Canto 1 (A DOWN THE Dolorosa Lane…)

A DOWN THE Dolorosa Lane The mounted pilgrims file in train Whose clatter jars each open space; Then, muffled in, shares change apace As, striking sparks in vaulted street, Clink, as in cave, the horses' feet. Not from brave Chaucer's Tabard Inn They pictured wend; scarce shall they win Fair Kent, and Canterbury ken; Nor franklin, squire, nor morris-dance Of wit and story good as then: Another age, and other men, And life an unfulfilled romance.

First went the turban—guide and guard

In escort armed and desert trim; The pilgrims next: whom now to limn. One there the light rein slackly drew, And skimming glanced, dejected never— While yet the pilgrimage was new— On sights ungladsome howsoever. Cordial he turned his aspect clear On all that passed; man, yea, and brute Enheartening by a blithe salute, Chirrup, or pat, in random cheer. This pleasantness, which might endear, Suffused was with a prosperous look That bordered vanity, but took Fair color as from ruddy heart. A priest he was—though but in part; For as the Templar old combined The cavalier and monk in one; In Derwent likewise might you find The secular and cleric tone. Imported or domestic mode, Thought's last adopted style he showed; Abreast kept with the age, the year, And each bright optimistic mind, Nor lagged with Solomon in rear, And Job, the furthermost behind— Brisk marching in time's drum-corps van Abreast with whistlingJonathan. Tho' English, with an English home, His spirits through Creole cross derived The light and effervescent foam; And youth in years mature survived. At saddle-bow a book was laid Convenient—tinted in the page Which did urbanely disengage Sadness and doubt from all things sad And dubious deemed. Confirmed he read: A priest o' the club—a taking man, And rather more than Lutheran. A cloth cape, light in air afloat, And easy set of cleric coat, Seemed emblems of that facile wit, Which suits the age—a happy fit.

Behind this good man's stirrups, rode A solid stolid Elder, shod

With formidable boots. He went Like Talus in a foundry cast; Furrowed his face, with wrinkles massed. He claimed no indirect descent From Grampian kirk and covenant. But recent sallying from home, Late he assigned three days to Rome. He saw the host go by. The crowd, Made up from many a tribe and place Of Christendom, kept seemly face: Took off the hat, or kneeled, or bowed; But he the helm rammed down apace: Discourteous to the host, agree, Tho' to a parting soul it went; Nor deemed that, were it mummery, 'Twas pathos too. This hard dissent— Transferred to Salem in remove,— Led him to carp, and try disprove Legend and site by square and line: Aside time's violet mist he'd shove— Quite disenchant the Land Divine. So fierce he hurled zeal's javelin home, It drove beyond the mark—pierced Rome,

And plunged beyond, thro' enemy To friend. Scarce natural piety Might live, abiding such a doom. Traditions beautiful and old Which with maternal arms enfold Millions, else orphaned and made poor, No plea could lure him to endure. Concerned, meek Christian ill might bear To mark this worthy brother rash, Deeming he served religion there, Work up the fag end of Voltaire, And help along faith's final crash— If that impend. His fingers pressed A ferule of black thorn: he bore A pruning-knife in belt; in vest A measuring-tape wound round a core;

And field-glass slung athwart the chest; While peeped from holsters old and brown, Horse-pistols—and they were his own.

A hale one followed, good to see, English and Greek in pedigree; Of middle-age; a ripe gallant, A banker of the rich Levant; In florid opulence preserved Like peach in syrup. Ne'er he swerved From morning bath, and dinner boon, And velvet nap in afternoon, And lounge in garden with cigar. His home was Thessalonica, Which views Olympus. But, may be, Little he weened ofJove and gods In synod mid those brave abodes; Nor, haply, read or weighed Paul's plea Addressed from Athens o'er the sea Unto the Thessalonians old: His bonds he scanned, and weighed his gold. Parisian was his garb, and gay. Upon his saddle-pommel lay A rich Angora rug, for shawl Or pillow, just as need might fall; Not the Brazilian leopard's hair Or toucan's plume may show more fair; Yet, serving light convenience mere, Proved but his heedless affluent cheer. Chief exercise this sleek one took Was toying with a tissue book At intervals, and leaf by leaf Gently reducing it. In brief, With tempered yet Capuan zest, Of cigarettes he smoked the best. This wight did Lady Fortune love: Day followed day in treasure-trove. Nor only so, but he did run In unmistrustful reveries bright

