Herman Melville- Complete Poems

by Herman Melville

  To fossils turn in mountain near;

  Nor less while now lone scribe may write,

  Even now, in living dead of night,

  In Saba’s lamps the flames aspire—

  The votaries tend the far-transmitted fire.

  10. BEFORE THE GATE

  ’Tis Kedron, that profound ravine

  Whence Saba soars. And all between

  Zion and Saba one may stray,

  Sunk from the sun, through Kedron’s way.

  By road more menacingly dead

  Than that which wins the convent’s base

  No ghost to Tartarus is led.

  Through scuttle small, that keepeth place

  In floor of cellars which impend—

  Cellars or cloisters—men ascend

  By ladder which the monks let down

  And quick withdraw; and thence yet on

  Higher and higher, flight by flight,

  They mount from Erebus to light,

  And off look, world-wide, much in tone

  Of Uriel, warder in the sun,

  Who serious views this earthly scene

  Since Satan passed his guard and entered in.

  But not by Kedron these now come

  Who ride from Siddim; no, they roam

  The roof of mountains—win the tall

  Towers of Saba, and huge wall

  Builded along the steep, and there

  A postern with a door, full spare

  Yet strong, a clamped and bucklered mass

  Bolted. In waste whose king is Fear,

  Sole port of refuge, it is here.

  Strange (and it might repel, alas)

  Fair haven’s won by such a pass.

  In London Tower the Traitors’ Gate

  Through which the guilty waters flow,

  Looks not more grim. Yet shalt thou know,

  If once thou enter, good estate.

  Beneath these walls what frays have been,

  What clash and outcry, sabers crossed

  Pilgrim and Perizzite between;

  And some have here given up the ghost

  Before the gate in last despair.

  Nor, for the most part, lacking fair

  Sign-manual from a mitered lord,

  Admission shall that arch afford

  To any.

  Weary now the train

  At eve halt by the gate and knock.

  No answer. Belex shouts amain:

  As well invoke the Pico Rock.

  “Bide,” breathes the Druze, and dropping rein,

  He points. A wallet’s lowered down

  From under where a hood projects

  High up the tower, a cowl of stone,

  Wherefrom alert an eye inspects

  All applicants, and unbeknown.

  Djalea promptly from his vest

  A missive draws, which duly placed

  In budget, rises from the ground

  And vanishes. So, without sound

  Monks fish up to their donjon dark

  The voucher from their Patriarch,

  Even him who dwells in damask state

  On Zion throned. Not long they wait:

  The postern swings. Dismounting nigh,

  The horses through the needle’s eye,

  That small and narrow gate, they lead.

  But while low ducks each lofty steed,

  Behold how through the crucial pass

  Slips unabased the humble ass.

  And so they all with clattering din

  The stony fortress court-yard win.

  There see them served, and bidden rest;

  Horse, ass too, treated as a guest.

  Friars tend as grooms. Yet others call

  And lead them to the frater-hall

  Cliff-hung. By monks the board is spread;

  They break the monastery bread,

  Moist’ning the same with Saba’s wine,

  Product of painful toil mid stones

  In terraces, whose Bacchic zones

  That desert gird. Olive and vine

  To flinty places well incline,

  Once crush the flint. Even so they fared,

  So well for them the brethren cared.

  Refection done, for grateful bed

  Cool mats of dye sedate, were spread:

  The lamps were looked to, freshly trimmed;

  And last (at hint from mellow man

  Who seemed to know how all things ran,

  And who in place shall soon be hymned)

  A young monk-servant, slender-limbed,

  And of a comely countenance,

  Set out one flask of stature tall,

  Against men’s needs medicinal,

  Travelers, subject to mischance;

  Devout then, and with aspect bright

  Invoked Mar Saba’s blessing—bade good night.

  He goes. But now in change of tune,

  Shall friar be followed by buffoon?

  Saba supply a Pantaloon?

  Wise largess of true license yield.

  Howe’er the river, winding round,

  May win an unexpected bound;

  The aim and destiny, unsealed

  In the first fount, hold unrepealed.

  11. THE BEAKER

  “Life is not by square and line:

  Wisdom’s stupid without folly:

  Sherbet to-day, to-morrow wine—

  Feather in cap and the world is jolly!”

  So he, the aforesaid mellow man,

  Thrumming upon the table’s span.

  Scarce audible except in air

  Mirth’s modest overture seemed there.

  Nor less the pilgrims, folding wing,

  Weary, would now in slumber fall—

  Sleep, held for a superfluous thing

  By that free heart at home in hall.

  And who was he so jovial?

