Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

  When some poor brother did require

  The last fraternal offices.

  This funeral monk, now much at ease,

  Uncowled, upon a work-bench sat—

  Lit by a greenish earthen lamp

  (With cross-bones baked thereon for stamp)

  Behind him placed upon a mat—

  Engaged in gossip, old men’s chat,

  With the limb-lopped Eld of Mexico;

  Who, better to sustain him so

  On his one leg, had niched him all

  In one of some strange coffins there,

  A ’lean and open by the wall

  Like sentry-boxes.—

  “Take a chair,

  Don Derwent; no, I mean—yes, take

  A—coffin; come, be sociable.”

  “Don Hannibal, Don Hannibal,

  What see I? Well, for pity’s sake!”

  “Eh? This is brother Placido,

  And we are talking of old times,

  For, learn thou, that in Mexico

  First knew he matins and the chimes.

  But, come, get in; there’s nothing else;

  ’Tis easy; here one lazy dwells

  Almost as in a barber’s chair;

  See now, I lean my head.”

  “Ah, yes;

  But I—don’t—feel the weariness:

  Thanks, thanks; no, I the bench prefer.—

  Good brother Placido, I’m glad

  You find a countryman.” And so

  For little time discourse he made;

  But presently—the monk away

  Being called—proposed that they should go,

  He and Don Hannibal the gray,

  And in refectory sit down

  That talk might more convenient run.

  The others through the courts diverge,

  Till all to cots conducted fare

  Where reveries in slumber merge,

  While lulling steals from many a cell

  A bee-like buzz of bed-side prayer—

  Night in the hive monastical.

  And now—not wantonly designed

  Like lays in grove of Daphne sung,

  But helping to fulfill the piece

  Which in these cantoes finds release,

  Appealing to the museful mind—

  A chord, the satyr’s chord is strung.

  26. THE PRODIGAL

  In adolescence thrilled by hope

  Which fain would verify the gleam

  And find if destiny concur,

  How dwells upon life’s horoscope

  Youth, always an astrologer,

  Forecasting happiness the dream!

  Slumber interred them; but not all,

  For so it chanced that Clarel’s cell

  Was shared by one who did repel

  The poppy. ’Twas a prodigal,

  Yet pilgrim too in casual way,

  And seen within the grots that day,

  But only seen, no more than that.

  In years he might be Clarel’s mate.

  Not talkative, he half reclined

  In revery of dreamful kind;

  Or might the fable, the romance

  Be tempered by experience?

  For ruling under spell serene,

  A light precocity is seen.

  That mobile face, voluptuous air

  No Northern origin declare,

  But Southern—where the nations bright,

  The costumed nations, circled be

  In garland round a tideless sea

  Eternal in its fresh delight.

  Nor less he owned the common day;

  His avocation naught, in sooth—

  A toy of Mammon; but the ray

  And fair aureola of youth

  Deific makes the prosiest clay.

  From revery now by Clarel won

  He brief his story entered on:

  A native of the banks of Rhone

  He traveled for a Lyons house

  Which dealt in bales luxurious;

  Detained by chance at Jaffa gray,

  Rather than let ripe hours decay,

  He’d run o’er, in a freak of fun,

  Green Sharon to Jerusalem,

  And thence, not far, to Bethlehem.

  Thy silvery voice, irreverent one!

  ’Twas musical; and Clarel said:

  “Greatly I err, or thou art he

  Who singing along the hill-side sped

  At fall of night.”

  “And heard you me?

  ’Twas sentimental, to be sure:

  A little Spanish overture,

  A Tombez air, which months ago

  A young Peruvian let flow.

  Locked friends we were; he’s gone home now.”

  To Clarel ’twas a novel style

  And novel nature; and awhile

  Mutely he dwelt upon him here.

  Earnest to know how the most drear

  Solemnity of Judah’s glade

  Affect might such a mind, he said

  Something to purpose; but he shied.

  One essay more; whereat he cried:

  “Amigo! favored lads there are,

  Born under such a lucky star,

  They weigh not things too curious, see,

  Albeit conforming to their time

  And usages thereof, and clime:

  Well, mine’s that happy family.”

  The student faltered—felt annoy:

  Absorbed in problems ill-defined,

  Am I too curious in my mind;

  And, baffled in the vain employ,

  Foregoing many an easy joy?

  That thought he hurried from; and so

  Unmindful in perturbed estate

  Of that light intimation late,

  He said: “On hills of dead Judæa

  Wherever one may faring go,

  He dreams—Fit place to set the bier

  Of Jacob, brought from Egypt’s mead:

  Here’s Atad’s threshing-floor.”

  “Indeed?”

  Scarce audible was that in tone;

  Nor Clarel heard it, but went on:

  “’Tis Jephthah’s daughter holds the hight;

  She, she’s the muse here.—But, I pray,

  Confess to Judah’s mournful sway.”