Beyond his own career to one Who should continue it in light Of lineal good times. High walled, An Eden owned he nigh his town, Which locked in leafy emerald A frescoed lodge. There Nubians armed, Tall eunuchs virtuous in zeal, In shining robes, with glittering steel, Patrolled about his daughter charmed, Inmost inclosed in nest of bowers, By gorgons served, the dread she-powers, Duennas: maiden more than fair: How fairer in his rich conceit— An Argive face, and English hair Sunny as May in morning sweet: A damsel for Apollo meet; And yet a mortal's destined bride- Bespoken, yes, affianced late To one who by the senior's side Rode rakishly deliberate— A sprig of Smyrna, Glaucon he. His father (such ere long to be) Well loved him, nor that sole he felt That fortune here had kindly dealt Another court-card into hand—

The youth with gold at free command;— No, but he also liked his clan, His kinsmen, and his happy way; And over wine would pleased repay His parasites: Well may ye say The boy's the bravest gentleman!— From Beyrout late had come the pair To further schemes of finance hid And for a pasha's favor bid And grave connivance. That affair Yet lingered. So, dull time to kill, They wandered, anywhere, at will. Scarce through self-knowledge or self-love

They ventured Judah's wilds to rove, As time, ere long, and place, may prove.

Came next in file three sumpter mules With all things needful for the tent, And panniers which the Greek o'errules; For there, with store of nourishment, Rosoglio pink and wine of gold Slumbered as in the smugglers' hold.

Viewing those Levantines in way Of the snared lion, which from grate Marks the light throngs on holiday, Nor e'er relaxes in his state Of rigorous gloom; rode one whose air Revealed—but, for the nonce, forbear. Mortmain his name, or so in whim Some moral wit had christened him.

Upon that creature men traduce For patience under their abuse; For whose requital there's assigned No heaven; that thing of dreamful kind— The ass—elected for the ease, Good Nehemiah followed these; His Bible under arm, and leaves Of tracts still fluttering in sheaves. In pure good will he bent his view To right and left. The ass, pearl-gray, Matched well the rider's garb in hue, And sorted with the ashy way; Upon her shoulders' jointed play The white cross gleamed, which the untrue Yet innocent fair legends say, Memorializes Christ our Lord When Him with palms the throngs adored Upon the foal. Many a year The wanderer's heart had longed to view Green banks of Jordan dipped in dew; Oft had he watched with starting tear

Pack-mule and camel, horse and spear, Monks, soldiers, pilgrims, helm and hood, The variegated annual train In vernal Easter caravan, Bound unto Gilgal's neighborhood. Nor less belief his heart confessed Not die he should till knees had pressed The Palmers' Beach. Which trust proved true: 'Twas charity gave faith her due: Without publicity or din It was the student moved herein.

He, Clarel, with the earnest face Which fitful took a hectic dye, Kept near the saint. With equal pace Came Rolfe in saddle pommeled high, Yet e'en behind that peaked redoubt Sat Indian-like, in pliant way, As if he were an Osage scout, Or Gaucho of the Paraguay.

Lagging in rear of all the train As hardly he pertained thereto Or his right place therein scarce knew, Rode one who frequent turned again

To pore behind. He seemed to be In reminiscence folded ever, Or some deep moral fantasy; At whiles in face a dusk and shiver, As if in heart he heard amazed The sighing of Ravenna's wood Of pines, and saw the phantom knight (Boccaccio's) with the dagger raised Still hunt the lady in her flight From solitude to solitude. 'Twas Vine. Nor less for day dream, still The rein he held with lurking will.

So filed the muster whose array hreaded the Dolorosa's way.