Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

  Turning by steps which winding be,

  Winning a sparry chamber brave

  Unsearched by that prose critic keen,

  The daylight. Archimago’s cave

  Was here? or that more sorcerous scene

  The Persian Sibyl kept within

  For turbaned musings? Bowing o’er,

  Crossing himself, and on the knee,

  Straight did the guide that grot adore;

  Then, rising, and as one set free:

  “The place of the Nativity.”

  Dim pendent lamps, in cluster small

  Were Pleiads of the mystic hall;

  Fair lamps of silver, lamps of gold—

  Rich gifts devout of monarchs old,

  Kings catholic. Rare objects beamed

  All round, recalling things but dreamed:

  Solomon’s talismans garnered up,

  His sword, his signet-ring and cup.

  In further caverns, part revealed,

  What silent shapes like statues kneeled;

  What brown monks moved by twinkling shrines

  Like Aztecs down in silver mines.

  This, this the Stable mean and poor?

  Noting their looks, to ward surprise,

  The Italian: “’Tis incrusted o’er

  With marbles, so that now one’s eyes

  Meet not the natural wall. This floor——”

  “But how? within a cave we stand!”

  “Yes, caves of old to use were put

  For cattle, and with gates were shut.

  One meets them still—with arms at hand,

  The keepers nigh. Sure it need be

  That if in Gihon ye have been,

  Or hereabouts, yourselves have seen

  The grots in question.”

  They agree;

  And silent in their hearts confess

  The strangeness, but the truth no less.

  Anew the guide: “Ere now we get

  Further herein, indulge me yet;”

  But paused awhile: “Though o’er this cave,

  Where Christ” (and crossed himself) “had birth,

  Constantine’s mother reared the Nave

  Whose Greek mosaics fade in bloom,

  No older church in Christendom;

  And generations, with the girth

  Of domes and walls, have still enlarged

  And built about; yet convents, shrines,

  Cloisters and towers, take not for signs,

  Entreat ye, of meek faith submerged

  Under proud masses. Be it urged

  As all began from these small bounds,

  So, by all avenues and gates,

  All here returns, hereto redounds:

  In this one Cave all terminates:

  In honor of the Manger sole

  Saints, kings, knights, prelates reared the whole.”

  He warmed. Ah, fervor bought too dear:

  The fingers clutching rope and cross;

  Life too intense; the cheek austere

  Deepening in hollow, waste and loss.

  They marked him; and at heart some knew

  Inklings they loved not to pursue.

  But Rolfe recalled in fleeting gleam

  The first Franciscan, richly born—

  The youthful one who, night and morn,

  In Umbria ranged the hills in dream,

  And first devised the girdling cord

  In type that rebel senses so

  Should led be—led like beast abroad

  By halter. Tuscan! in the glow

  And white light of thy faith’s illumings,

  In vigils, fervent prayers and trances,

  Agonies and self-consumings—

  Renewest thou the young Saint Francis?

  So inly Rolfe; when, in low tone

  Considerate Derwent whispered near:

  “’Tis doubtless the poor boy’s first year

  In Bethlehem; time will abate

  This novice-ardor; yes, sedate

  He’ll grow, adapt him to the sphere.”

  Close to the Sanctum now they drew,

  A semicircular recess;

  And there, in marble floor, they view

  A silver sun which (friars profess)

  Is set in plummet-line exact

  Beneath the star in pavement-tract

  Above; and raying from this sun

  Shoot jasper-spikes, which so point out

  Argent inscription roundabout

  In Latin text; which thus may run:

  THE VIRGIN HERE BROUGHT FORTH THE SON.

  The Tuscan bowed him; then with air

  Friendly he turned; but something there

  In Derwent’s look—no matter what—

  An open levity ’twas not—

  Disturbed him; and in accents clear,

  As challenged in his faith sincere:

  “I trust tradition! Here He lay

  Who shed on Mary’s breasts the ray:

  Salvator Mundi!”

  Turning now,

  He noted, and he bade them see

  Where, with a timid piety

  A band of rustics bent them low

  In worship mute: “Shepherds these are,

  And come from pastoral hills not far

  Whereon they keep the night-watch wild:

  These, like their sires, adore the CHILD,

  And in same spot. But, mixed with these,

  Mark ye yon poor swart images

  In other garb? But late they fled

  From over Jordan hither; yes,

  Escaping so the heinousness

  Of one with price upon his head.

