Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

  In pinks and tulips takes us so;

  But haunts that reek may harbor much;

  Hey, Teniers? Give us boors at inns,

  Mud floor—dark settles—jugs—old bins,

  Under rafters foul with fume that blinks

  From logs too soggy much to blaze

  Which yet diffuse an umberish haze

  That beautifies the grime, methinks.”

  To Rembrandt then: “Your sooty stroke!

  ’Tis you, old sweep, believe in smoke.”

  But he, reserved in self-control,

  Jostled by that irreverent droll,

  Seemed not to hear, nor silence broke.

  V

  ONE of the greater Dutchmen dirges the departed three-deckers of De Ruyter and Van Tromp. To divert from which monody, a Lesser Master verbally hits off a kitchen-dresser, and in such sort as to evoke commendation from one of the Grand Masters, who nevertheless proposes a certain transmuting enhancement in the spirit of the latter’s own florid and allegoric style.

  Here Van der Velde, who dreamy heard

  Familiar Brouwer’s unanswered word,

  Started from thoughts leagues off at sea:

  “Believe in smoke? Why, ay, such smoke

  As the swart old Dunderberg erst did fold—

  When, like the cloud-voice from the mountain rolled,

  Van Tromp through the bolts of her broadside spoke—

  Bolts heard by me!” And lapsed in thought

  Of yet other frays himself had seen

  When, fired by adventurous love of Art,

  With De Ruyter he’d cruized, yea, a tar had been.

  Reminiscent he sat. Some lion-heart old,

  Austerely aside, on latter days cast,

  So muses on glories engulfed in the Past,

  And laurelled ones stranded or overrolled

  By eventful Time.—He awoke anon,

  Or, rather, his dream took audible tone.—

  Then filling his cup: “On Zealand’s strand

  I saw morn’s rays slant ’twixt the bones

  Of the oaken Dunderberg broken up;

  Saw her ribbed shadow on the sand.

  Ay—picturesque! But naught atones

  For heroic navies, Pan’s own ribs and knees,

  But a story now that storied made the seas!”

  There the gray master-hand marine

  Fell back with desolated mien

  Leaving the rest in fluttered mood

  Disturbed by such an interlude

  Scarce genial in over earnest tone,

  Nor quite harmonious with their own,

  To meet and turn the tide-wave there.

  “For me, friends,” Gerard Douw here said,

  Twirling a glass with sprightly air,

  “I too revere forefather Eld,

  Just feeling’s mine too for old oak,

  One here am I with Van der Velde;

  But take thereto in grade that’s lesser:

  I like old oak in kitchen-dresser,

  The same set out with Delf ware olden

  And well scoured copper sauce-pans—golden

  In aureate rays that on the hearth

  Flit like fairies or frisk in mirth.

  Oak buffet too; and, flung thereon,

  As just from evening-market won,

  Pigeons and prawns, bunched carrots bright,

  Gilled fish, clean radish red and white,

  And greens and cauliflowers, and things

  The good wife’s good provider brings;

  All these too touched with fire-side light.

  On settle there, a Phillis pleasant

  Plucking a delicate fat pheasant.

  Agree, the picture’s picturesque.”

  “Ay, hollow beats all Arabesque!

  But Phillis? Make her Venus, man,

  Peachy and plump; and for the pheasant,

  No fowl but will prove acquiescent

  Promoted into Venus’ swan;

  Then in suffused warm rosy weather

  Sublime them in sun-cloud together.”

  The Knight, Sir Peter Paul, ’twas he,

  Hatted in rich felt, spick and span,

  Right comely in equipment free

  With court-air of Lord Chamberlain:

  “So! ’t’were a canvas meet for donor.

  What say you, Paölo of Verona?”

  Appealing here.

  “Namesake, ’tis good!”

  Laughed the frank master, gorgeous fellow,

  Whose raiment matched his artist-mood:

  Gold chain over russet velvet mellow—

  A chain of honor; silver-gilt,

  Gleamed at his side a jewelled hilt.

  In feather high, in fortune free,

  Like to a Golden Pheasant, he.

  “By Paul, ’t’is good, Sir Peter! Yet

  Our Hollander here his picture set

  In flushful light much like your own,

  Though but from kitchen-ingle thrown.—

  But come to Venice, Gerard,—do,”

  Round turning genial on him there,

  “Her sunsets,—there’s hearth-light for you;

  And matter for you on the Square.

  To Venice, Gerard!”

  “O, we Dutch,

  Signor, know Venice, like her much.

  Our unction thence we got, some say,

  Though scarse our subjects, nor your touch.”—

  “To Saint Mark’s again, Mynheer, and stay!

  We’re Cyprus wine.—But, Monsieur,” turning

  To Watteau nigh; “You vow in France,

  This Pittoresque our friends advance,

  How seems it to your ripe discerning?”

  “If by a sketch it best were shown,

  A hand I’ll try, yes, venture one:—

  A chamber on the Grand Canal

  In season, say, of Carnival.

  A revel reigns; and, look, the host

  Handsome as Cæsar Borgia sits——”

  “Then Borgia be it, bless your wits!”

  Snapped Spagnoletto, late engrossed

  In splenetic mood, now riling up;

  “I’ll lend you hints; and let His Grace

  Be launching, ay, the loving-cup

  Among the princes in the hall

  At Sinigaglia: You recall?

  I mean those gudgeons whom his smile

  Flattered to sup, ere yet awhile,

  In Hades with Domitian’s lords.

  Let sunny frankness charm his air,

  His raiment lace with silver cords,

  Trick forth the ‘Christian statesman’ there.

  And, mind ye, do’nt forget the pall;

  Suggest it—how politeness ended:

  Let lurk in shade of rearward wall

  Three bravoes by the arras splendid.”

  VI

  THE superb gentleman from Verona, pleasantly parrying the not-so-pleasant little man from Spain, resumes his off-hand sketch.—Toward Jan Steen, sapient spendthrift in shabby raiment, smoking his tavern-pipe and whiffing out his unconventional philosophy, Watteau, habited like one of his own holiday-courtiers in the Park of Fontainebleau, proves himself, though but in a minor incident, not lacking in considerate courtesy humane.

  “O, O, too picturesque by half!”

  Was Veronèsë’s turning laugh;

  “Nay, nay: but see, on ample round

  Of marble table silver-bound

  Prince Comus, in mosaic, crowned;

  Vin d’ oro there in chrystal flutes—

 
Shapely as those, good host of mine,

  You summoned ere our Sillery fine

  We popped to Bacchus in salutes;—

  Well, cavaliers in manhood’s flower

  Fanning the flight o’ the fleeing hour;

  Dames too like sportful dolphins free:—

  Silks iridescent, wit and glee.

  Midmost, a Maltese knight of honor

  Toasting and clasping his Bella Donna;

  One arm round waist with pressure soft,

  Returned in throbbed transporting rhyme;

  A hand with minaret-glass aloft,

  Pinnacle of the jovial prime!

  What think? I daub, but daub it, true;

  And yet some dashes there may do.”

  The Frank assented. But Jan Steen,

  With fellowly yet thoughtful mien,

  Puffing at skull-bowl pipe serene,

  “Come, a brave sketch, no mincing one!

  And yet, adzooks, to this I hold,

  Be it cloth of frieze or cloth of gold,

  All’s picturesque beneath the sun;

  I mean, all’s picture; death and life,

  Pictures and pendants, nor at strife—

  No, never to hearts that muse thereon.

  For me, ’tis life, plain life, I limn—

  Not satin-glossed and flossy-fine

  (Our Turburg’s forte here, good for him);

  No, but the life that’s wine and brine,

  The mingled brew; the thing as spanned

  By Jan who kept the Leyden tavern

  And every rollicker fellowly scanned—

  And, under his vineyard, lo, a cavern!

  But jolly is Jan, and never in picture

  Sins against sinners by Pharisee stricture.

  Jan o’ the Inn, ’tis he, for ruth

  Dashes with fun art’s canvas of truth.”

  Here Veronese swerved him round

  With glance well-bred of ruled surprise

  To mark a prodigal so profound,

  Nor too good-natured to be wise.

  Watteau, first complimenting Steen,

  Ignoring there his thriftless guise,

  Took up the fallen thread between.

  Though unto Veronesè bowing—

  Much pleasure at his sketch avowing;

  Yet fain he would in brief convey

  Some added words—perchance, in way

  To vindicate his own renown,

  Modest and true in pictures done:

  “Ay, Signor; but—your leave—admit,

  Besides such scenes as well you’ve hit,

  Your Pittoresco too abounds

  In life of old patrician grounds

  For centuries kept for luxury mere:

  Ladies and lords in mimic dress

  Playing at shepherd and shepherdess

  By founts that sing The sweet o’ the year!

  But, Signor—how! what’s this? you seem

  Drugged off in miserable dream.

  How? what impends?”

  “Barbaric doom!

  Worse than the Constable’s sack of Rome!”

  “Ciel, ciel! the matter? tell us, do.”

  “This cabbage UTILITY, parbleu!

  What shall insure the Carnival—

  The gondola—the Grand Canal?

  That palaced duct they’ll yet deplete,

  Improve it to a huckster’s street.

  And why? forsooth, malarial!”

  There ending, with odd grimace,

  Reflected from the Frenchman’s face.

  VII

  BROUWER inurbanely applauds Veronèse, and is convivially disrespectful in covert remark on M. Angelo across the table.—Raphael’s concern for the melancholy estate of Albert Durer. And so forth.