  He held his peace. “You grant the blight?”

  “No Boulevards.” “Do other lands

  Show equal ravage you’ve beheld?”

  “Oh, yes,” and eyed his emerald

  In ring. “But here a God commands,

  A judgment dooms: you that gainsay?”

  Up looked he quick, then turned away,

  And with a shrug that gave mute sign

  That here the theme he would decline.

  But Clarel urged. As in despair

  The other turned—invoked the air:

  “Was it in such talk, Don Rovenna,

  We dealt in Seville, I and you?

  No! chat of love-wile and duenna

  And saya-manto in Peru.

  Ah, good Limeno, dear amigo,

  What times were ours, the holidays flew;

  Life, life a revel and clear allegro;

  But home thou’rt gone; pity, but true!”

  At burst so lyrical, yet given

  Not all without some mock in leaven,

  Once more did Clarel puzzled sit;

  But rallying in spite of it,

  Continued: “Surely now, ’tis clear

  That in the aspect of Judæa—”

  “My friend, it is
just naught to me!

  Why, why so pertinacious be?

  Refrain!” Here, turning light away,

  As quitting so the theme: “How gay

  Damascus! orchard of a town:

  Not yet she’s heard the tidings though.”

  “Tidings?”

  “Tidings of long ago:

  Isaiah’s dark burden, malison:

  Of course, to be perpetual fate:

  Bat, serpent, screech-owl, and all that.

  But truth is, grace and pleasure there,

  In Abana and Pharpar’s streams

  (O shady haunts! O sherbert-air!)

  So twine the place in odorous dreams,

  How may she think to mope and moan,

  The news not yet being got to town

  That she’s a ruin! Oh, ’tis pity,

  For she, she is earth’s senior city!—

  Pray, who was he, that man of state

  Whose footman at Elisha’s gate

  Loud rapped? The name has slipped. Howe’er,

  That Damascene maintained it well:

  ‘We’ve better streams than Israel,

  Yea, fairer waters.’” Weetless here

  Clarel betrayed half cleric tone:

  “Naaman, you mean. Poor leper one,

  ’Twas Jordan healed him.”

  “As you please.”

  And hereupon the Lyonese—

  (Capricious, or inferring late

  That he had yielded up his state

  To priggish inroad) gave mute sign

  ’Twere well to end.

  “But Palestine,”

  Insisted Clarel, “do you not

  Concede some strangeness to her lot?”

  “Amigo, how you persecute!

  You all but tempt one to refute

  These stale megrims. You of the West,

  What devil has your hearts possessed,

  You can’t enjoy?—Ah, dear Rovenna,

  With talk of donna and duenna,

  You came too from that hemisphere,

  But freighted with quite other cheer:

  No pedant, no!” Then, changing free,

  Laughed with a light audacity:

  “Well, me for one, dame Judah here

  Don’t much depress: she’s not austere—

  Nature has lodged her in good zone—

  The true wine-zone of Noah: the Cape

  Yields no such bounty of the grape.

  Hence took King Herod festal tone;

  Else why the tavern-cluster gilt

  Hang out before that fane he built,

  The second temple?” Catching thus

  A buoyant frolic impetus,

  He bowled along: “Herewith agrees

  The ducat of the Maccabees,

  Graved with the vine. Methinks I see

  The spies from Eshcol, full of glee

  Trip back to camp with clusters swung

  From jolting pole on shoulders hung:

  ‘Cheer up, ’twill do; it needs befit;

  Lo ye, behold the fruit of it!’

  And, tell me, does not Solomon’s harp

  (Oh, that it should have taken warp

  In end!) confirm the festa? Hear:

  ‘Thy white neck is like ivory;

  I feed among thy lilies, dear:

  Stay me with flagons, comfort me

  With apples; thee would I enclose!

  Thy twin breasts are as two young roes.’”

  Clarel protested, yet as one

  Part lamed in candor; and took tone

  In formal wise: “Nay, pardon me,

  But you misdeem it: Solomon’s Song

  Is allegoric—needs must be.”

  “Proof, proof, pray, if ’tis not too long.”

  “Why, Saint Bernard——”

  “Who? Sir Bernard?

  Never that knight for me left card!”

  “No, Saint Bernard, ’twas he of old

  The Song’s hid import first unrolled—

  Confirmed in every after age:

  The chapter-headings on the page

  Of modern Bibles (in that Song)

  Attest his rendering, and prolong:

  A mystic burden.”

  “Eh? so too

  The Bonzes Hafiz’ rhyme construe

  Which lauds the grape of Shiraz. See,

  They cant that in his frolic fire

  Some bed-rid fakir would aspire

  In foggy symbols. Me, oh me!—

  What stuff of Levite and Divine!

