Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

  ‘Which is the humble publican?

  Or do they but prostrate them there

  To flout you Franks with Islam’s prayer?’ ”

  “Doubtless: some shallow thing he’d say,

  Poor fellow,” Derwent then; “but, nay,

  Earnest they are; nor yet they’d part

  (If pealed the hour) in street or mart,

  From like observance.”

  “If ’tis so”

  The refugee, “let all avow

  As openly faith’s loyal heart.

  By Christians too was God confessed

  How frankly! in those days that come

  No more to misnamed Christendom!

  Religion then was the good guest,

  First served, and last, in every gate:

  What mottoes upon wall and plate!

  She every human venture shared:

  The ship in manifest declared

  That not disclaiming heaven she thrust

  Her bowsprit into fog and storm:

  Some current silver bore the palm

  Of Christ, token of saint, or bust;

  In line devout the pikemen kneeled—

  To battle by the rite were sealed.

  Men were not lettered, but had sense

  Beyond the mean intelligence

  That knows to read, and but to read—

  Not think. ’Twas harder to mislead

  The people then, whose smattering now

  Does but the more their ignorance show—

  Nay, them to peril more expose—

  Is as the ring in the bull’s nose

  Whereby a pert boy turns and winds

  This monster of a million minds.

  Men owned true masters; kings owned God—

  Their master; Louis plied the rod

  Upon himself. In high estate,

  Not puffed up like a democrat

  In office, how with Charlemagne?

  Look up he did, look up in reign—

  Humbly look up, who might look down:

  His meekest thing was still his crown:

  How meek on him; since, graven there,

  Among the Apostles twelve—behold,

  Stern Scriptural precepts were enrolled,

  High admonitions, meet for kings.

  The coronation was a prayer,

  Which yet in ceremonial clings.

  The church was like a bonfire warm:

  All ranks were gathered round the charm.”

  Derwent, who vainly had essayed

  To impede the speaker, or blockade,

  Snatched at the bridle here: “Ho, wait;

  A word, impetuous laureate!

  This bric-a-brac-ish style (outgrown

  Almost, where first it gave the tone)

  Of lauding the quaint ages old—

  But nay, that’s satire; I withhold.

  Grant your side of the shield part true:

  What then? why, turn the other: view

  The buckler in reverse. Don’t sages

  Denominate those times Dark Ages?

  Dark Middle Ages, time’s midnight!”

  “If night, it was no starless one;

  Art still admires what then was done:

  A strength they showed which is of light.

  Not more the Phidian marbles prove

  The graces of the Grecian prime

  And indicate what men they were,

  Than the grand minsters in remove

  Do intimate, if not declare

  A magnanimity which our time

  Would envy, were it great enough

  To comprehend. Your counterbuff,

  However, holds. Yes, frankly, yes,

  Another side there is, admit.

  Nor less the very worst of it

  Reveals not such a shamelessness

  Of evildoer and hypocrite,

  And sordid mercenary sin

  As these days vaunt and revel in.”

  “No use, no use,” the priest aside;

  “Patience! it is the maddest tide;”

  And seated him.

  And Ungar then:

  “What’s overtaken ye pale men?

  Shrewd are ye, the main chance ye heed:

  Has God quite lost his throne indeed

  That lukewarm now ye grow? Wilt own,

  Council ye take with fossil-stone?

  Your sects do nowadays create

  Churches as worldly as the state.

  And, for your more established forms—

  Ah, once in York I viewed through storms

  The Minster’s majesty of mien—

  Towers, peaks, and pinnacles sublime—

  Faith’s iceberg, stranded on a scene

  How alien, and an alien time;

  But now”—he checked himself, and stood.

  Whence this strange bias of his mood

  (Thought they) leaning to things corroded,

  By many deemed for aye exploded?

  But, truly, knowing not the man,

  At fault they in conjecture ran.

  But Ungar (as in fitter place

  Set down) being sprung from Romish race,

  Albeit himself had spared to feed

  On any one elected creed

  Or rite, though much he might recall

  In annals bearing upon all;

  And, in this land named of Behest,

  A wandering Ishmael from the West;

  Inherited the Latin mind,

  Which late—blown by the adverse wind

  Of harder fortunes that molest—

  Kindled from ember into coal.

  The priest, as one who keeps him whole,

  Anew turns toward the kneeling twain:

  “Your error’s slight, or, if a stain,

  ’Twill fade. Our Lord enjoins good deeds

  Nor catechiseth in the creeds.”