  At such a sally, half grotesque,

  That indirectly seemed to favor

  His own view of the Picturesque,

  Suggesting Dutch canals in savor;

  Pleased Brouwer gave a porpoise-snort,

  A trunk-hose Triton trumping glee.

  Claude was but moved to smile in thought;

  The while Velasques, seldom free,

  Kept council with himself sedate,

  Isled in his ruffed Castilian state,

  Viewing as from aloft the mien

  Of Hals hilarious, Lippi, Steen,

  In chorus frolicking back the mirth

  Of Brouwer, careless child of earth;

  Salvator Rosa posing nigh

  With sombre-proud satiric eye.

  But Poussin, he, with antique air,

  Complexioned like a marble old,

  Unconscious kept in merit there

  Art’s pure Acropolis in hold.

  For Durer, piteous good fellow—

  (His Agnes seldom let him mellow)

  His Sampson locks, dense curling brown,

  Sideways umbrageously fell down,

  Enshrining so the Calvary face.

  Hals says Angelico sighed to Durer,

  Taking to heart his desperate case,

  “Would, friend, that Paradise might allure her!”

  If Fra Angelico so could wish

  (That fleece that fed on lilies fine)

  Ah, saints! the head in Durer’s dish,

  And how may hen-pecked seraph pine!

  For Leonardo, lost in dream,

  His eye absorbed the effect of light

  Rayed through red wine in glass—a gleam

  Pink on the polished table bright;

  The subtle brain, convolved in snare,

  Inferring and over-refining there.

  But Michael Angelo, brief his stay,

  And, even while present, sat withdrawn.

  Irreverent Brouwer in sly way

  To Lippi whispered, “Brother good,

  How to be free and hob-nob with

  Yon broken-nosed old monolith

  Kin to the battered colossi-brood?

  Challenged by rays of sunny wine

  Not Memnon’s stone in olden years

  Ere magic fled, had grudged a sign!

  Water he drinks, he munches bread.

  And on pale lymph of fame may dine.

  Cheaply is this Archangel fed!”

  VIII

  HEREIN, after noting certain topics glanced at by the company, the Marquis concludes the entertainment by rallying the Old Guard of Greybeards upon the somnolent tendency of their years. This, with polite considerateness he does under the fellowly form of the plural pronoun. Finally he recommends them to give audience, by way of pastime, to the Afternoon in Naples of his friend and disciple Jack Gentian. And so the genial Frenchman takes French leave, a judicious way of parting as best sparing the feelings on both sides.

  So Brouwer, the droll. But others sit

  Flinting at whiles scintillant wit

  On themes whose tinder takes the spark,

  Igniting some less light perchance—

  The romanesque in men of mark;

  And this: Shall coming time enhance

  Through favoring influence, or abate

  Character picturesquely great—

  That rumored age whose scouts advance?

  And costume too they touch upon:

  The Cid, his net-work shirt of mail,

  And Garibaldi’s woolen one:

  In higher art would each avail

  So just expression nobly grace—

  Declare the hero in the face?

  On themes that under orchards old

  The chapleted Greek would frank unfold,

 
And Socrates, a spirit divine,

  Not alien held to cheerful wine,

  That reassurer of the soul—

  On these they chat.

  But more, whom they,

  Even at the Inn of Inns do meet—

  The Inn with greens above the door:

  There the mahogany’s waxed how bright,

  And under chins such napkins white.

  Never comes the mart’s intrusive roar,

  Nor heard the shriek that starts the train,

  Nor teasing telegraph clicks again,

  No news is cried and hurry is no more—

  For us, whose lagging cobs delay

  To win that tavern free from cumber,

  Old lads, in saddle shall we slumber?

  Here’s Jack, whose genial sigh-and-laugh

  Where youth and years yblend in sway,

  Is like the alewife’s half-and-half;

  Jack Gentian, in whose beard of gray

  Persistent threads of auburn tarry

  Like streaks of amber after day

  Down in the west; you’ll not miscarry

  Attending here his bright-and-sombre

  Companion good to while the way

  With memories of an afternoon

  In Naples in the Time of Bomba.

  A Sequel

  Touching the Grand Canal’s depletion

  If Veronese did but feign,

  Grave frolic of a gay Venetian

  Masking in Jeremy his vein;

  Believe, that others too may gambol

  In syllables as light—yea, ramble

  All over each esthetic park,

  Playing, as on the violin,

  One random theme our dames to win—

  The Picturesque in Men of Mark.

  Nor here some lateral points they shun,

  And pirouette on this, for one:

  That rumored Age, whose scouts advance,

  Musters it one chivalric lance?

  Or shall it foster or abate

  Qualities picturesquely great?

  There’s Garibaldi, off-hand hero,

  A very Cid Campeadór,

  Lion-Nemesis of Naples’ Nero—

  But, tut, why tell that story o’er.

  A natural knight-errant, truly,

  Nor priding him in parrying fence,

  But charging at the helm-piece—hence