Clarel/Part 1/Canto 29

29. The Recluse
Ere yet they win that verge and line, Reveal the stranger. Name him--Vine. His home to tell--kin, tribe, estate-- Would naught avail. Alighting grow, As on the tree the mistletoe, All gifts unique. In seeds of fate Borne on the winds these emigrate And graft the stock. Vine's manner shy A clog, a hindrance might imply; A lack of parlor-wont. But grace Which is in substance deep and grain May, peradventure, well pass by The polish of veneer. No trace Of passion's soil or lucre's stain, Though life was now half ferried o'er. If use he served not, but forbore-- Such indolence might still but pine In dearth of rich incentive high: Apollo slave in Mammon's mine? Better Admetus' shepherd lie. A charm of subtle virtue shed A personal influence coveted, Whose source was difficult to tell

As ever was that perfumed spell Of Paradise-flowers invisible Which angels round Cecilia bred. A saint then do we here unfold? Nay, the ripe flush, Venetian mould Evinced no nature saintly fine, But blood like swart Vesuvian wine. What cooled the current? Under cheer Of opulent softness, reigned austere Control of self. Flesh, but scarce pride, Was curbed: desire was mortified; But less indeed by moral sway Than doubt if happiness thro' clay

Be reachable. No sackclothed man; Howbeit, in sort Carthusian Tho' born a Sybarite. And yet Not beauty might he all forget, The beauty of the world, and charm: He prized it tho' it scarce might warm. Like to the nunnery's denizen His virgin soul communed with men But thro' the wicket. Was it clear This coyness bordered not on fear-- Fear or an apprehensive sense? Not wholly seemed it diffidence Recluse. Nor less did strangely wind Ambiguous elfishness behind All that: an Ariel unknown. It seemed his very speech in tone Betrayed disuse. Thronged streets astir To Vine but ampler cloisters were. Cloisters? No monk he was, allow; But gleamed the richer for the shade About him, as in sombre glade Of Virgil's wood the Sibyl's Golden Bough.