Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

As men which history vouches. She—

  Tasso’s Armida, by Lot’s sea,

  Where that enchantress, with sweet look

  Of kindliest human sympathy,

  Such webs about Rinaldo wove

  That all the hero he forsook—

  Lost in the perfidies of love—

  Armida—starts at fancy’s bid

  Not less than Rahab, lass which hid

  The spies here in this Jericho.”

  A lull. Their thoughts, mute plunging, strayed

  Like Arethusa under ground;

  While Clarel marked where slumber-bound

  Lay Nehemiah in screening shade.

  Erelong, in reappearing tide,

  Rolfe, gazing forth on either side:

  “How lifeless! But the annual rout

  At Easter here, shall throng and shout,

  Far populate the lonely plain,

  (Next day a solitude again,)

  All pressing unto Jordan’s dew;

  While in the saddle of disdain

  Skirr the Turk guards with fierce halloo,

  Armed herdsmen of the drove.” He ceased;

  And fell the silence unreleased

  Till yet again did Rolfe round peer

  Upon that moonlit land of fear:

  “Man sprang from deserts: at the touch

  Of grief or trial overmuch,

  On deserts he falls back at need;

  Yes, ’tis the bare abandoned home

  Recalleth then. See how the Swede

  Like any rustic crazy Tom,

  Bursting through every code and ward

  Of civilization, masque and fraud,

  Takes the wild plunge. Who so secure,

  Except his clay be sodden loam,

  As never to dream the day may come

  When he may take it, foul or pure?

  What in these turns of mortal tides—

  What any fellow-creature bides,

  May hap to any.”

  “Pardon, pray,”

  Cried Derwent—“but ’twill quick away:

  Yon moon in pearl-cloud: look, her face

  Peers like a bride’s from webs of lace.”

  They gazed until it faded there:

  When Rolfe with a discouraged air

  Sat as rebuked. In winning strain,

  As ’twere in penitence urbane,

  Here Derwent, “Come, we wait thee now.”

  “No matter,” Rolfe said; “let it go.

  My earnestness myself decry;

  But as heaven made me, so am I.”

  “You spake of Mortmain,” breathed Vine low.

  As embers, not yet cold, will catch

  Quick at the touch of smallest match,

  Here Rolfe: “In gusts of lonely pain

  Beating upon the naked brain—”

  “God help him, ay, poor realist!”

  So Derwent, and that theme dismissed.

  When Ashtoreth her zenith won,

  Sleep drugged them and the winds made moan.

  17. IN MID-WATCH

  Disturbed by topics canvassed late,

  Clarel, from dreams of like debate,

  Started, and heard strange muffled sounds,

  Outgivings of wild mountain bounds.

  He rose, stood gazing toward the hight—

  Bethinking him that thereaway

  Behind it o’er the desert lay

  The walls that sheltered Ruth that night—

  When Rolfe drew near. With motion slight,

  Scarce conscious of the thing he did,

  Partly aside the student slid;

  Then, quick as thought, would fain atone.

  Whence came that shrinking start unbid?

  But from desire to be alone?

  Or skim or sound him, was Rolfe one

  Whom honest heart would care to shun?

  By spirit immature or dim

  Was nothing to be learned from him?

  How frank seemed Rolfe. Yet Vine could lure

  Despite reserve which overture

  Withstood—e’en Clarel’s—late repealed,

  Finding that heart a fountain sealed.

  But Rolfe: however it might be—

  Whether in friendly fair advance

  Checked by that start of dissonance,

  Or whether rapt in revery

  Beyond—apart he moved, and leant

  Down peering from the battlement

  Upon its shadow. Then and there

  Clarel first noted in his air

  A gleam of oneness more than Vine’s—

  The irrelation of a weed

  Detached from vast Sargasso’s mead

  And drifting where the clear sea shines.

  But Clarel turned him; and anew

  His thoughts regained their prior clew;

  When, lo, a fog, and all was changed.

  Crept vapors from the Sea of Salt,

  Overspread the plain, nor there made halt,

  But blurred the heaven.

  As one estranged

  Who watches, watches from the shore,

  Till the white speck is seen no more,

  The ship that bears his plighted maid,

  Then turns and sighs as fears invade;

  See here the student, repossessed

  By thoughts of Ruth, with eyes late pressed

  Whither lay Salem, close and wynd—

  The mist before him, mist behind,

  While intercepting memories ran

  Of chant and bier Armenian.

  18. THE SYRIAN MON

  At early hour with Rolfe and Vine

  Clarel ascends a minor hight;

  They overtake in lone recline

  A strange wayfarer of the night

  Who, ’twixt the small hour and the gray,

  With cruze and scrip replenished late

  In Jericho at the wattled gate,

  Had started on the upland way:

  A young strange man of aspect thin

  From vigils which in fast begin.

  Though, pinned together with the thorn,

  His robe was ragged all and worn—

  Pure did he show as mountain-leaf

  By brook, or coral washed in reef.

  Contrasting with the bleached head-dress

  His skin revealed such swarthiness,

  And in the contour clear and grace

  So all unworldly was the face,

  He looked a later Baptist John.

  They start; surprise perforce they own:

  Much like De Gama’s men, may be,

  When sudden on their prow at sea

  Lit the strange bird from shores unknown.

  Although at first from words he shrunk,

  He was, they knew, a Syrian monk.

  They so prevailed with him and pressed,

  He longer lingered at request.

  They won him over in the end

  To tell his story and unbend.

  He told how that for forty days,

  Not yet elapsed, he dwelt in ways

  Of yonder Quarantanian hight,

  A true recluse, an anchorite;

  And only came at whiles below,

  And ever in the calm of night,

  To beg for scraps in Jericho.

  ’Twas sin, he said, that drove him out

  Into the desert—sin of doubt.

  Even he it was upon the mount

  By chance perceived, untold, by Vine,

  From Achor’s brink. He gave account


  Of much besides; his lonely mine

  Of deep illusion; how the night,

  The first, was spent upon the hight,

  And way he climbed:

  “Up cliff, up crag—

  Cleft crag and cliff which still retard,

  Goat-like I scrambled where stones lag

  Poised on the brinks by thunder marred.

  A ledge I reached which midway hung

  Where a hut-oratory clung—

  Rude stones massed up, with cave-like door,

  Eremite work of days of yore.

  White bones here lay, remains of feast

  Dragged in by bird of prey or beast.

  Hence gazed I on the wilds beneath,

  Dengadda and the coasts of death.

  But not a tremor felt I here:

  It was upon the summit fear

  First fell; there first I saw this world;

  And scarce man’s place it seemed to be;

  The mazed Gehennas so were curled

  As worm-tracks under bark of tree.

  I ween not if to ye ’tis known—

  Since few do know the crag aright,

  Years left unvisited and lone—

  That a wrecked chapel marks the site

  Where tempter and the tempted stood

  Of old. I sat me down to brood

  Within that ruin; and—my heart

  Unwaveringly to set apart

  In meditation upon Him

  Who here endured the evil whim

  Of Satan—steadfast, steadfast down

  Mine eyes fixed on a flinty stone

  Which lay there at my feet. But thought

  Would wander. Then the stone I caught,

  Convulsed it in my hand till blood

  Oozed from these nails. Then came and stood

  The Saviour there—the Imp and He:

  Fair showed the Fiend—foul enemy;

  But, ah, the Other pale and dim:

  I saw but as the shade of Him.

  That passed. Again I was alone—

  Alone—ah, no—not long alone:

  As glides into dead grass the snake

  Lean rustling from the bedded brake,

  A spirit entered me. ’Twas he,

  The tempter, in return; but me

  He tempted now. He mocked: ‘Why strife?

  Dost hunger for the bread of life?

  Thou lackest faith: faith would be fed;

  True faith could turn that stone to bread,

  That stone thou hold’st.’—Mute then my face

  I lifted to the starry space;

  But the great heaven it burned so bright,

  It cowed me, and back fell my sight.

  Then he: ‘Is yon the Father’s home?

  And thou His child cast out to night?

  ’Tis bravely lighted, yonder dome.’—

  ‘Part speak’st thou true: yea, He is there.’—

  ‘Yea, yea, and He is everywhere—

  Now and for aye, Evil and He.’—

  ‘Is there no good?’—‘Ill to fulfill

  Needful is good: good salts the ill.’—

  ‘He’s just.’—‘Goodness is justice. See,

  Through all the pirate-spider’s snare

  Of silken arcs of gossamer,

  ’Tis delicate geometry:

  Adorest the artificer?’—

  No answer knew I, save this way:

  ‘Faith bideth.’—‘Noon, and wait for day?

  The sand’s half run! Eternal, He:

  But aye with a futurity

  Which not exceeds his past. Agree,

  Full time has lapsed. What ages hoar,

  What period fix, when faith no more,

  If unfulfilled, shall fool?’—I sat;

  Sore quivered I to answer that,

  Yet answered naught; but lowly said—

  ‘And death?’—‘Why beat the bush in thee?

  It is the cunningest mystery:

  Alive thou know’st not death; and, dead,

  Death thou’lt not know.’—‘The grave will test;

  But He, He is, though doubt attend;

  Peace will He give ere come the end.’—

  ‘Ha, thou at peace? Nay, peace were best—

  Could the unselfish yearner rest!