  But look, and yet seem not to peer,

  Lest pain ye give: an eye, an ear,

  A hand, is mutilate or gone:

  The mangler marked them for his own;

  But Christ redeems them.” Derwent here

  His eyes withdrew, but Ungar not,

  While visibly the red blood shot

  Into his thin-skinned scar, and sent,

  As seemed, a pulse of argument

  Confirming so some angry sense

  Of evil, and malevolence

  In man toward man.

  Now, lower down

  The cave, the Manger they descry,

  With marble lined; and, o’er it thrown,

  A lustrous saint-cloth meets the eye.

  And suits of saint-cloths here they have

  Wherewith to deck the Manger brave:

  Gifts of the Latin princes, these—

  Fair Christmas gifts, these draperies.

  A damask one of gold and white

  Rich flowered with pinks embroidered bright,

  Was for the present week in turn

  The adornment of the sacred Urn.

  Impressive was it here to note

  Those herdsmen in the shaggy coat:

  Impressive, yet partook of dream;

  It touched the pilgrims, as might seem;

  Which pleased the monk; but in disguise

  Modest he dropped his damsel-eyes.

  Thought Derwent then: Demure in sooth!

  ’Tis like a maid in lily of youth

  Who grieves not in her core of glee,

  By spells of grave virginity

  To cozen men to foolish looks;

  While she—who reads such hearts’ hid nooks?—

  What now? “Signori, here, believe,

  Where night and day, while ages run,

  Faith in these lamps burns on and on,

  ’Tis good to spend one’s Christmas Eve;

 
Yea, better rather than in land

  Which may your holly tree command,

  And greens profuse which ye inweave.”

  14. SOLDIER AND MONK

  Fervid he spake. And Ungar there

  Appeared (if looks allow surmise)

  In latent way to sympathize,

  Yet wonder at the votary’s air;

  And frequent too he turned his face

  To note the grotto, and compare

  These haunted precincts with the guide,

  As so to realize the place,

  Or fact from fable to divide;

  At times his changeful aspect wore

  Touch of the look the simple shepherds bore.

  The Tuscan marked; he pierced him through,

  Yet gently, gifted with the clew—

  Ascetic insight; and he caught

  The lapse within the soldier’s thought,

  The favorable frame, nor missed

  Appealing to it, to enlist

  Or influence, or drop a seed

  Which might some latter harvest breed.

  Gently approaching him, he said:

  “True sign you bear: your sword’s a cross.”

  Ungar but started, as at loss

  To take the meaning, and yet led

  To marvel how that mannered word

  Did somehow slip into accord

  With visitings that scarce might cleave—

  Shadows, but shadows fugitive.

  He lifted up the steel: the blade

  Was straight; the hilt, a bar: “’Tis true;

  A cross, it is a cross,” he said;

  And touched seemed, though ’twas hardly new.

  Then glowed the other; and, again:

  “Ignatius was a soldier too,

  And Martin. ’Tis the pure disdain

  Of life, or, holding life the real,

  Still subject to a brave ideal—

  ’Tis this that makes the tent a porch

  Whereby the warrior wins the church:

  The habit of renouncing, yes,

  ’Tis good, a good preparedness.—

  Our founder”—here he raised his eyes

  As unto all the sanctities—

  “Footing it near Rieti town

  Met a young knight on horseback, one

  Named Angelo Tancredi: ‘Lo,’

  He said, ‘Thy belt thou’lt change for cord,

  Thy spurs for mire, good Angelo,

  And be a true knight of the Lord.’

  And he, the cavalier——” Aside

  A brother of the cowl here drew

  This ardent proselyting guide,

  Detaining him in interview

  About some matter. Ungar stood

  Lost in his thoughts.

  In neighborhood

  Derwent by Rolfe here chanced to bide;

  And said: “It just occurs to me

  As interesting in its way,

  That these Franciscans steadily

  Have been custodians of the Tomb

  And Manger, ever since the day

  Of rescue under Godfrey’s plume

  Long centuries ago.” Rolfe said:

  “Ay; and appropriate seems it too

  For the Franciscan retinue

  To keep these places, since their head,

  St. Francis, spite his scouted hood,

  May claim more of similitude

  To Christ, than any man we know.

  Through clouds of myth investing him—

  Obscuring, yet attesting him,

  He burns with the seraphic glow

  And perfume of a holy flower.

  Sweetness, simplicity, with power!

  By love’s true miracle of charm

  He instituted a reform

  (Not insurrection) which restored

  For time the spirit of his Lord

  On earth. If sad perversion came

  Unto his order—what of that?

  All Christianity shares the same:

  Pure things men need adulterate

  And so adapt them to the kind.”