  A something in the voice or man,

  Or in assumption of the turn

  Which prior theme did so adjourn,

  Pricked Ungar, and a look he ran

  Toward Derwent—an electric light

  Chastising in its fierce revolt;

  Then settled into that still night

  Of cloud which has discharged the bolt.

  11. DISQUIET

  At breakfast in refectory there

  The priest—if Clarel not mistook—

  The good priest wore the troubled air

  Of honest heart striving to brook

  Injury, which from words abstained,

  And, hence, not readily arraigned;

  Which to requite in its own sort

  Is not allowed in heaven’s high court,

  Or self-respect’s. Such would forget,

  But for the teasing doubt or fret

  Lest unto worldly witness mere

  The injury none the less appear

  To challenge notice at the least.

  Ungar withdrew, leaving the priest

  Less ill at ease; who now a thought

  Threw out, as ’twere in sad concern

  For one whose nature, sour or stern,

  Still dealt in all unhandsome flings

  At happy times and happy things:

  “‘The bramble sayeth it is naught:’

  Poor man!” But that; and quite forbore

  To vent his grievance. Nor less sore

  He felt it—Clarel so inferred,

  Recalling here too Mortmain’s word

  Of cutting censorship. How then?

  While most who met him frank averred

/>   That Derwent ranked with best of men,

  The Swede and refugee unite

  In one repugnance, yea, and slight.

  How take, construe their ill-content?

  A thing of vein and temperament?

  Rolfe liked him; and if Vine said naught,

  Yet even Vine seemed not uncheered

  By fair address. Then stole the thought

  Of how the priest had late appeared

  In that one confidential hour,

  Ambiguous on Saba’s tower.

  There he dismissed it, let it fall:

  To probe overmuch seems finical.

  Nor less (for still the point did tease,

  Nor would away and leave at ease),

  Nor less, I wonder, if ere long

  He’ll turn this off, not worth a song,

  As lightly as of late he turned

  Poor Mortmain’s sally when he burned?

  12. OF POPE AND TURK

  Marking the priest not all sedate,

  Rolfe, that a friend might fret discard,

  Turned his attention to debate

  Between two strangers at the board.

  In furtherance of his point or plea

  One said:

  “Late it was told to me,

  And by the man himself concerned,

  A merchant Frank on Syria’s coast,

  That in a fire which traveled post,

  His books and records being burned,

  His Christian debtors held their peace;

  The Islam ones disclaimed release,

  And came with purses and accounts.”

  “And duly rendered their amounts?

  ’Twas very kind. But oh, the greed,

  Rapacity, and crime at need

  In satraps which oppress the throng.”

  “True. But with these ’tis, after all,

  Wrong-doing purely personal—

  Not legislated—not a wrong

  Law-sanctioned. No: the Turk, admit,

  In scheme of state, the scheme of it,

  Upon the civil arm confers

  A sway above the scimeter’s—

  The civil power itself subjects

  Unto that Koran which respects

  Nor place nor person. Nay, adjourn

  The jeer; for now aside we’ll turn.

  Dismembered Poland and her throe

  In Ninety-Five, all unredressed:

  Did France, did England then protest?”

  “England? I’m sure I do not know.

  Come, I distrust your shifting so.

  Pray, to what end now is this pressed?”

  “Why, here armed Christendom looking on,

  In protest the Sultan stood alone.”

  “Indeed? But all this, seems to me,

  Savors of Urquhart’s vanity.”

  “The commentator on the East?”

  “The same: that very inexact

  Eccentric ideologist

  Now obsolete.”

  “And that’s your view?

  He stands for God.”

  “I stand by fact.”

  “Well then, another fact or two;

  When Poland’s place in Thirty-One

  Was blotted out, the Turk again

  Protested, with one other man,

  The Pope; these, and but these alone;

  And in the protest both avowed

  ’Twas made for justice’s sake and God.—

  You smile.”

  “Oh no: but very clear

  The protest prompted was by fear

  In Turk and Pope, that time might come

  When spoliation should drive home

  Upon themselves. Besides, you know

  The Polish church was Catholic:

  The Czar would wrest it to the Greek:

  ’Twas that touched Rome. But let it go.—

  In pith, what is it you would show?

  Are Turks our betters? Very strange

  Heaven’s favor does not choicely range

  Upon these Islam people good:

  Bed-rid they are, behindhand all,

  While Europe flowers in plenitude

  Of wealth and commerce.”

  “I recall

  Nothing in Testament which saith

  That worldliness shall not succeed

  In that wherein it laboreth.