  Come, look at straight things more in line,

  Blue eyes or black, which like you best?

  Your Bella Donna, how’s she dressed?”

  ’Twas very plain this sprightly youth

  Little suspected the grave truth

  That he, with whom he thus made free,

  A student was, a student late

  Of reverend theology:

  Nor Clarel was displeased thereat.

  The other now: “There is no tress

  Can thrall one like a Jewess’s.

  A Hebrew husband, Hebrew-wed,

  Is wondrous faithful, it is said;

  Which needs be true; for, I suppose,

  As bees are loyal to the rose,

  So men to beauty. Of his girls,

  On which did the brown Indian king,

  Ahasuerus, shower his pearls?

  Why, Esther: Judah wore the ring.

  And Nero, captain of the world,

  His arm about a Jewess curled—

  Bright spouse, Poppæa. And with good will

  Some Christian monarchs share the thrill,

  In palace kneeling low before

  Crowned Judah, like those nobs of yore.

  These Hebrew witches! well-a-day,

  Of Jeremiah what reck they?”

  Clarel looked down: was he depressed?

  The prodigal resumed: “Earth’s best,

  Earth’s loveliest portrait, daintiest,

  Reveals Judæan grace and form:

  Urbino’s ducal mistress fair—

  Ay, Titian’s Venus, golden-warm.

  Her lineage languishes in air

  Mysterious as the unfathomed sea:

  That grave, deep Hebrew coquetry!

  Thereby Bathsheba David won;

  In bath a purposed bait!—Have done!—

  Blushing? The cuticle’s but thin!

  Blushing? yet you my mind would win.

  Priests make a goblin of the Jew:

  Shares he not flesh with me—with you?”

  What wind was this? And yet it swayed

  Even Clarel’s cypress. He delayed

  All comment, gazing at him there.

  Then first he marked the clustering hair

  Which on the bright and shapely brow

  At middle part grew slantly low:

  Rich, tumbled, chestnut hood of curls,

  Like to a Polynesian girl’s,

  Who, inland eloping with her lover,

  The deacon-magistrates recover—

  With sermon and black bread reprove

  Who fed on berries and on love.

  So young (thought Clarel) yet so knowing;

  With much of dubious at the heart,

  Yet winsome in the outward showing;

  With whom, with what, hast thou thy part?

  In flaw upon the student’s dream

  A wafture of suspicion stirred:

  He spake: “The Hebrew, it would seem,

  You study much; you have averred

  More than most Gentiles well may glean />
  In voyaging mere from scene to scene

  Of shifting traffic.” Irksomeness

  Here vexed the other’s light address;

  But, ease assuming, gay he said:

  “Oh, in my wanderings, why, I’ve met,

  Among all kinds, Hebrews well-read,

  And some nor dull nor bigot-bred;

  Yes, I pick up, nor all forget.”

  So saying, and as to be rid

  Of further prosing, he undid

  His vesture, turned him, smoothed his cot:

  “Late, late; needs sleep, though sleep’s a sot.”

  “A word,” cried Clarel: “bear with me:

  Just nothing strange at all you see

  Touching the Hebrews and their lot?”

  Recumbent here: “Why, yes, they share

  That oddity the Gypsies heir:

  About them why not make ado?

  The Parsees are an odd tribe too;

  Dispersed, no country, and yet hold

  By immemorial rites, we’re told.

  Amigo, do not scourge me on;

  Put up, put up your monkish thong!

  Pray, pardon now; by peep of sun

  Take horse I must. Good night, with song:

  “Lights of Shushan, if your urn

  Mellow shed the opal ray,

  To delude one—damsels, turn,

  Wherefore tarry? why betray?

  Drop your garlands and away!

  Leave me, phantoms that but feign;

  Sting me not with inklings vain!

  “But, if magic none prevail,

  Mocking in untrue romance;

  Let your Paradise exhale

  Odors; and enlink the dance;

  And, ye rosy feet, advance

  Till ye meet morn’s ruddy Hours

  Unabashed in Shushan’s bowers!”

  No more: they slept. A spell came down;

  And Clarel dreamed, and seemed to stand

  Betwixt a Shushan and a sand;

  The Lyonese was lord of one,

  The desert did the Tuscan own,

  The pale pure monk. A zephyr fanned;

  It vanished, and he felt the strain

  Of clasping arms which would detain

  His heart from such ascetic range.

  He woke; ’twas day; he was alone,

  The Lyonese being up and gone:

  Vital he knew organic change,

  Or felt, at least, that change was working—

  A subtle innovator lurking.

  He rose, arrayed himself, and won

  The roof to take the dawn’s fresh air,

  And heard a ditty, and looked down.

  Who singing rode so debonair?

  His cell-mate, flexible young blade,

  Mounted in rear of cavalcade

  Just from the gate, in rythmic way