Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

  Black cloisters of the god of war;

  And hear a language which is new

  Or foreign: so now with this band

  Who, after desert rovings, win

  The fort monastic, close at hand,

  Survey it, meditate it—see,

  Through vaultings, the girt Capuchin,

  Or list his speech of Italy.

  Up to the arch the graybeard train

  Of Bethlehemites attend, salute,

  And in expectancy remain

  At stand; their escort ending here,

  They wait the recompense and fruit;

  ’Tis given; and with friendly cheer

  Parting, they bear a meed beyond

  The dry price set down in the bond.

  The bonus Derwent did suggest,

  Saying: “They’re old: of all sweet food

  Naught they take in so cheers their blood

  As ruddy coin; it pads the vest.”

  Belex abides—true as his steel

  To noble pilgrims which such largess deal.

  While these now at refection sit,

  Rolfe speaks: “Provided for so well,

  Much at our ease methinks we dwell.

  Our merit’s guerdon? far from it!

  Unworthy, here we welcome win

  Where Mary found no room at inn.”

  “True, true,” the priest sighed, staying there

  The cup of Bethlehem wine in hand;

  Then sipped; yet by sad absent air

  The flavor seeming to forswear;

  Nor less the juice did glad the gland.

  The abstemious Ungar noted all,

  Grave silence keeping. Rolfe let fall:

  “Strange! of the sacred places here,

  And all through Palestine indeed,

  Not one we Protestants hold dear

  Enough to tend and care for.”

  “Pray,”

  The priest, “and why now should that breed

  Astonishment? but say your say.”

  “Why, Shakespeare’s house in Stratford town

  Ye keep with loving tendance true,

  Set it apart in reverence due:

  A shrine to which the pilgrim’s won

  Across an ocean’s stormy tide:

  What zeal, what faith is there implied;

  Pure worship localized in grace,

  Tradition sole providing base.”

  “Your drift I catch. And yet I think

  That they who most and deepest drink

  At Shakespeare’s fountain, scarce incline

  To idolize the local shrine:

  What’s in mere place that can bestead?”

  “Nay, ’tis the heart here, not the head.

  You note some pilgrims hither bring

  The rich or humble offering:

  If that’s irrational—what then?

  In kindred way your Lutheran

  Will rival it; yes, in sad hour

  The Lutheran widow lays her flower

  Before the picture of the dead:

  Vital affections do not draw

  Precepts from Reason’s arid law.”

  “Ah, clever! But we won’t contend.

  As for these Places, my dear friend,

  Thus stands the matter—as you know:

  Ere Luther yet made his demur,

  These legend-precincts high and low

  In custody already were

  Of Greek and Latin, who retain.

  So, even did we wish to be

  Shrine-keepers here and share the fee—

  No sites for Protestants remain.”

  The compline service they attend;

  Then bedward, travel-worn, they wend;

  And, like a bland breeze out of heaven,

  The gracious boon of sleep is given.

  But Ungar, islanded in thought

  Which not from place a prompting caught,

  Alone, upon the terrace stair

  Lingered, in adoration there

  Of Eastern skies: “Now night enthrones

  Arcturus and his shining sons;

  And lo, Job’s chambers of the South:

  How might his hand not go to mouth

  In kiss adoring ye, bright zones?

  Look up: the age, the age forget—

  There’s something to look up to yet!”

  8. THE PILLOW

  When rule and era passed away

  With old Sylvanus (stories say),

  The oracles adrift were hurled,

  And ocean moaned about the world,

  And wandering voices without name

  At sea to sailors did proclaim,

  Pan, Pan is dead!

  Such fables old—

  From man’s deep nature are they rolled,

  Pained and perplexed—awed, overawed

  By sense of change? But never word

  Aërial by mortal heard,

  Rumors that vast eclipse, if slow,

  Whose passage yet we undergo,

  Emerging on an age untried.

  If not all oracles be dead,

  The upstart ones the old deride:

  Parrots replace the sibyls fled—

  By rote repeat in lilting pride:

  Lodged in power, enlarged in all,

  Man achieves his last exemption—

  Hopes no heaven, but fears no fall,

  King in time, nor needs redemption.

  They hymn. But these who cloistral dwell

  In Bethlehem here, and share faith’s spell

  Meekly, and keep her tenor mild—

  What know they of a world beguiled?

  Or, knowing, they but know too well.

  Buzzed thoughts! To Rolfe they came in doze

  (His brain like ocean’s murmuring shell)

  Between the dream and slumber’s light repose.

  9. THE SHEPHERDS’ DALE

  “Up, up! Around morn’s standard rally;

  She makes a sortie—join the sally:

  Up, slugabeds; up, up!”