  Purveyor, he some needful stores

  Supplied from Syrian towns and shores;

  And on his trips, dismissing care,—

  His stores delivered all and told,

  Would rest awhile in Saba’s fold.

  Not broken he with fast and prayer:

  The leg did well plump out the sock;

  Nor young, nor old, but did enlock

  In reconcilement a bright cheek

  And fleecy beard; that cheek, in show,

  Arbutus flaked about with snow,

  Running-arbutus in Spring’s freak

  Overtaken so. In Mytilene,

  Sappho and Phaon’s Lesbos green,

  His home was, his lax Paradise,

  An island yet luxurious seen,

  Fruitful in all that can entice.

  For chum he had a mountaineer,

  A giant man, beneath whose lee

  Lightly he bloomed, like pinks that cheer

  The base of tower where cannon be.

  That mountaineer the battle tans,

  An Arnaut of no mean degree,

  A lion of war, and drew descent

  Through dames heroic, from the tent

  Of Pyrrhus and those Epirot clans

  Which routed Rome. And, furthermore,

  In after-line enlinked he stood

  To Scanderbeg’s Albanian brood,

  And Arslan, famous heretofore,

  The horse-tail pennon dyed in gore.

  An Islamite he was by creed—

  In act, what fortune’s chances breed:

  Attest the medal, vouch the scar—

  Had bled for Sultan, won for
Czar;

  His psalter bugle was and drum,

  Any scorched rag his Labarum.

  For time adherent of the Turk,

  In Saba’s hold he sheathed his dirk,

  Waiting arrival of a troop

  Destined for some dragooning swoop

  On the wild tribes beyond the wave

  Of Jordan. Unconstrained though grave,

  Stalwart but agile, nobly tall,

  Complexion a burnt red, and all

  His carriage charged with courage high

  And devil-dare. A hawk’s his eye.

  While, for the garb: a snow-white kilt

  Was background to his great sword-hilt:

  The waistcoat blue, with plates and chains

  Tarnished a bit with grapy stains;

  Oaches in silver rows: stout greaves

  Of leather: buskins thonged; light cloak

  Of broidered stuff Damascus weaves;

  And, scorched one side with powder smoke,

  A crimson Fez, bald as a skull

  Save for long tassel prodigal.

  Last, add hereto a blood-red sash,

  With dagger and pistol’s silvery charms,

  And there you have this Arnaut rash,

  In zone of war—a trophy of arms.

  While yet the monks stood by serene,

  He as to kill time, his moustache

  Adjusted in his scimeter’s sheen;

  But when they made their mild adieu,

  Response he nodded, seemly too.

  And now, the last gowned friar gone,

  His heart of onslaught he toned down

  Into a solemn sort of grace,

  Each pilgrim looking full in face,

  As he should say: Why now, let’s be

  Good comrades here to-night.

  Grave plea

  For brotherly love and jollity

  From such an arsenal of man,

  A little strange seemed and remote.

  To bring it nearer—spice—promote—

  Nor mindless of some aspects wan,

  Lesbos, with fair engaging tone,

  Threw in some moral cinnamon:

  “Sir pilgrims, look; ’tis early yet;

  In evening arbor here forget

  The heat, the burden of the day.

  Life has its trials, sorrows—yes,

  I know—I feel; but blessedness

  Makes up. Ye’ve grieved the tender clay:

  Solace should now all that requite;

  ’Tis duty, sirs. And—by the way—

  Not vainly Anselm bade good night,

  For see!” and cheery on the board

  The flask he set.

  “I and the sword”

  The Arnaut said (and in a tone

  Of natural bass which startled one—

  Profound as the profound trombone)

  “I and the sword stand by the red.

  But this will pass, this molten ore

  Of yellow gold. Is there no more?”

  “Trust wit for that,” the other said:

  “Purveyor, shall he not purvey?”

  And slid a panel, showing store

  Of cups and bottles in array.

  “Then arms at ease, and ho, the bench!”

  It made the slender student blench

  To hark the jangling of the steel,

  Vibration of the floor to feel,

  Tremor through beams and bones which ran

  As that ripe masterpiece of man

  Plumped solid down upon the deal.

  Derwent a little hung behind—

  Censorious not, nor disinclined,

  But with self-querying countenance,

  As if one of the cloth, perchance

  Due bound should set, observe degree

  In liberal play of social glee.

  Through instinct of good fellow bright

  His poise, as seemed, the Lesbian wight

  Divined: and justly deeming here

  The stage required a riper cheer

  Than that before—solicitous,

  With bubbling cup in either hand,

  Toward Derwent drew he, archly bland;

  Then posed; and tunefully e’en thus:

  “A shady rock, and trickling too,

  Is good to meet in desert drear:

  Prithee now, the beading here—

  Beads of Saba, saintly dew:

  Quaff it, sweetheart, I and you:

  Quaff it, for thereby ye bless

  Beadsmen here in wilderness.

