Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

  Having dreamed of heaven? Nay, and can you?

  You shun that; what shall needier do?

  Think, think!”

  The student, sorely tried,

  The appeal and implication felt,

  But comfort none.

  And Derwent dealt

  Heaped measure still: “All your ado

  In youth was mine; your swarm I knew

  Of buzzing doubts. But is it good

  Such gnats to fight? or well to brood

  In selfish introverted search,

  Leaving the poor world in the lurch?

  Not so did Christ. Nor less he knew

  And shared a troubled era too;

  And shared besides that problem gray

  Which is forever and alway:

  His person our own shadow threw.

  Then heed him, heed his eldership:

  In all respects did Christ indeed

  Credit the Jews’ crab-apple creed

  Whereto he yet conformed? or so

  But use it, graft it with his slip

  From Paradise? No, no—no, no!

  Spare fervid speech! But, for the rest,

  Be not extreme. Midway is best.

  Herein ’tis never as by Nile—

  From waste to garden but a stile.

  Betwixt rejection and belief,

  Shadings there are—degrees, in brief.

  But ween you, gentle friend, your way

  Of giving to yourself the goad

  Is obsolete, no more the mode?

  Our comrades—frankly let me say—

  That Rolfe, good fellow though he be,

  And Vine, methinks, would you but see,

  Are much like prints from plates but old.

  Interpretations so unfold—

  New finding, happy gloss or key,

  A decade’s now a century.

  Byron’s storm-cloud away has rolled—

  Joined Werter’s; Shelley’s drowned; and—why,

  Perverse were now e’en Hamlet’s sigh:

  Perverse?—indecorous indeed!”

  “E’en so? e’en sadly is it so?”

  “Not sad, but veritable, know.

  But what—how’s this!” For here, with speed

  Of passion, Clarel turned: “Forbear!

  Ah, wherefore not at once name Job,

  In whom these Hamlets all conglobe.

  Own, own with me, and spare to feign,

  Doubt bleeds, nor Faith is free from pain!”

  Derwent averted here his face—

  With his own heart he seemed to strive;

  Then said: “Alas, too deep you dive.

  But hear me yet for little space:

  This shaft you sink shall strike no bloom:

  The surface, ah, heaven keeps that green;

  Green, sunny: nature’s active scene,

  For man appointed, man’s true home.”

  He ended. Saba’s desert lay—

  Glare rived by gloom. That comment’s sway

  He felt: “Our privacy is gone;

  Here trips young Anselm to espy

  Arab or pilgrim drawing nigh.

  Dost hear him? come then, we’ll go down.

  Precede.”

  At every step and steep,

  While higher came the youthful monk,

  Lower and lower in Clarel sunk

  The freighted heart. It touched this deep:

  Ah, Nehemiah, alone art true?

  Secure in reason’s wane or loss?

  Thy folly that folly of the cross

  Contemned by reason, yet how dear to you?

  22. THE MEDALLION

  In Saba, as by one consent,

  Frequent the pilgrims single went;

  So, parting with his young compeer,

  And breaking fast without delay,

  For more restorative and cheer,

  Good Derwent lightly strolled away

  Within this monkish capital.

  Chapels and oratories all,

  And shrines in coves of gilded gloom;

  The kitchen, too, and pantler’s room—

  Naught came amiss.

  Anear the church

  He drew unto a kind of porch

  Such as next some old minsters be,

  An inner porch (named Galilee

  In parlance of the times gone by),

  A place for discipline and grief.

  And here his tarry had been brief

  But for a shield of marble nigh,

  Set in the living rock: a stone

  In low relief, where well was shown,

  Before an altar under sky,

  A man in armor, visor down,

  Enlocked complete in panoply,

  Uplifting reverent a crown

  In invocation.

  This armed man

  In corselet showed the dinted plate,

  And dread streaks down the thigh-piece ran;

  But the bright helm inviolate

  Seemed raised above the battle-zone—

  Cherubic with a rare device;

  Perch for the Bird-of-Paradise.

  A victor seemed he, without pride

  Of victory, or joy in fame:

  ’Twas reverence, and naught beside,

  Unless it might that shadow claim

  Which comes of trial. Yes, the art

  So cunning was, that it in part

  By fair expressiveness of grace

  Atoned even for the visored face.

  Long time becharmed here Derwent stood,

  Charmed by the marble’s quiet mood

  Of beauty, more than by its tone

  Of earnestness, though these were one

  In that good piece. Yes, long he fed

  Ere yet the eye was lower led

  To trace the inscription underrun:

  O fair and friendly manifested Spirit!

  Before thine altar dear

  Let me recount the marvel of the story

  Fulfilled in tribute here.

  In battle waged where all was fraudful silence,

  Foul battle against odds,

  Disarmed, I, fall’n and trampled, prayed: Death, succor!

  Come, Death: thy hand is God’s!

  A pale hand noiseless from the turf responded,

  Riving the turf and stone:

  It raised, re-armed me, sword and golden armor,

  And waved me warring on.

  O fairest, friendliest, and ever holy—

  O Love, dissuading fate—

  To thee, to thee the rescuer, thee sainted,

  The crown I dedicate:

  To thee I dedicate the crown, a guerdon

  The winner may not wear;

  His wound re-opens, and he goes to haven:

  Spirit! befriend him there.

  “A hero, and shall he repine?

  ’Tis not Achilles;” and straightway

  He felt the charm in sort decline;

  And, turning, saw a votary gray:

  “Good brother, tell: make this thing clear:

  Who set this up?” “’Twas long ago,

  Yes, long before I harbored here,

  Long centuries, they say.” “Why, no!

  So bright it looks, ’tis recent, sure.

  Who set it up?” “A count turned monk.”

  “What count?” “His name he did abjure

  For Lazarus, and ever shrunk

  From aught of his life’s history:

  Yon slab tells all or nothing, see.

  But this I’ve heard; tha
t when the stone

  Hither was brought from Cyprus fair

  (Some happy sculptors flourished there

  When Venice ruled), he said to one:

  ‘They’ve made the knight too rich appear—

  Too rich in helm.’ He set it here

  In Saba as securest place,

  For a memorial of grace

  To outlast him, and many a year.”

  23. DERWENT WITH THE ABBOT

  ’Tis travel teaches much that’s strange,

  Mused Derwent in his further range;

  Then fell into uneasy frame:

  The visored man, relinquished name,

  And touch of unglad mystery.

  He rallied: I will go and see

  The archimandrite in his court:

  And thither straight he made resort

  And met with much benignity.

  The abbot’s days were near the span,

  A holy and right reverend man,

  By name Christodulus, which means

  Servant of Christ. Behind the screens

  He kept, but issued the decree:

  Unseen he ruled, and sightlessly:

  Yes, blind he was, stone-blind and old;

  But, in his silken vestment rolled,

  At mid-day on his Persian rug,

  Showed cosy as the puss Maltese

  Demure, in rosy fire-light snug,

  Upon the velvet hem at ease

  Of seated lady’s luxuries

  Of robe. For all his days, and nights,

  Which Eld finds wakeful, and the slights

  Of churlish Time, life still could please.

  And chief what made the charm to be,

  Was his retention of that toy,

  Dear to the old—authority.

  And blent herewith was soothing balm,

  Senior complacency of calm—

  A settledness without alloy,

  In tried belief how orthodox

  And venerable; which the shocks

  Of schism had stood, ere yet the state

  Of Peter claimed earth’s pastorate.

  So far back his Greek Church did plant,

  Rome’s Pope he deemed but Protestant—

  A Rationalist, a bigger Paine—

  Heretic, worse than Arian;

  He lumped him with that compound mass

  Of sectaries of the West, alas!

  Breathed Derwent: “This is a lone life;

  Removed thou art from din and strife,

  But from all news as well.”

  “Even so,

  My son. But what’s news here below?

  For hearts that do Christ’s promise claim,

  No hap’s important since He came.

  Besides: in Saba here remain

  Ten years; then back, the world regain—

  Five minutes’ talk with any one

  Would put thee even with him, son.

  Pretentious are events, but vain.”

  “But new books, authors of the time?”

  “Books have we ever new—sublime:

  The Scriptures—drama, precept fine,

  Verse and philosophy divine,

  All best. Believe again, O son,

  God’s revelation, Holy Writ,

  Quite supersedes and makes unfit

  All text save comment thereupon.

  The Fathers have we, these discuss:

  Sweet Chrysostom, Basilius,

  Great Athanase, and—but all’s known

  To you, no question.”

  In the mien

  Of Derwent, as this dropped in ear,

  A junior’s deference was seen.

  Nothing he controverted. Here

  He won the old man’s heart, he knew,

  And readier brought to pass the thing

  That he designed: which was, to view

  The treasures of this hermit-king.