  That call

  Ere matins did each pilgrim hear

  In cell, and knew the blithe voice clear.

  “Beshrew thee, thou’rt poetical,”

  Rolfe murmured from his place withdrawn.

  “Ay, brother; but ’tis not surprising:

  Apollo’s the god of early rising.

  Up, up! The negro-groom of Night

  Leads forth the horses of the Dawn!

  Up, up!” So Derwent, jocund sprite—

  Although but two days now were passed

  Since he had viewed a sunrise last—

  Persuaded them to join him there

  And unto convent roof repair.

  Thought one: He’s of no nature surly,

  So cheerful in the morning early.

  Sun-worship over, they came down:

  And Derwent lured them forth, and on.

  Behind the Convent lies a dale,

  The Valley of the Shepherds named,

  (And never may the title fail!)

  By old tradition fondly claimed

  To be in truth the very ground

  About whose hollow, on the mound

  Of hills, reclined in dozing way

  That simple group ere break of day,

  Which, startled by their flocks’ dismay—

  All bleating up to them in panic

  And sparkling in scintillant ray—

  Beheld a splendor diaphanic—

  Effulgence never dawn hath shot,
r />   Nor flying meteors of the night;

  And trembling rose, shading the sight;

  But heard the angel breathe—Fear not.

  So (might one reverently dare

  Terrene with heavenly to compare),

  So, oft in mid-watch on that sea

  Where the ridged Andes of Peru

  Are far seen by the coasting crew—

  Waves, sails and sailors in accord

  Illumed are in a mystery,

  Wonder and glory of the Lord,

  Though manifest in aspect minor—

  Phosphoric ocean in shekinah.

  And down now in that dale they go,

  Meeting a little St. John boy

  In sackcloth shirt and belt of tow,

  Leading his sheep. Ever behind

  He kept one hand, stained with a shrub,

  The which an ewe licked, never coy;

  And all the rest with docile mind

  Followed; and fleece with fleece did rub.

  Beyond, hard by twin planted tents,

  Paced as in friendly conference

  Two shepherds on the pastoral hill,

  Brown patriarchs in shaggy cloak;

  Peaceful they went, as in a yoke

  The oxen unto pasture oak

  To lie in shade when noon is still.

  Nibbling the herb, or far or near,

  Advanced their flocks, and yet would veer,

  For width of range makes wayward will.

  Ungar beheld: “What treat they of?

  Halving the land?—This might reclaim

  Old years of Lot and Abraham

  Just ere they parted in remove:

  A peaceful parting: ‘Let there be

  No strife, I pray thee, between me

  And thee, my herdmen and thine own;

  For we be brethren. See, the land

  Is all before thee, fenced by none:

  Then separate thyself from me,

  I pray thee. If now the left hand

  Thou, Lot, wilt take, then I will go

  Unto the right; if thou depart

  Unto the right, then I will go

  Unto the left.’—They parted so,

  And not unwisely: both were wise.

  ’Twas East and West; but North and South!”

  Rolfe marked the nip of quivering mouth,

  Passion repressed within the eyes;

  But ignorance feigned: “This calm,” he said,

  “How fitly hereabout is shed:

  The site of Eden’s placed not far;

  In bond ’tween man and animal

  Survives yet under Asia’s star

  A link with years before the Fall.”

  “Indeed,” cried Derwent, pleased thereat,

  “Blest, blest is here the creature’s state.

  Those pigeons, now, in Saba’s hold,

  Their wings how winsome would they fold

  Alighting at one’s feet so soft.

  Doves, too, in mosque, I’ve marked aloft,

  At hour of prayer through window come

  From trees adjacent, and a’thrill

  Perch, coo, and nestle in the dome,

  Or fly with green sprig in the bill.

  How by the marble fount in court,

  Where for ablution Turks resort

  Ere going in to hear the Word,

  These small apostles they regard

  Which of sweet innocence report.

  None stone the dog; caressed, the steed;

  Only poor Dobbin (Jew indeed

  Of brutes) seems slighted in the East.”

  Ungar, who chafed in heart of him

  At Rolfe’s avoidance of his theme

  (Although he felt he scarce could blame),

  Here turned his vexed mood on the priest:

  “As cruel as a Turk: Whence came

  That proverb old as the crusades?

  From Anglo-Saxons. What are they?

  Let the horse answer, and blockades

  Of medicine in civil fray!

  The Anglo-Saxons—lacking grace

  To win the love of any race;

  Hated by myriads dispossessed

  Of rights—the Indians East and West.

  These pirates of the sphere! grave looters—

  Grave, canting, Mammonite freebooters,

  Who in the name of Christ and Trade

  (Oh, bucklered forehead of the brass!)

  Deflower the world’s last sylvan glade!”

  “Alas, alas, ten times alas,

  Poor Anglo-Saxons!” Derwent sighed.

  “Nay, but if there I lurched too wide,

  Respond to this: Old ballads sing

  Fair Christian children crucified

  By impious Jews: you’ve heard the thing:

  Yes, fable; but there’s truth hard by:

  How many Hughs of Lincoln, say,

  Does Mammon in his mills, to-day,

  Crook, if he do not crucify?”

  “Ah, come,” said Derwent; “come, now, come;

  Think you that we who build the home

  For foundlings, and yield sums immense

  To hospitals for indigence——”

  “Your alms-box, smaller than your till,

  And poor-house won’t absolve your mill.

  But what ye are, a straw may tell—

  Your dearth of phrases affable.

  Italian, French—more tongues than these—

  Addresses have of courtesies

  In kindliness of man toward man,

  By prince used and by artisan,

  And not pervertible in sense

  Of scorn or slight. Ye have the Sir,

  That sole, employed in snub or slur,

  Never in pure benevolence,

  And at its best a formal term

  Of cold regard.”

  “Ah, why so warm

  In mere philology, dear sir?”

  Plead Derwent; “there, don’t that confer

  Sweet amity? I used the word.”

  But Ungar heeded not—scarce heard;

  And, earnest as the earnest tomb,

  With added feeling, sting, and gloom

  His strange impeachment urged. Reply

  Came none; they let it go; for why

  Argue with man of bitter blood?

  But Rolfe he could but grieve within

  For countryman in such a mood—

  Knowing the cause, the origin.

  10. A MONUMENT

  Wise Derwent, that discourse to end,

  Pointed athwart the dale divine:

  “What’s yonder object—fountain? shrine?

  Companions, let us thither go

  And make inspection.”

  In consent

  Silent they follow him in calm.

  It proved an ancient monument—

  Rude stone; but tablets lent a charm:

  Three tablets on three sides. In one

  The Tender Shepherd mild looked down

  Upon the rescued weanling lost,

  Snugged now in arms. In emblem crossed

  By pastoral crook, Christ’s monogram

  (Wrought with a medieval grace)

  Showed on the square opposed in face.

  But chiefly did they feel the claim

  Of the main tablet; there a lamb

  On passive haunches upright sate

  In patience which reproached not fate;

  The two fine furry fore-legs drooping

  Like tassels; while the shearer, stooping,

  Embraced it with o
ne arm; and all

  The fleece rolled off in seamless shawl

  Flecked here and there with hinted blood.

  It did not shrink; no cry did come:

  In still life of that stone subdued

  Shearer and shorn alike were dumb.

  As with a seventy-four, when lull

  Lapses upon the storm, the hull

  Rights for the instant, while a moan

  Of winds succeeds the howl; so here

  In poise of heart and altered tone

  With Ungar. Respite brief though dear

  It proved; for he: “This type’s assigned

  To One who sharing not man’s mind

  Partook man’s frame; whose mystic birth

  Wrecked him upon this reef of earth

  Inclement and inhuman. Yet,

  Through all the trials that beset,

  He leaned on an upholding arm—

  Foreknowing, too, reserves of balm.

  But how of them whose souls may claim

  Some link with Christ beyond the name,

  Which share the fate, but never share

  Aid or assurance, and nowhere

  Look for requital? Such there be;

  In by-lanes o’er the world ye see

  The Calvary-faces.” All averse

  Turned Derwent, murmuring, “Forbear.

  Such breakers do the heaven asperse!”

  But timely he alert espied,

  Upon the mountain humbly kneeling,

  Those shepherds twain, while morning-tide

  Rolled o’er the hills with golden healing.

  It was a rock they kneeled upon,

  Convenient for their rite avowed—

  Kneeled, and their turbaned foreheads bowed—

  Bowed over, till they kissed the stone:

  Each shaggy sur-coat heedful spread

  For rug, such as in mosque is laid.

  About the ledge’s favored hem

  Mild fed their sheep, enringing them;

  While, facing as by second-sight,

  Toward Mecca they direct the rite.

  “Look; and their backs on Bethlehem turned,”

  Cried Rolfe. The priest then, who discerned

  The drift, replied, “Yes, for they pray

  To Allah. Well, and what of that?

  Christ listens, standing in heaven’s gate—

  Benignant listens, nor doth stay

  Upon a syllable in creed:

  Vowels and consonants indeed!”

  And Rolfe: “But here were Margoth now,

  Seeing yon shepherds praying so,

  His gibe would run from man to man: