Black cloisters of the god of war;
And hear a language which is new
Or foreign: so now with this band
Who, after desert rovings, win
The fort monastic, close at hand,
Survey it, meditate it—see,
Through vaultings, the girt Capuchin,
Or list his speech of Italy.
Up to the arch the graybeard train
Of Bethlehemites attend, salute,
And in expectancy remain
At stand; their escort ending here,
They wait the recompense and fruit;
’Tis given; and with friendly cheer
Parting, they bear a meed beyond
The dry price set down in the bond.
The bonus Derwent did suggest,
Saying: “They’re old: of all sweet food
Naught they take in so cheers their blood
As ruddy coin; it pads the vest.”
Belex abides—true as his steel
To noble pilgrims which such largess deal.
While these now at refection sit,
Rolfe speaks: “Provided for so well,
Much at our ease methinks we dwell.
Our merit’s guerdon? far from it!
Unworthy, here we welcome win
Where Mary found no room at inn.”
“True, true,” the priest sighed, staying there
The cup of Bethlehem wine in hand;
Then sipped; yet by sad absent air
The flavor seeming to forswear;
Nor less the juice did glad the gland.
The abstemious Ungar noted all,
Grave silence keeping. Rolfe let fall:
“Strange! of the sacred places here,
And all through Palestine indeed,
Not one we Protestants hold dear
Enough to tend and care for.”
“Pray,”
The priest, “and why now should that breed
Astonishment? but say your say.”
“Why, Shakespeare’s house in Stratford town
Ye keep with loving tendance true,
Set it apart in reverence due:
A shrine to which the pilgrim’s won
Across an ocean’s stormy tide:
What zeal, what faith is there implied;
Pure worship localized in grace,
Tradition sole providing base.”
“Your drift I catch. And yet I think
That they who most and deepest drink
At Shakespeare’s fountain, scarce incline
To idolize the local shrine:
What’s in mere place that can bestead?”
“Nay, ’tis the heart here, not the head.
You note some pilgrims hither bring
The rich or humble offering:
If that’s irrational—what then?
In kindred way your Lutheran
Will rival it; yes, in sad hour
The Lutheran widow lays her flower
Before the picture of the dead:
Vital affections do not draw
Precepts from Reason’s arid law.”
“Ah, clever! But we won’t contend.
As for these Places, my dear friend,
Thus stands the matter—as you know:
Ere Luther yet made his demur,
These legend-precincts high and low
In custody already were
Of Greek and Latin, who retain.
So, even did we wish to be
Shrine-keepers here and share the fee—
No sites for Protestants remain.”
The compline service they attend;
Then bedward, travel-worn, they wend;
And, like a bland breeze out of heaven,
The gracious boon of sleep is given.
But Ungar, islanded in thought
Which not from place a prompting caught,
Alone, upon the terrace stair
Lingered, in adoration there
Of Eastern skies: “Now night enthrones
Arcturus and his shining sons;
And lo, Job’s chambers of the South:
How might his hand not go to mouth
In kiss adoring ye, bright zones?
Look up: the age, the age forget—
There’s something to look up to yet!”
8. THE PILLOW
When rule and era passed away
With old Sylvanus (stories say),
The oracles adrift were hurled,
And ocean moaned about the world,
And wandering voices without name
At sea to sailors did proclaim,
Pan, Pan is dead!
Such fables old—
From man’s deep nature are they rolled,
Pained and perplexed—awed, overawed
By sense of change? But never word
Aërial by mortal heard,
Rumors that vast eclipse, if slow,
Whose passage yet we undergo,
Emerging on an age untried.
If not all oracles be dead,
The upstart ones the old deride:
Parrots replace the sibyls fled—
By rote repeat in lilting pride:
Lodged in power, enlarged in all,
Man achieves his last exemption—
Hopes no heaven, but fears no fall,
King in time, nor needs redemption.
They hymn. But these who cloistral dwell
In Bethlehem here, and share faith’s spell
Meekly, and keep her tenor mild—
What know they of a world beguiled?
Or, knowing, they but know too well.
Buzzed thoughts! To Rolfe they came in doze
(His brain like ocean’s murmuring shell)
Between the dream and slumber’s light repose.
9. THE SHEPHERDS’ DALE
“Up, up! Around morn’s standard rally;
She makes a sortie—join the sally:
Up, slugabeds; up, up!”