  Howbeit, the Sultan’s coming on:

  Fine lesson from ye has he won

  Of late; apt pupil he indeed:

  Ormus, that riches did confer,

  Ormus is made a borrower:

  Selim, who grandly turbaned sat,

  Verges on bankruptcy and—hat.

  But this don’t touch the rank and file;

  At least, as yet. But preach and work:

  You’ll civilize the barbarous Turk—

  Nay, all the East may reconcile:

  That done, let Mammon take the wings of even,

  And mount and civilize the saints in heaven.”

  “I laugh—I like a brave caprice!

  And, sir——”

  But here did Rolfe release

  His ear, and Derwent too. A stir

  In court was heard of man and steed—

  Neighings and mountings, din indeed;

  And Rolfe: “Come, come; our traveler.”

  13. THE CHURCH OF THE STAR

  They rise, and for a little space

  In farewell Agath they detain,

  Transferred here to a timelier train

  Than theirs. A work-day, passive face

  He turns to Derwent’s Luck to thee!

  No slight he means—’tis far from that;

  But, schooled by the inhuman sea,

  He feels ’tis vain to wave the hat

  In God-speed on this mortal strand;

  Recalling all the sailing crews

  Destined to sleep in ocean sand,

  Cheered from the wharf with blithe adieus.

  Nor less the heart’s farewell they say,

  And bless the old man on his way.

  Led by a slender monk and young,

  With curls that ringed the shaven crown,

  Courts now and shrines they trace. That thong

  Ascetic which can life chastise

  Down to her bleak necessities,

  They mark in coarse serge of his gown,

  And girdling rope, with cross of wood

  For tag at end; and hut-like hood

  Superfluous now behind him thrown;

  And sandals which expose the skin

  Transparent, and the blue vein thin

  Meandering there: the feet, the face

  Alike in lucid marble grace.

  His simple manners self-possessed

  Both saint and noble-born suggest;

  Yet under quietude they mark

  The slumbering of a vivid spark—

  Excitable, if brought to test.

  A Tuscan, he exchanged the charm

  Val d’Arno yields, for this dull calm

  Of desert. Was his youth self-given

  In frank oblation unto heaven?

  Or what inducement might disarm

  This Isaac when too young to know?

  Hereon they, pacing, muse—till, lo,

  The temple opens in dusk glades

  Of long-drawn double colonnades:

  Monoliths two-score and eight.

  Rolfe looked about him, pleased in state:

  “But this is goodly! Here we rove

  As down the deep Dodona
grove:

  Years, years and years these boles have stood!—

  Late by the spring in idle mood

  My will I made (if ye recall),

  Providing for the Inn of Trees:

  But ah, to set out trunks like these

  In harbor open unto all

  For generations!” So in vein

  Rolfe free descanted as through fane

  They passed. But noting now the guide

  In acquiescence by their side,

  He checked himself: “Why prate I here?

  This brother—I usurp his sphere.”

  They came unto a silver star

  In pavement set which none do mar

  By treading. Here at pause remained

  The monk; till, seeing Rolfe refrained,

  And all, from words, he said: “The place,

  Signori, where that shining grace

  Which led the Magi, stood; below,

  The Manger is.” They comment none;

  Not voicing everything they know,

  In cirque about that silver star

  They quietly gaze thereupon.

  But, turning now, one glanced afar

  Along the columned aisles, and thought

  Of Baldwin whom the mailed knights brought,

  While Godfrey’s requiem did ring,

  Hither to Bethlehem, and crowned

  His temples helmet-worn, with round

  Of gold and velvet—crowned him king—

  King of Jerusalem, on floor

  Of this same nave august, above

  The Manger in its low remove

  Where lay, a thousand years before,

  The Child of awful worshiping,

  Destined to prove all slights and scorns,

  And a God’s coronation—thorns.

  Not Derwent’s was that revery;

  Another thing his heart possessed,

  The clashing of the East and West,

  Odd sense of incongruity;

  He felt a secret impulse move

  To start a humorous comment slant

  Upon the monk, and sly reprove.

  But no: I’ll curb the Protestant

  And modern in me—at least here

  For time I’ll curb it. Perish truth

  If it but act the boor, in sooth,

  Requiting courtesy with jeer;

  For courteous is our guide, with grace

  Of a pure heart.

  Some little trace,

  May be, of Derwent’s passing thought

  The Tuscan from his aspect caught;

  And turned him: “Pardon! but the crypt:

  This way, signori—follow me.”

  Down by a rock-hewn stair they slipped,