  At hint urbane, the abbot called

  An acolyth, a blue-robed boy,

  So used to service, he forestalled

  His lighter wishes, and took joy

  In serving. Keys were given. He took

  From out a coffer’s deeper nook

  Small shrines and reliquaries old:

  Beryl and Indian seed-pearl set

  In little folding-doors of gold

  And ivory, of tryptych form,

  With starred Byzantine pictures warm,

  And opening into cabinet

  Where lay secured in precious zone

  The honeycombed gray-greenish bone

  Of storied saint. But prized supreme

  Were some he dwelt upon, detained,

  Felt of them lovingly in hand;

  Making of such a text or theme

  For grave particulars; far back

  Tracing them in monastic dream:

  While fondling them (in way, alack,

  Of Jew his coins) with just esteem

  For rich encasings. Here anew

  Derwent’s attention was not slack;

  Yet underneath a reverence due,

  Slyly he kept his pleasant state:

  The dowager—her family plate.

  The abbot, with a blind man’s way

  Of meek divining, guessed the play

  Of inkept comment: “Son,” said he,

  “These dry bones cannot live: what then?

  In times ere Christianity

  By worldlings was professed, true men

  And brave, which sealed their faith in blood

  Or flame, the Christian brotherhood

  Revered—attended them in death;

  Caught the last parting of the breath:

  Happy were they could they but own

  Some true memento, but a bone

  Purchased from executioner,

  Or begged: hence relics. Trust me, son,

  ’Twas love began, and pious care

  Prolongs this homage.” Derwent bowed;

  And, bland: “Have miracles been wrought

  From these?” “No, none by me avowed

  From knowledge personal. But then

  Such things may be, for they have been.”

  “Have been?” “’Tis in the Scripture taught

  That contact with Elisha’s bones

  Restored the dead to life.” “Most true,”

  Eyeing the bits of skeletons

  As in enlightened reverence new,

  Forgetting that his host was blind,

  Nor might the flattery receive.

  Erelong, observing the old man

  Waxed weary, and to doze began,

  Strange settling sidelong, half reclined,

  His blessing craved he, and took leave.

  24. VAULT AND GROTTO

  But Clarel, bides he still by tower?

  His was no sprightly frame; nor mate

  He sought: it was his inner hour.

  Yes, keeping to himself his state,

  Nor thinking to break fast till late,

  He moved along the gulf’s built flank

  Within the inclosures rank o’er rank.

  Accost was none, for none he saw,

  Until the Druze he chanced to meet,

  Smoking, nor did the Emir draw

  The amber from the mouth, to greet,

  Not caring so to break the spell

  Of that Elysian interval;

  But lay, his pipe at lengthy lean,

  Reclined along the crag serene,

  As under Spain’s San Pedro dome

  The long-sword C
id upon his tomb;

  And with an unobtrusive eye

  Yet apprehending, and mild mien,

  Regarded him as he went by

  Tossed in his trouble. ’Twas a glance

  Clarel did many a time recall,

  Though its unmeant significance—

  That was the last thing learned of all.

  But passing on by ways that wind,

  A place he gained secluded there

  In ledge. A cenobite inclined

  Busy at scuttle-hole in floor

  Of rock, like smith who may repair

  A bolt of Mammon’s vault. The door

  Or stony slab lay pushed aside.

  Deeming that here the monks might store,

  In times of menace which they bide,

  Their altar plate, Clarel drew near,

  But faltered at the friar’s sad tone

  Ascetical. He looked like one

  Whose life is but a patience mere,

  Or worse, a fretting doubt of cheer

  Beyond; he toiled as in employ

  Imposed, a bondman far from joy.

  No answer made he to salute,

  Yet deaf might be. And now, while mute

  The student lingered, lo, down slipped

  Through cleft of crags, the sun did win

  Aloft in Kedron’s citadel,

  A fiery shaft into that crypt

  (Like well-pole slant in farm-house well)

  And lighted it: and he looked in.

  On stony benches, head by head,

  In court where no recorders be,

  Preserved by nature’s chemistry

  Sat the dim conclave of the dead,

  Encircled where the shadow rules,

  By sloping theatres of skulls.

  He rose—retreated by the line

  Of cliff, but paused at tones which sent:

  “So pale? the end’s nor imminent

  Nor far. Stand, thou; the countersign!”—

  It came from over Kedron’s rent.

  Thitherward then his glance he bent,

  And saw, by mouth of grot or mine,

  Rustic with wicket’s rude design,

  A sheeted apparition wait,

  Like Lazarus at the charnel gate

  In Bethany.

  “The countersign!”

  “Reply, say something; yea, say Death,”

  Prompted the monk, erewhile so mute.

  Clarel obeyed; and, in a breath,

  “Advance!” the shroud cried, turning foot,

  And so retired there into gloom

  Within, and all again was dumb.

  “And who that man—or ghost?” he yearned