  At peace to be, here, here on earth,

  Where peace, heart-peace, how few may claim,

  And each pure nature pines in dearth—

  Fie, fie, thy soul might well take shame.’—

  There sunk my heart—he spake so true

  In that. O God (I prayed), come through

  The cloud; hard task Thou settest man

  To know Thee; take me back again

  To nothing, or make clear my view!—

  Then stole the whisper intermitting;

  Like tenon into mortice fitting

  It slipped into the frame of me:

  ‘Content thee: in conclusion caught

  Thou’lt find how thought’s extremes agree,—

  The forethought clinched by afterthought,

  The firstling by finality.’—

  There close fell, and therewith the stone

  Dropped from my hand.—His will be done!”

  And skyward patient he appealed,

  Raising his eyes, and so revealed

  First to the pilgrims’ waiting view

  Their virginal violet of hue.

  Rolfe spake: “Surely, not all we’ve heard:

  Peace—solace—was in end conferred?”—

  His head but fell. He rose in haste,

  The rough hair-girdle tighter drew

  About the hollow of the waist,

  Departing with a mild adieu.

  They sat in silence. Rolfe at last:

  “And this but ecstasy of fast?

  Construe then Jonah in despair.”—

  The student turned, awaiting Vine;

  Who answered nothing, plaiting there

  A weed from neighboring ground uptorn,

  Plant common enough in Palestine,

  And by the peasants named Christ’s Thorn.

  19. AN APOSTATE

  “Barque, Easter barque, with happier freight

  Than Leon’s spoil of Inca plate;

  Which vernal glidest from the strand

  Of statues poised like angels fair;

  On March morn sailest—starting, fanned

  Auspicious by Sardinian air;

  And carriest boughs thro’ Calpe’s gate

  To Norman ports and Belgian land,

  That the Green Sunday, even there,

  No substituted leaf may wear,

  Holly or willow’s lither wand,

  But sprays of Christ’s canonic tree,

  Rome’s Palma-Christi by decree,

  The Date Palm; ah, in bounty launch,

  Thou blessed Easter barque, to me

  Hither one consecrated branch!”

  So Rolfe in burst, and turned toward Vine;

  But he the thorn-wreath still did twine.

  Rolfe watched him busy there and dumb,

  Then cried: “Did gardens favor it,

  How would I match thee here, and sit

  Wreathing Christ’s flower, chrysanthemum.”

  Erelong the Syrian they view

  In slow ascent, and also two

  Between him and the peak,—one wight

  An Arab with a pouch, nor light,

  A desert Friday to the one

  Who went before him, coming down,

  Shagged Crusoe, by the mountain spur
.

  This last, when he the votary meets

  Sad climbing slow, him loudly greets,

  Stopping with questions which refer

  In some way to the crag amort—

  The crag, since thitherward his hand

  Frequent he waves, as with demand

  For some exact and clear report

  Touching the place of his retreat

  Aloft. As seemed, in neutral plight

  Submiss responds the anchorite,

  The wallet dropped beside his feet.

  These part. Master and man now ply

  Yet down the slope; and he in van—

  Round-shouldered, and tho’ gray yet spry—

  A hammer swung.

  I’ve met that man

  Elsewhere (thought Clarel)—he whose cry

  And gibe came up from the dung-gate

  In hollow, when we scarce did wait

  His nearer speech and wagging head,

  The saint and I.—But naught he said

  Hereof.

  The stranger closer drew;

  And Rolfe breathed “This now is a Jew,—

  German, I deem—but readvised—

  An Israelite, say, Hegelized—

  Convert to science, for but see

  The hammer: yes, geology.”

  As now the other’s random sight

  On Clarel mute and Vine is thrown,

  He misinterprets their grave plight;

  And, with a banter in the tone,

  Amused he cries: “Now, now, yon hight—

  Come, let it not alarm: a mount

  Whereof I’ve taken strict account

  (Its first geologist, believe),

  And, if my eyes do not deceive,

  ’Tis Jura limestone, every spur;

  Yes, and tho’ signs the rocks imprint

  Which of Plutonic action hint,

  No track is found, I plump aver,

  Of Pluto’s footings—Lucifer.”

  The punning mock and manner stirred

  Repugnance in fastidious Vine;

  But Rolfe, who tolerantly heard,

  Parleyed, and won him to define

  At large his rovings on the hight.

  The yester-afternoon and night

  He’d spent there, sleeping in a cave—

  Part for adventure, part to spite

  The superstition, and outbrave.

  ’Twas a severe ascent, he said;

  In bits a ladder of steep stone

  With toe-holes cut, and worn, each one

  By eremites long centuries dead.

  And of his cullings too he told: