Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

  Whom rigorous masters overtrain

  When they with scourge of more and more

  Would macerate him into power.

  Inwrought herewith was yet the air

  And open frontage frankly fair

  Of one who’d moved in active scene

  And swayed men where they most convene.

  His party came from Saba last,

  Camping by Lot’s wave overnight—

  French pilgrims. So he did recite

  Being questioned. Thereupon they passed

  To matters of more pith. Debate

  They held, built on that hymning late;

  Till in reply to Derwent’s strain

  Thus warmed he, that Dominican:

  “Crafty is Rome, you deem? Her art

  Is simple, quarried from the heart.

  Rough marbles, rudiments of worth

  Ye win from ledges under earth;

  Ye trim them, fit them, make them shine

  In structures of a fair design.

  Well, fervors as obscure in birth—

  Precious, though fleeting in their dates—

  Rome culls, adapts, perpetuates

  In ordered rites. ’Tis these supply

  Means to the mass to beautify

  The rude emotion; lend meet voice

  To organs which would fain rejoice

  But lack the song; and oft present

  To sorrow bound, an instrument

  Which liberates. Each hope, each fear

  Between the christening and the bier

  Still Rome provides for, and with grace

  And tact which hardly find a place

  In uninspired designs.”

  “Let be

  Thou Paul! shall Festus yield to thee?”

  Cried Rolfe; “and yet,” in altered tone,

  “Even these fair things—ah, change goes on!”

  “Change? yes, but not with us. In rout

  Sword-hilts rap at the Vatican,

  And, lo, an old, old man comes out:

  ‘What would ye?’ ‘Change!’ ‘I never change.’ ”

  “Things changing not when all things change

  Need perish then, one might retort,

  Nor err.”

  “Ay, things of human sort.”

  “Rome superhuman?”

  “As ye will.

  Brave schemes these boyish times instill;

  But Rome has lived a thousand years:

  Shall not a thousand years know more

  Than nonage may?” “Then all the cheers

  Which hail the good time deemed at door

  Are but the brayings which attest

  The foolish, many-headed beast!”

  “Hardly that inference I own.

  The people once elected me

  To be their spokesman. In this gown

  I sat in legislative hall

  A champion of true liberty—

  God’s liberty for one and all—

  Not Satan’s license. Mine’s the state

  Of a staunch Catholic Democrat.”

  Indulgent here was Derwent’s smile,

  Incredulous was Rolfe’s. But he:

  “Hardly those terms ye reconcile.

  And yet what is it that we see?

  Before the Church our human race

  Stand equal. None attain to place

  Therein through claim of birth or fee.

  No monk so mean but he may dare

  Aspire to sit in Peter’s chair.”

  “Why, true,” said Derwent; “but what then?

  That sums not all. And what think men?”

  And, briefly, more, about the rot

  Of Rome in Luther’s time, the canker spot.

  “Well,” said the monk, “I’ll not gainsay

  Some things you put: I own the shame:

  Reform was needed, yes, and came—

  Reform within. But let that go—

  That era’s gone: how fares it now?—

  Melancthon! was forecast by thee,

  Who fain had tempered Luther’s mind,

  This riot of reason quite set free:

  Sects—sects bisected—sects disbanded

  Into plain deists underhanded?

  Against all this stands Rome’s array:

  Rome is the Protestant to-day:

  The Red Republic slinging flame

  In Europe—she’s your Scarlet Dame.

  Rome stands; but who may tell the end?

  Relapse barbaric may impend,

  Dismission into ages blind—

  Moral dispersion of mankind.

  Ah, God,” and dropped upon the knee:

  “These flocks which range so far from Thee,

  Ah, leave them not to be undone:

  Let them not cower as ’twixt the sea

  And storm—in panic crowd and drown!”

  He rose, resumed his previous cheer

  With something of a bearing sweet.

  “Brother,” said Derwent friendly here,

  “I’m glad to know ye, glad to meet,

  Even though, in part, your Rome seeks ends

  Not mine. But, see, there pass your friends:

  Call they your name?”

  “Yes, yes” he said,

  And rose to loose his mule; “you’re right;

  We go to win the further bed

  Of Jordan, by the convent’s site.

  A parting word: Methinks ye hold

  Reserved objections. I’ll unfold

  But one:—Rome being fixed in form,

  Unyielding there, how may she keep

  Adjustment with new times? But deep

  Below rigidities of form

  The invisible nerves and tissues change

  Adaptively. As men that range

  From clime to clime, from zone to zone

  (Say Russian hosts that menace Ind)

  Through all vicissitudes still find

  The body acclimate itself

  While form and function hold their own—

  Again they call:—Well, you are wise;

  Enough—you can analogize

  And take my meaning: I have done.

  No, one more point:—Science but deals

  With Nature; Nature is not God;

  Never she answers our appeals,

  Or, if she do, but mocks the clod.

  Call to the echo—it returns

  The word you send; how thrive the ferns

  About the ruined house of prayer

  In woods; one shadow falleth yet

  From Christian spire—Turk minaret:

  Consider the indifference there.

  ’Tis so throughout. Shall Science then

  Which solely dealeth with this thing

  Named Nature, shall she ever bring

  One solitary hope to men?

  ’Tis Abba Father that we seek,

  Not the Artificer. I speak,

  But scarce may utter. Let it be.

  Adieu; remember—Oh, not me;

  But if with years should fail delight

  As things unmask abroad and home;

  Then, should ye yearn in reason’s spite,

  Remember hospitable Rome.”

  He turned, and would have gone; but, no,

  New matter struck him: “Ere I go

  Yet one word more; and bear with me:

  Whatever your belief may be—

  If well ye wish to human kind,

  Be not so mad, unblest, and blind

  As, in such days as these, to try

  To pull down Rome. If Rom
e could fall

  ’Twould not be Rome alone, but all

  Religion. All with Rome have tie,

  Even the railers which deny,

  All but the downright Anarchist,

  Christ-hater, Red, and Vitriolist.

  Could libertine dreams true hope disable,

  Rome’s tomb would prove Abaddon’s cradle.

  Weigh well the Pope. Though he should be

  Despoiled of Charlemagne’s great fee—

  Cast forth, and made a begging friar,

  That would not quell him. No, the higher

  Rome’s In excelsis would extol

  Her God—her De profundis roll

  The deeper. Let destructives mind

  The reserves upon reserves behind.

  Offence I mean not. More’s to tell:

  But frigates meet—hail—part. Farewell.”

  And, going, he a verse did weave,

  Or hummed in low recitative:

  “Yearly for a thousand years

  On Christmas Day the wreath appears,

  And the people joy together:

  Prithee, Prince or Parliament,

  An equal holiday invent

  Outlasting centuries of weather.

  “Arrested by a trembling shell,

  Wee tinkle of the small mass-bell,

  A giant drops upon the knee.

  Thou art wise—effect as much;

  Let thy wisdom by a touch

  Reverence like this decree.”

  26. OF ROME

  “Patcher of the rotten cloth,

  Pickler of the wing o’ the moth,

  Toaster of bread stale in date,

  Tinker of the rusty plate,

  Botcher of a crumbling tomb,

  Pounder with the holy hammer,

  Gaffer-gammer, gaffer-gammer—

  Rome!

  The broker take your trumpery pix,

  Paten and chalice! Turn ye—lo,

  Here’s bread, here’s wine. In Mexico

  Earthquakes lay flat your crucifix:

  All, all’s geology, I trow.

  Away to your Pope Joan—go!”

  As he the robed one decorous went,

  From copse that doggerel was sent

  And after-cry. Half screened from view

  ’Twas Margoth, who, reclined at lunch,

  Had overheard, nor spared to munch,

  And thence his contumely threw.

  Rolfe, rising, had replied thereto,

  And with some heat, but Derwent’s hand

  Caught at his skirt: “Nay, of what use?

  But wind, foul wind.”—Here fell a truce,

  Which Margoth could but understand;

  Wiping his mouth he hied away.

  The student who apart though near

  Had heard the Frank with tingling cheer,

  Awaited now the after-play

  Of comment; and it followed: “Own,”

  Said Rolfe, “he took no shallow tone,

  That new St. Dominick. Who’ll repay?

  Wilt thou?” to Derwent turning.—“No,

  Not I! But had our Scot been near

  To meet your Papal nuncio!

  Fight fire with fire. But for me here,

  You must have marked I did abstain.—

  Odd, odd: this man who’d make our age

  To Hildebrand’s an appanage—

  So able too—lit by our light—

  Curious, he should so requite!

  And, yes, lurked somewhat in his strain—”

  “And in his falling on the knee?”

  “Those supple hinges I let be.”

  “Is the man false?”

  “No, hardly that.

  ’Tis difficult to tell. But see:

  Doubt late was an aristocrat;

  But now the barbers’ clerks do swell

  In cast clothes of the infidel;

  The more then one can now believe,

  The more one’s differenced, perceive,

  From ribald commonplace. Here Rome

  Comes in. This intellectual man—

  Half monk, half tribune, partisan—

  Who, as he hints—’tis troublesome

  To analyze, and thankless too:

  Much better be a dove, and coo

  Softly. Come then, I’ll e’en agree

  His manner has a certain lure,

  Disinterested, earnest, pure

  And liberal. ’Tis such as he

  Win over men.”

  “There’s Rome, her camp

  Of tried instruction. She can stamp,

  On the recruit that’s framed aright,

  The bearing of a Bayard knight

  Ecclesiastic. I applaud

  Her swordsmen of the priestly sword

  Wielded in spiritual fight.”

  “Indeed? take care! Rome lacks not charm

  For fervid souls. Arm ye, forearm!

  For syrens has she too,—her race

  Of sainted virgin ones, with grace

  Beyond the grace of Grecian calm,

  For this is chill, but that how warm.”

  “A frank concession.” “To be sure!

  Since Rome may never me allure

  By her enticing arts; since all

  The bias of the days that be

  Away leans from Authority,

  And most when hierarchical;

  So that the future of the Pope

  Is cast in no fair horoscope;

  In brief, since Rome must still decay;

  Less care I to disown or hide

  Aught that she has of merit rare:

  Her legends—some are sweet as May;

  Ungarnered wealth no doubt is there,

  (Too long ignored by Luther’s pride)

  But which perchance in days divine

  (Era, whereof I read the sign)

  When much that sours the sects is gone,

  Like Dorian myths the bards shall own—

  Yes, prove the poet’s second mine.”

  “All that,” said Rolfe, “is very fine;

  But Rome subsists, she lives to-day,

  She re-affirms herself, her sway

  Seductive draws rich minds away;

  Some pastures, too, yield many a rover:

  Sheep, sheep and shepherd running over.”

  “Such sheep and shepherds, let them go;

  They are not legion: and you know

  What draws. Little imports it all

  Overbalanced by that tidal fall

  Of Rome in Southern Europe. Come.”

  “If the tide fall or here or there,

  Be sure ’tis rolling in elsewhere.”

  “So oceanic then is Rome?”

  “Nay, but there’s ample sea-verge left:

  A hemisphere invites.—When reft

  From Afric, and the East its home,

  The church shot out through wild and wood—

  Germany, Gaul and Britain, Spain—

  Colonized, Latinized, and made good

  Her loss, and more—resolved to reign.”

  “Centuries, centuries long ago!

  What’s that to us? I am surprised.

  Rome’s guns are spiked; and they’ll stay so.

  The world is now too civilized

  For Rome. Your noble Western soil—

  What! that be given up for spoil

  To—to—”

  “There is an Unforeseen.

  Fate never gives a guarantee

  That she’ll abstain from aught. And men

 
; Get tired at last of being free—

  Whether in states—in states or creeds.

  For what’s the sequel? Verily,

  Laws scribbled by law-breakers, creeds

  Scrawled by the freethinkers, and deeds

  Shameful and shameless. Men get sick

  Under that curse of Frederick

  The cynical: For punishment

  This rebel province I present

  To the philosophers. But, how?

  Whole nations now philosophize,

  And do their own undoing now.—

  Who’s gained by all the sacrifice

  Of Europe’s revolutions? who?

  The Protestant? the Liberal?

  I do not think it—not at all:

  Rome and the Atheist have gained:

  These two shall fight it out—these two;

  Protestantism being retained

  For base of operations sly

  By Atheism.”

  Without reply

  Derwent low whistled—twitched a spray

  That overhung: “What tree is this?”

  “The tree of knowledge, I dare say;

  But you don’t eat.”—“That’s not amiss,”

  The good man laughed; but, changing, “O,

  That a New-Worlder should talk so!”

  “’Tis the New World that mannered me,

  Yes, gave me this vile liberty

  To reverence naught, not even herself.”

  “How say you? you’re the queerest elf!

  But here’s a thought I still pursue—

  A thought I dreamed each thinker knew:

  No more can men be what they’ve been;

  All’s altered—earth’s another scene.”

  “Man’s heart is what it used to be.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “But Rome does, though:

  And hence her stout persistency.

  What mean her re-adopted modes

  Even in the enemy’s abodes?

  Their place old emblems reassume.

  She bides—content to let but blow

  Among the sects that peak and pine,

  Incursions of her taking bloom.”

  “The censer’s musk?—’Tis not the vine,

  Vine evangelic, branching out

  In fruitful latitude benign,

  With all her bounty roundabout—

  Each cluster, shaded or in sun,

  Still varying from each other one,

  But all true members, all with wine

  Derived from Christ their stem and stock;

  ’Tis scarce that vine which doth unlock

  The fragrance that you hint of. No,

  The Latin plant don’t flourish so;

  Of sad distemper ’tis the seat;

  Pry close, and startled you shall meet