  Spite of sorrow, maugre sin,

  Bless their larder and laud their bin:

  Nor deem that here they vainly pine

  Who toil for heaven and till the vine!”

  He sings; and in the act of singing,

  Near and more near one cup he’s bringing,

  Till by his genial sleight of hand

  ’Tis lodged in Derwent’s, and—retained.

  As lit by vintage sunset’s hue

  Which mellow warms the grapes that bleed,

  In amber light the good man view;

  Nor text of sanction lacked at need;

  “At Cana, who renewed the wine?

  Sourly did I this cup decline

  (Which lo, I quaff, and not for food),

  ’Twould by an implication rude

  Asperse that festival benign.—

  We’re brethren, ay!”

  The lamps disclose

  The Spahi, Arnaut, and the priest,

  With Rolfe and the not-of-Sharon Rose,

  Ranged at the board for family feast.

  “But where’s Djalea?” the cleric cried;

  “’Tis royalty should here preside:”

  And looked about him. Truth to own,

  The Druze, his office having done

  And brought them into haven there,

  Discharged himself of further care

  Till the next start: the interim

  Accounting rightfully his own;

  And may be, heedful not to dim

  The escutcheon of an Emir’s son

  By any needless letting down.

  The Lesbian who had Derwent served,

  Officiated for them all;

  And, as from man to man he swerved,

  Grotesque a bit of song let fall:

  “The Mufti in park suburban

  Lies under a stone

  Surmounted serene by a turban

  Magnific—a marble one!”

  So, man by man, with twinkling air,

  And cup and text of stanza fair:

  “A Rabbi in Prague they muster

  In mound evermore

  Looking up at his monument’s cluster—

  A cluster of grapes of Noah!”

  When all were served with wine and rhyme

  “Ho, comrade,” cried armed Og sublime,

  “Your singing makes the filling scant;

  The flask to me, let me decant.”

  With that, the host he played—brimmed up

  And off-hand pushed the frequent cup;

  Flung out his thigh, and quaffed apace,

  Barbaric in his hardy grace;

  The while his haughty port did say,

  Who’s here uncivilized, I pray?

  I know good customs: stint I ye?

  Indeed (thought Rolfe), a man of mark,

  And makes a rare symposiarch;

  I like him; I’ll e’en feel his grip.

  With that, in vinous fellowship

  Frank he put out his hand. In mood

  Of questionable brotherhood


  The slayer stared—anon construed

  The overture aright, and yet

  Not unreservedly he met

  The palm. Came it in sort too close?

  Was it embraces were for foes?

  Rolfe, noting a fine color stir

  Flushing each happy reveler,

  Now leaned back, with this ditty wee:

  “The Mountain-Ash

  And Sumach fine,

  Tipplers of summer,

  Betray the wine

  In autumn leaf

  Of vermil flame:

  Bramble and Thorn

  Cry—Fie, for shame!”

  Mortmain aloof and single sat—

  In range with Rolfe, as viewed from mat

  Where Vine reposed, observing there

  That these in contour of the head

  And goodly profile made a pair,

  Though one looked like a statue dead.

  Methinks (mused Vine), ’tis Ahab’s court

  And yon the Tishbite; he’ll consort

  Not long, but Kedron seek. It proved

  Even so: the desert-heart removed.

  But he of bins, whose wakeful eye

  On him had fixed, and followed sly

  Until the shadow left the door,

  Turned short, and tristful visage wore

  In quaint appeal. A shrug; and then

  “Beseech ye now, ye friendly men,

  Who’s he—a cup, pray;—O, my faith!

  That funeral cap of his means death

  To all good fellowship in feast.

  Mad, say he’s mad!”

  Awhile the priest

  And Rolfe, reminded here in heart

  Of more than well they might impart,

  Uneasy sat. But this went by:

  Ill sort some truths with revelry.—

  The giant plied the flask. For Vine,

  Relaxed he viewed nor spurned the wine,

  But humorously moralized

  On those five souls imparadised

  For term how brief; well pleased to scan

  The Mytilene, the juicy man.

  Earth—of the earth (thought Vine) well, well,

  So’s a fresh turf, but good the smell,

  Yes, deemed by some medicinal—

  Most too if damped with wine of Xeres

  And snuffed at when the spirit wearies.

  I have it under strong advising

  ’Tis good at whiles this sensualizing;

  Would I could joy in it myself;

  But no!—

  For Derwent, he, light elf

  Not vainly stifling recent fret,

  Under the table his two knees