Clarel/Part 2/Canto 27

27. Vine and Clarel
While now, to serve the pilgrim train, The Arabs willow branches hew, (For palms they serve in dearth of true), Or, kneeling by the margin, stoop To brim memorial bottles up; And the Greek's wine entices two: Apart see Clarel here incline, Perplexed by that Dominican, Nor less by Rolfe--capricious man: "I cannot penetrate him.--Vine?" As were Venetian slats between, He espied him through a leafy screen, Luxurious there in umbrage thrown, Light sprays above his temples blown-- The river through the green retreat Hurrying, reveling by his feet. Vine looked an overture, but said Nothing, till Clarel leaned--half laid-- Beside him: then "We dream, or be In sylvan John's baptistery: May Pisa's equal beauty keep?-- But how bad habits persevere! I have been moralizing here Like any imbecile: as thus: Look how these willows over-weep The waves, and plain: 'Fleet so from us? And wherefore? whitherward away? Your best is here where wildings sway And the light shadow's blown about; Ah, tarry, for at hand's a sea Whence ye shall never issue out Once in.' They sing back: 'So let be!

We mad-caps hymn it as we flow-- Short life and merry! be it so!' " Surprised at such a fluent turn, The student did but listen--learn.

Putting aside the twigs which screened, Again Vine spake, and lightly leaned "Look; in yon vault so leafy dark, At deep end lit by gemmy spark Of mellowed sunbeam in a snare; Over the stream--ay, just through there-- The sheik on that celestial mare Shot, fading.--Clan of outcast Hagar, Well do ye come by spear and dagger! Yet in your bearing ye outvie Our western Red Men, chiefs that stalk In mud paint--whirl the tomahawk.-- But in these Nimrods noted you The natural language of the eye, Burning or liquid, flame or dew, As still the changeable quick mood Made transit in the wayward blood? Methought therein one might espy, For all the wildness, thoughts refined By the old Asia's dreamful mind;

But hark--a bird?"                Pure as the rain Which diamondeth with lucid grain, The white swan in the April hours Floating between two sunny showers Upon the lake, while buds unroll; So pure, so virginal in shrine Of true unworldliness looked Vine. Ah, clear sweet ether of the soul (Mused Clarel), holding him in view. Prior advances unreturned Not here he recked of, while he yearned-- O, now but for communion true And close; let go each alien theme; Give me thyself!

But Vine, at will Dwelling upon his wayward dream, Nor as suspecting Clarel's thrill Of personal longing, rambled still; "Methinks they show a lingering trace Of some quite unrecorded race Such as the Book of Job implies. What ages of refinings wise Must have forerun what there is writ-- More ages than have followed it. At Lydda late, as chance would have, Some tribesmen from the south I saw, Their tents pitched in the Gothic nave, The ruined one. Disowning law, Not lawless lived they; no, indeed; Their chief--why, one of Sydney's clan, A slayer, but chivalric man; And chivalry, with all that breed Was Arabic or Saracen In source, they tell. But, as men stray Further from Ararat away Pity it were did they recede In carriage, manners, and the rest; But no, for ours the palm indeed In bland amenities far West! Come now, for pastime let's complain; Grudged thanks, Columbus, for thy main! Put back, as 'twere--assigned by fate To fight crude Nature o'er again, By slow degrees we re-create. But then, alas, in Arab camps No lack, they say, no lack of scamps." Divided mind knew Clarel here; The heart's desire did interfere. Thought he, How pleasant in another Such sallies, or in thee, if said After confidings that should wed Our souls in one:--Ah, call me brother!-- So feminine his passionate mood

Which, long as hungering unfed, All else rejected or withstood. Some inklings he let fall. But no: Here over Vine there slid a change A shadow, such as thin may show Gliding along the mountain-range And deepening in the gorge below. Does Vine's rebukeful dusking say-- Why, on this vernal bank to-day, Why bring oblations of thy pain To one who hath his share? here fain Would lap him in a chance reprieve? Lives none can help ye; that believe. Art thou the first soul tried by doubt? Shalt prove the last? Go, live it out. But for thy fonder dream of love In man toward man--the soul's caress-- The negatives of flesh should prove Analogies of non-cordialness In spirit.--E'en such conceits could cling To Clarel's dream of vain surmise And imputation full of sting. But, glancing up, unwarned he saw What serious softness in those eyes Bent on him. Shyly they withdraw. Enslaver, wouldst thou but fool me

With bitter-sweet, sly sorcery, Pride's pastime? or wouldst thou indeed, Since things unspoken may impede, Let flow thy nature but for bar?-- Nay, dizzard, sick these feelings are; How findest place within thy heart For such solicitudes apart From Ruth?--Self-taxings. But a sign Came here indicative from Vine, Who with a reverent hushed air His view directed toward the glade Beyond, wherein a niche was made

Of leafage, and a kneeler there, The meek one, on whom, as he prayed, A golden shaft of mellow light, Oblique through vernal cleft above, And making his pale forehead bright, Scintillant fell. By such a beam From heaven descended erst the dove On Christ emerging from the stream. It faded; 'twas a transient ray; And, quite unconseious of its sheen, The suppliant rose and moved away, Not dreaming that he had been seen.

When next they saw that innocent, From prayer such cordial had he won That all his aspect of content As with the oil of gladness shone. Less aged looked he. And his cheer Took language in an action here: The train now mustering in line, Each pilgrim with a river-palm In hand (except indeed the Jew), The saint the head-stall need entwine With wreathage of the same. When new They issued from the wood, no charm The ass found in such idle gear Superfluous: with her long ear She flapped it off, and the next thrust Of hoof imprinted it in dust. Meek hands (mused Vine), vainly ye twist Fair garland for the realist. The Hebrew, noting whither bent Vine's glance, a word in passing lent: "Ho, tell us how it comes to be That thou who rank'st not with beginners Regard have for yon chief of sinners." "Yon chief of sinners?" "So names he Himself. For one I'll not express How I do loathe such lowliness."