Herman Melville
1819 - 1891
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Clarel
Part I. Jerusalem
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Canto iThe Hostel.
In chamber low and scored by time,Masonry old, late washed with lime—Much like a tomb new-cut in stone;Elbow on knee, and brow sustained | |
5 | All motionless on sidelong hand,A student sits, and broods alone.The small deep casement sheds a rayWhich tells that in the Holy TownIt is the passing of the day— |
10 | The Vigil of Epiphany.Beside him in the narrow cellHis luggage lies unpacked; thereonThe dust lies, and on him as well—The dust of travel. But anon |
15 | His face he lifts—in feature fine,Yet pale, and all but feminineBut for the eye and serious brow—Then rises, paces to and fro,And pauses, saying, "Other cheer |
20 | Than that anticipated here,By me the learner, now I find.Theology, art thou so blind?What means this naturalistic knellIn lieu of-Siloh's oracle |
25 | Which here should murmur? Snatched from grace,And waylaid in the holy place!Not thus it was but yesterdayOff Jaffa on the clear blue sea;Nor thus, my heart, it was with thee |
30 | Landing amid the shouts and spray;Nor thus when mounted, full equipped,Out through the vaulted gate we slippedBeyond the walls where gardens brightWith bloom and blossom cheered the sight. |
35 | "The plain we crossed. In afternoon,How like our early autumn bland—So softly tempered for a boon—The breath of Sharon's prairie land!And was it, yes, her titled Rose, |
40 | That scarlet poppy oft at hand?Then Ramleh gleamed, the sail-white townAt even. There I watched day closeFrom the fair tower, the suburb one:Seaward and dazing set the sun: |
45 | Inland I turned me toward the wallOf Ephraim, stretched in purple pall.Romance of mountains! But in endWhat change the near approach could lend."The start this morning—gun and lance |
50 | Against the quarter-moon's low tide;The thieves' huts where we hushed the ride;Chill day-break in the lorn advance;In stony strait the scorch of noon,Thrown off by crags, reminding one |
55 | Of those hot paynims whose fierce handsFlung showers of Afric's fiery sandsIn face of that crusader-king,Louis, to wither so his wing;And, at the last, aloft for goal, |
60 | Like the ice-bastions round the Pole,Thy blank, blank towers, Jerusalem!"
Again he droops, with brow on hand.But, starting up, "Why, well I knewSalem to be no Samarcand; |
65 | 'Twas scarce surprise; and yet first viewBrings this eclipse. Needs be my soul,Purged by the desert's subtle airFrom bookish vapors, now is heirTo nature's influx of control; |
70 | Comes likewise now to consciousnessOf the true import of that pressOf inklings which in travel lateThrough Latin lands, did vex my state,And somehow seemed clandestine. Ah! |
75 | These under-formings in the mind.Banked corals which ascend from far,But little heed men that they windUnseen, unheard—till lo, the reef—The reef and breaker, wreck and grief. |
80 | But here unlearning, how to meOpes the expanse of time's vast sealYes, I am young, but Asia old.The books, the books not all have told."And, for the rest, the facile chat |
85 | Of overweenings—what was thatThe grave one said in Jaffa laneWhom there I met, my countryman,But new-returned from travel here;Some word of mine provoked the strain; |
90 | His meaning now begins to clear:Let me go over it again:—" 'Our New World's worldly wit so shrewdLacks the Semitic reverent mood,Unwordly—hardly may confer |
95 | Fitness for just interpreterOf Palestine. Forego the stateOf local minds inveterate,Tied to one poor and casual form.To avoid the deep saves not from storm.' |
100 | "Those things he said, and' added more;No clear authenticated loreI deemed. But now, need now confessMy cultivated narrowness,Though scarce indeed of sort he meant? |
105 | 'Tis the uprooting of content!"So he, the student. 'Twas a mind,Earnest by nature, long confinedApart like Vesta in a groveCollegiate, but let to rove |
110 | At last abroad among mankind,And here in end confronted soBy the true genius, friend or foe,And actual visage of a placeBefore but dreamed of in the glow |
115 | Of fancy's spiritual grace.Further his meditations aim,Reverting to his different frameBygone. And then: "Can faith removeHer light, because of late no plea |
120 | I've lifted to her source above?"Dropping thereat upon the knee,His lips he parted; but the wordAgainst the utterance demurredAnd failed him. With infirm intent |
125 | He sought the house-top. Set of sun:His feet upon the yet warm stone,He, Clarel, by the coping leant,In silent gaze. The mountain-town,A walled and battlemented one, |
130 | With houseless suburbs front and rear,And flanks built up from steeps severe,Saddles and turrets the ascent—Tower which rides the elephant.Hence large the view. There where he stood, |
135 | Was Acra's upper neighborhood.The circling hills he saw, with oneExcelling, ample in its crown,Making the uplifted city lowBy contrast—Olivet. The flow |
140 | Of eventide was at full brim;Overlooked, the houses sloped from him—Terraced or domed, unchimnied, gray,All stone—a moor of roofs. No playOf life; no smoke went up, no sound |
145 | Except low hum, and that half drowned.The inn abutted on the poolNamed Hezekiah's, a sunken courtWhere silence and seclusion rule,Hemmed round by walls of nature's sort, |
150 | Base to stone structures seeming oneE'en with the steeps they stand upon.As a three-decker's stern-lights peerDown on the oily wake below,Upon the sleek dark waters here |
155 | The inn's small lattices bestowA rearward glance. And here and thereIn flaws the languid evening airStirs the dull weeds adust, which trailIn festoons from the crag, and veil |
160 | The ancient fissures, overtoppedBy the tall convent of the Copt,Built like a light-house o'er the main.Blind arches showed in walls of wane,Sealed windows, portals masoned fast, |
165 | And terraces where nothing passedBy parapets all dumb. No tarnAmong the Kaatskills, high aboveFarm-house and stack, last lichened barnAnd log-bridge rotting in remove— |
170 | More lonesome looks than this dead poolIn town where living creatures rule.Not here the spell might he undo;The strangeness haunted him and grew.But twilight closes. He descends |
175 | And toward the inner court he wends. |