That call
Ere matins did each pilgrim hear
In cell, and knew the blithe voice clear.
“Beshrew thee, thou’rt poetical,”
Rolfe murmured from his place withdrawn.
“Ay, brother; but ’tis not surprising:
Apollo’s the god of early rising.
Up, up! The negro-groom of Night
Leads forth the horses of the Dawn!
Up, up!” So Derwent, jocund sprite—
Although but two days now were passed
Since he had viewed a sunrise last—
Persuaded them to join him there
And unto convent roof repair.
Thought one: He’s of no nature surly,
So cheerful in the morning early.
Sun-worship over, they came down:
And Derwent lured them forth, and on.
Behind the Convent lies a dale,
The Valley of the Shepherds named,
(And never may the title fail!)
By old tradition fondly claimed
To be in truth the very ground
About whose hollow, on the mound
Of hills, reclined in dozing way
That simple group ere break of day,
Which, startled by their flocks’ dismay—
All bleating up to them in panic
And sparkling in scintillant ray—
Beheld a splendor diaphanic—
Effulgence never dawn hath shot,
Nor flying meteors of the night;
And trembling rose, shading the sight;
But heard the angel breathe—Fear not.
So (might one reverently dare
Terrene with heavenly to compare),
So, oft in mid-watch on that sea
Where the ridged Andes of Peru
Are far seen by the coasting crew—
Waves, sails and sailors in accord
Illumed are in a mystery,
Wonder and glory of the Lord,
Though manifest in aspect minor—
Phosphoric ocean in shekinah.
And down now in that dale they go,
Meeting a little St. John boy
In sackcloth shirt and belt of tow,
Leading his sheep. Ever behind
He kept one hand, stained with a shrub,
The which an ewe licked, never coy;
And all the rest with docile mind
Followed; and fleece with fleece did rub.
Beyond, hard by twin planted tents,
Paced as in friendly conference
Two shepherds on the pastoral hill,
Brown patriarchs in shaggy cloak;
Peaceful they went, as in a yoke
The oxen unto pasture oak
To lie in shade when noon is still.
Nibbling the herb, or far or near,
Advanced their flocks, and yet would veer,
For width of range makes wayward will.
Ungar beheld: “What treat they of?
Halving the land?—This might reclaim
Old years of Lot and Abraham
Just ere they parted in remove:
A peaceful parting: ‘Let there be
No strife, I pray thee, between me
And thee, my herdmen and thine own;
For we be brethren. See, the land
Is all before thee, fenced by none:
Then separate thyself from me,
I pray thee. If now the left hand
Thou, Lot, wilt take, then I will go
Unto the right; if thou depart
Unto the right, then I will go
Unto the left.’—They parted so,
And not unwisely: both were wise.
’Twas East and West; but North and South!”
Rolfe marked the nip of quivering mouth,
Passion repressed within the eyes;
But ignorance feigned: “This calm,” he said,
“How fitly hereabout is shed:
The site of Eden’s placed not far;
In bond ’tween man and animal
Survives yet under Asia’s star
A link with years before the Fall.”
“Indeed,” cried Derwent, pleased thereat,
“Blest, blest is here the creature’s state.
Those pigeons, now, in Saba’s hold,
Their wings how winsome would they fold
Alighting at one’s feet so soft.
Doves, too, in mosque, I’ve marked aloft,
At hour of prayer through window come
From trees adjacent, and a’thrill
Perch, coo, and nestle in the dome,
Or fly with green sprig in the bill.
How by the marble fount in court,
Where for ablution Turks resort
Ere going in to hear the Word,
These small apostles they regard
Which of sweet innocence report.
None stone the dog; caressed, the steed;
Only poor Dobbin (Jew indeed
Of brutes) seems slighted in the East.”
Ungar, who chafed in heart of him
At Rolfe’s avoidance of his theme
(Although he felt he scarce could blame),
Here turned his vexed mood on the priest:
“As cruel as a Turk: Whence came
That proverb old as the crusades?
From Anglo-Saxons. What are they?
Let the horse answer, and blockades
Of medicine in civil fray!
The Anglo-Saxons—lacking grace
To win the love of any race;
Hated by myriads dispossessed
Of rights—the Indians East and West.
These pirates of the sphere! grave looters—
Grave, canting, Mammonite freebooters,
Who in the name of Christ and Trade
(Oh, bucklered forehead of the brass!)