  “Oh, oh! But I have grown resigned

  To these vagaries.—And for him,

  Assisi’s saint—a good young man,

  No doubt, and beautiful to limn;

  Yes, something soft, Elysian;

  Nay, rather, the transparent hue

  Unearthly of a maiden tranced

  In sleep somnambulic; no true

  Color of health; beauty enhanced

  To enervation. In a word,

  For all his charity divine,

  Love, self-devotion, ardor fine—

  Unmanly seems he!”

  “Of our Lord

  The same was said by Machiavel,

  Or hinted, rather. Prithee, tell,

  What is it to be manly?”

  “Why,

  To be man-like”—and here the chest

  Bold out he threw—“man at his best!”

  “But even at best, one might reply,

  Man is that thing of sad renown

  Which moved a deity to come down

  And save him. Lay not too much stress

  Upon the carnal manliness:

  The Christliness is better—higher;

  And Francis owned it, the first friar.

  Too orthodox is that?”

  “See, see,”

  Said Derwent, with kind air of one

  Who would a brother’s weak spot shun:

  “Mark this most delicate drapery;

  If woven by some royal dame—

  God bless her and her tambour frame!”

  15. SYMPHONIES

  Meanwhile with Vine there, Clarel stood

  Aside in friendly neighborhood,

  And felt a flattering pleasure stir

  At words—nor in equivocal tone

  Freakish, or leaving to infer,

  Such as beforetime he had known—

  Breathed now by that exceptional one

  In unconstraint:

  “’Tis very much

  The cold fastidious heart to touch

  This way; nor is it mere address

  That so could move one’s silver chord.

  How he transfigured Ungar’s sword!

  Delusive is this earnestness

  Which holds him in its passion pale—

  Tenant of melancholy’s dale

  Of mirage? To interpret him,

  Perhaps it needs a swallow-skim

  Over distant time. Migrate with me

  Across the years, across the sea.—

  How like a Poor Clare in her cheer

  (Grave Sister of his order sad)

  Showed nature to that Cordelier

  Who, roving in the Mexic glade,

  Saw in a bud of happy dower

  Whose stalk entwined the tropic tree,

  Emblems of Christ’s last agony:

  In anthers, style, and fibers torn,

  The five wounds, nails, and crown of thorn;

  And named it so the passion-flower.

  What beauty in that sad conceit!

  Such charm, the title still we meet.

  Our guide, methinks, where’er he turns

  For him this passion-flower burns;

  And all the world is elegy.

  A green knoll is to you and me

  But pastoral, and little more:

  To him ’tis even Calvary

  Where feeds the Lamb. This passion-flower—

  But list!”

 
Hid organ-pipes unclose

  A timid rill of slender sound,

  Which gains in volume—grows, and flows

  Gladsome in amplitude of bound.

  Low murmurs creep. From either side

  Tenor and treble interpose,

  And talk across the expanding tide:

  Debate, which in confusion merges—

  Din and clamor, discord’s hight:

  Countering surges—pæans—dirges—

  Mocks, and laughter light.

  But rolled in long ground-swell persistent,

  A tone, an under-tone assails

  And overpowers all near and distant;

  Earnest and sternest, it prevails.

  Then terror, horror—wind and rain—

  Accents of undetermined fear,

  And voices as in shipwreck drear:

  A sea, a sea of spirits in pain!

  The suppliant cries decrease—

  The voices in their ferment cease:

  One wave rolls over all and whelms to peace.

  But hark—oh, hark!

  Whence, whence this stir, this whirr of wings?

  Numbers numberless convening—

  Harps and child-like carolings

  In happy holiday of meaning:

  To God be glory in the hight,

  For tidings glad we bring;

  Good will to men, and peace on earth

  We children-cherubs sing!

  To God be glory in the depth,

  As in the hight be praise;

  He who shall break the gates of death

  A babe in manger rays.

  Ye people all in every land,

  Embrace, embrace, be kin:

  Immanuel’s born in Bethlehem,

  And gracious years begin!

  It dies; and, half around the heavenly sphere,

  Like silvery lances lightly touched aloft—

  Like Northern Lights appealing to the ear,

  An elfin melody chimes low and soft.

  That also dies, that last strange fairy-thrill:

  Slowly it dies away, and all is sweetly still.

  16. THE CONVENT ROOF

  To branching grottoes next they fare,

  Old caves of penitence and prayer,

  Where Paula kneeled—her urn is there—

  Paula the Widow, Scipio’s heir

  But Christ’s adopted. Well her tomb

  Adjoins her friend’s, renowned Jerome.

  Never the attending Druze resigned

  His temperate poise, his moderate mind;

  While Belex, in punctilious guard,

  Relinquished not the martial ward:

  “If by His tomb hot strife may be,