Or throe-lock of transitional earth

  When old forms are annulled, and new

  Rebel, and pangs suspend the birth.

  That aspect influenced Clarel. Fair

  Derwent’s regard played otherwhere—

  Expectant. Twilight gray took on

  Suffusion faint of cherry tone.

  The student marked it; but the priest

  Marked whence it came: “Turn, turn—the East!

  Oh, look! how like an ember red

  The seed of fire, by early hand

  Raked forth from out the ashy bed,

  Shows yon tinged flake of dawn. See, fanned

  As ’twere, by this spice-air that blows,

  The live coal kindles—the fire grows!”

  And mute, he watched till all the East

  Was flame: “Ah, who would not here come,

  And from dull drowsiness released,

  Behold morn’s rosy martyrdom!”

  It was an unaffected joy,

  And showed him free from all annoy

  Within—such, say, as mutiny

  Of non-content in random touch

  That he perchance had overmuch

  Favored the first night’s revelry.

  For Clarel—though at call indeed

  He might not else than turn and feed

  On florid dawn—not less, anon,

  When wonted light of day was won,

  Sober and common light, with that


  Returned to him his unelate

  And unalleviated tone;

  And thoughts, strange thoughts, derived overnight,

  Touching the Swede’s dark undelight,

  Recurred; with sequence how profuse

  Concerning all the company—

  The Arnaut, and the man of glee—

  The Lesbian, and calm grave Druze,

  And Belex; yes, and in degree

  Even Rolfe; Vine too. Less he who trim

  Beside him stood, eludes his doubt—

  Derwent himself, whose easy skim

  Never had satisfied throughout.

  He now, if not deemed less devout

  Through wassail and late hint of him,

  Was keenlier scanned. Yet part might be

  Effect of long society,

  Which still detracts. But in review

  Of one who could such doubt renew,

  Clarel inveighs: Parhelion orb

  Of faith autumnal, may the dew

  Of earth’s sad tears thy rays absorb?

  Truth bitter: Derwent bred distrust

  Heavier than came from Mortmain’s thrust

  Into the cloud—profounder far

  Than Achor’s glen with ominous scar.

  All aliens now being quite aloof,

  Fain would he put that soul to proof.

  Yet, fearful lest he might displease,

  His topics broached he by degrees.

  Needless. For Derwent never shrunk:

  “Lad, lad, this diffidence forget;

  Believe, you talk here to no monk:

  Who’s old Duns Scotus? We’re well met.

  Glad that at last your mind you set

  In frank communion here with me.

  Better had this been earlier, though;

  There lacked not times of privacy

  Had such been sought. But yes, I know;

  You’re young, you’re off the poise; and so

  A link have felt with hearts the same

  Though more advanced. I scarce can blame.

  And yet perhaps one here might plead

  These rather stimulate than feed.

  Nor less let each tongue say its say;

  Therefrom we truth elicit. Nay,

  And with the worst, ’tis understood

  We broader clergy think it good

  No more to use censorious tone:

  License to all.—We are alone;

  Speak out, that’s right.”

  The student first

  Cited the din of clashed belief

  So loud in Palestine, and chief

  By Calvary, where are rehearsed

  Within the Sepulcher’s one fane

  All rituals which, ere Luther’s reign,

  Shared the assent of Christendom.

  Besides: how was it even at home?

  Behind the mellow chancel’s rail

  Lurked strife intestine. What avail

  The parlor-chapels liberal?

  The hearers their own minds elect;

  The very pews are each a sect;

  No one opinion’s steadfast sway:

  A wide, an elemental fray.

  As with ships moored in road unsafe,

  When gales augment and billows chafe,

  Hull drives ’gainst hull, endangering all

  In crossing cables; while from thrall

  Of anchor, others, dragged amain,

  Drift seaward: so the churches strain,

  Much so the fleets sectarian meet

  Doubt’s equinox. Yes, all was dim;

  He saw no one secure retreat;

  Of late so much had shaken him.

  Derwent in grave concern inclined.

  “Part true, alas!” Nor less he claimed

  Reserves of solace, and of kind

  Beyond that in the desert named,

  When the debate was scarce with men

  Who owned with him a common ground—

  True center where they might convene.

  And yet this solace when unbound

  At best proved vague (so Clarel deemed).

  He thought, too, that the priest here seemed

  Embarrassed on the sudden, nay,

  He faltered. What could so betray?

  In single contact, heart to heart,

  With young, fresh, fervid earnestness,

  Was he surprised into distress—

  An honest quandary, a smart

  More trying e’en than Mortmain’s dart,

  Grieving and graveling, could deal?

  But Derwent rallied, and with zeal:

  “Shall everything then plain be made?

  Not that there’s any ambuscade:

  In youth’s first heat to think to know!

  For time ’tis well to bear a cross:

  Yet on some waters here below

  Pilots there be, if one’s at loss.”

  The pupil colored; then restrained

  An apt retort too personal,

  Content with this: “Pilots retained?

  But in debates which I recall

  Such proved but naught. This side—that side,

  They crossing hail through fogs that dwell

  Upon a limitless deep tide,

  While their own cutters toll the bell

  Of groping.”

  Derwent bit the lip;

  Altered again, had fain let slip

  “Throw all this burden upon HIM;”

  But hesitated. Changing trim,

  Considerate then he turned a look

  Which seemed to weigh as in a book

  Just how far youth might well be let

  Into maturity’s cabinet.

  He, as in trial, took this tone:

  “Not but there’s here and there a heart

  Which shares at whiles strange throbs alone.

  Such at the freakish sting will start:

  No umpirage! they cry—we dote

  To dream heaven drops a casting vote,

  In these perplexities takes part!”

  Clarel, uncertain, stood at gaze,

  But Derwent, riving that amaze,

  Advanced impulsively: “Your hand!

  No longer will I be restrained.

  Yours is a sect—but never mind:

  By function we are intertwined,

  Our common function. Weigh it thus:

  Clerics we are—clerics, my son;

  Nay, shrink not so incredulous;

  Paternally my sympathies run—

  Toward you I yearn. Well, now: what joy,

  What saving calm, what but annoy

  In all this hunt without one clew?

  What lack ye, pray? what would ye do?

  Have Faith, which, even from the myth,

  Draws something to be useful with:

  In any form some truths will hold;

  Employ the present-sanctioned mold.

  Nay, hear me out; clean breast I make,

  Quite unreserved—and for whose sake?

  Suppose an instituted creed

  (Or truth or fable) should indeed

  To ashes fall; the spirit exhales,

  But reinfunds in active forms:

  Verse, popular verse, it charms or warms—

  Bellies Philosophy’s flattened sails—

  Tinctures the very book, perchance,

  Which claims arrest of its advance.

  Why, the true import, deeper use

  Shows first when Reason quite slips noose,

  And Faith’s long dead. Attest that gold

  Which Bacon counted down and told


  In one ripe tract, by time unshamed,

  Wherein from riddle he reclaimed

  The myths of Greece. But go back—well,

  Reach to the years of first decay

  Or totter: prithee, lad, but tell

  How with the flamens of that day?

  When brake the sun from morning’s tents

  And walked the hills, and gilded thence

  The fane in porch; the priest in view

  Bowed—hailed Apollo, as before,

  Ere change set in; what else to do?

  Or whither turn, or what adore?

  What but to temporize for him,

  Stranded upon an interim

  Between the ebb and flood? He knew.—

  You see? Transfer—apply it, you.”

  “Ill know I what you there advise.—

  Ah, heaven!” and for a moment stood;

  Then turned: “A rite they solemnize—

  An awful rite, and yet how sweet

  To humble hearts which sorrows beat.

  Tell, is that mystic flesh and blood—

  I shrink to utter it!—Of old

  For medicine they mummy sold—

  Conjurer’s balsam.—God, my God,

  Sorely Thou triest me the clod!”

  Upon the impassioned novice here

  Discreet the kind proficient throws

  The glance of one who still would peer

  Where best to take the hedge or close.

  Ere long: “You’d do the world some good?

  Well, then: no good man will gainsay

  That good is good, done any way,

  In any name, by any brotherhood.

  How think you there?”

  From Clarel naught.

  Derwent went on: “For lamp you yearn—

  A lantern to benighted thought.

  Obtain it—whither will you turn?

  Still lost you’d be in blanks of snow.

  My fellow-creature, do you know

  That what most satisfies the head

  Least solaces the heart? Less light

  Than warmth needs earthly wight.

  Christ built a hearth: the flame is dead

  We’ll say, extinct; but lingers yet,

  Enlodged in stone, the hoarded heat.

  Why not nurse that? Would rive the door

  And let the sleet in? But, once o’er,

  This tarrying glow, never to man,

  Methinks, shall come the like again.

  What if some camp on crags austere

  The Stoic held ere Gospel cheer?

  There may the common herd abide,