Deflower the world’s last sylvan glade!”
“Alas, alas, ten times alas,
Poor Anglo-Saxons!” Derwent sighed.
“Nay, but if there I lurched too wide,
Respond to this: Old ballads sing
Fair Christian children crucified
By impious Jews: you’ve heard the thing:
Yes, fable; but there’s truth hard by:
How many Hughs of Lincoln, say,
Does Mammon in his mills, to-day,
Crook, if he do not crucify?”
“Ah, come,” said Derwent; “come, now, come;
Think you that we who build the home
For foundlings, and yield sums immense
To hospitals for indigence——”
“Your alms-box, smaller than your till,
And poor-house won’t absolve your mill.
But what ye are, a straw may tell—
Your dearth of phrases affable.
Italian, French—more tongues than these—
Addresses have of courtesies
In kindliness of man toward man,
By prince used and by artisan,
And not pervertible in sense
Of scorn or slight. Ye have the Sir,
That sole, employed in snub or slur,
Never in pure benevolence,
And at its best a formal term
Of cold regard.”
In mere philology, dear sir?”
Plead Derwent; “there, don’t that confer
Sweet amity? I used the word.”
But Ungar heeded not—scarce heard;
And, earnest as the earnest tomb,
With added feeling, sting, and gloom
His strange impeachment urged. Reply
Came none; they let it go; for why
Argue with man of bitter blood?
But Rolfe he could but grieve within
For countryman in such a mood—
Knowing the cause, the origin.
10. A MONUMENT
Wise Derwent, that discourse to end,
Pointed athwart the dale divine:
“What’s yonder object—fountain? shrine?
Companions, let us thither go
And make inspection.”
In consent
Silent they follow him in calm.
It proved an ancient monument—
Rude stone; but tablets lent a charm:
Three tablets on three sides. In one
The Tender Shepherd mild looked down
Upon the rescued weanling lost,
Snugged now in arms. In emblem crossed
By pastoral crook, Christ’s monogram
(Wrought with a medieval grace)
Showed on the square opposed in face.
But chiefly did they feel the claim
Of the main tablet; there a lamb
On passive haunches upright sate
In patience which reproached not fate;
The two fine furry fore-legs drooping
Like tassels; while the shearer, stooping,
Embraced it with o
ne arm; and all
The fleece rolled off in seamless shawl
Flecked here and there with hinted blood.
It did not shrink; no cry did come:
In still life of that stone subdued
Shearer and shorn alike were dumb.
As with a seventy-four, when lull
Lapses upon the storm, the hull
Rights for the instant, while a moan
Of winds succeeds the howl; so here
In poise of heart and altered tone
With Ungar. Respite brief though dear
It proved; for he: “This type’s assigned
To One who sharing not man’s mind
Partook man’s frame; whose mystic birth
Wrecked him upon this reef of earth
Inclement and inhuman. Yet,
Through all the trials that beset,
He leaned on an upholding arm—
Foreknowing, too, reserves of balm.
But how of them whose souls may claim
Some link with Christ beyond the name,
Which share the fate, but never share
Aid or assurance, and nowhere
Look for requital? Such there be;
In by-lanes o’er the world ye see
The Calvary-faces.” All averse
Turned Derwent, murmuring, “Forbear.
Such breakers do the heaven asperse!”
But timely he alert espied,
Upon the mountain humbly kneeling,
Those shepherds twain, while morning-tide
Rolled o’er the hills with golden healing.
It was a rock they kneeled upon,
Convenient for their rite avowed—
Kneeled, and their turbaned foreheads bowed—
Bowed over, till they kissed the stone:
Each shaggy sur-coat heedful spread
For rug, such as in mosque is laid.
About the ledge’s favored hem
Mild fed their sheep, enringing them;
While, facing as by second-sight,
Toward Mecca they direct the rite.
“Look; and their backs on Bethlehem turned,”
Cried Rolfe. The priest then, who discerned
The drift, replied, “Yes, for they pray
To Allah. Well, and what of that?
Christ listens, standing in heaven’s gate—
Benignant listens, nor doth stay
Upon a syllable in creed:
Vowels and consonants indeed!”
And Rolfe: “But here were Margoth now,
Seeing yon shepherds praying so,
His gibe would run from man to man: