Canto 1 (IN CHAMBER low and scored by…)

IN CHAMBER low and scored by time, Masonry old, late washed with lime— Much like a tomb new-cut in stone; Elbow on knee, and brow sustained All motionless on sidelong hand, A student sits, and broods alone. The small deep casement sheds a ray Which tells that in the Holy Town It is the passing of the day— The Vigil of Epiphany. Beside him in the narrow cell His luggage lies unpacked; thereon The dust lies, and on him as well— The dust of travel. But anon His face he lifts—in feature fine, Yet pale, and all but feminine But for the eye and serious brow— Then rises, paces to and fro, And pauses, saying, "Other cheer Than that anticipated here, By me the learner, now I find. Theology, art thou so blind? What means this naturalistic knell In lieu of Siloh's oracle Which here should murmur? Snatched from grace, And waylaid in the holy place! Not thus it was but yesterday Off Jaffa on the clear blue sea; Nor thus, my heart, it was with thee Landing amid the shouts and spray; Nor thus when mounted, full equipped, Out through the vaulted gate we slipped Beyond the walls where gardens bright With bloom and blossom cheered the sight. "The plain we crossed. In afternoon, How like our early autumn bland— So softly tempered for a boon— The breath of Sharon's prairie land! And was it, yes, her titled Rose, That scarlet poppy oft at hand? Then Ramleh gleamed, the sail white town At even. There I watched day close From the fair tower, the suburb one: Seaward and dazing set the sun: Inland I turned me toward the wall Of Ephraim, stretched in purple pall. Romance of mountains! But in end What change the near approach could lend. "The start this morning—gun and lance Against the quartermoon's low tide; The thieves' huts where we hushed the ride; Chill daybreak in the lorn advance; In stony strait the scorch of noon, Thrown off-by crags, reminding one Of those hot paynims whose fierce hands Flung showers of Afric's fiery sands In face of that crusader king, Louis, to wither so his wing; And, at the last, aloft for goal, Like the ice bastions round the Pole, Thy blank, blank towers, Jerusalem!"

Again he droops, with brow on hand. But, starting up, "Why, well I knew Salem to be no Samarcand; 'Twas scarce surprise; and yet first view Brings this eclipse. Needs be my soul, Purged by the desert's subtle air From bookish vapors, now is heir To nature's influx of control; Comes likewise now to consciousness Of the true import of that press Of inklings which in travel late Through Latin lands, did vex my state, And somehow seemed clandestine. Ah! These under formings in the mind, Banked corals which ascend from far, But little heed men that they wind Unseen, unheard—till lo, the reef— The reef and breaker, wreck and grief. But here unlearning, how to me Opes the expanse of time's vast sea! Yes, I am young, but Asia old. The books, the books not all have told. "And, for the rest, the facile chat Of overweenings—what was that The grave one said in Jaffa lane Whom there I met, my countryman, But new returned from travel here; Some word of mine provoked the strain; His meaning now begins to clear: Let me go over it again:— "Our New World's worldly wit so shrewd Lacks the Semitic reverent mood, Unworldly—hardly may confer Fitness for just interpreter Of Palestine. Forego the state Of local minds inveterate, Tied to one poor and casual form. To avoid the deep saves not from storm. "Those things he said, and added more; No clear authenticated lore I deemed. But now, need now confess My cultivated narrowness, Though scarce indeed of sort he meant? 'Tis the uprooting of content!" So he, the student. 'Twas a mind, Earnest by nature, long confined Apart like Vesta in a grove Collegiate, but let to rove At last abroad among mankind, And here in end confronted so By the true genius, friend or foe, And actual visage of a place Before but dreamed of in the glow Of fancy's spiritual grace. Further his meditations aim, Reverting to his different frame Bygone. And then: "Can faith remove Her light, because of late no plea I've lifted to her source above?" Dropping thereat upon the knee, His lips he parted; but the word Against the utterance demurred And failed him. With infirm intent He sought the housetop. Set of sun: His feet upon the yet warm stone, He, Clarel, by the coping leant, In silent gaze. The mountain town, A walled and battlemented one, With houseless suburbs front and rear, And flanks built up from steeps severe, Saddles and turrets the ascent— Tower which rides the elephant. Hence large the view. There where he stood, Was Acra's upper neighborhood. The circling hills he saw, with one Excelling, ample in its crown, Making the uplifted city low By contrast—Olivet. The flow Of eventide was at full brim; Overlooked, the houses sloped from him— Terraced or domed, unchimnied, gray, All stone—a moor of roofs. No play Of life; no smoke went up, no sound Except low hum, and that half drowned. The inn abutted on the pool Named Hezekiah's, a sunken court Where silence and seclusion rule, Hemmed round by walls of nature's sort, Base to stone structures seeming one E'en with the steeps they stand upon. As a threedecker's sternlights peer Down on the oily wake below, Upon the sleek dark waters here The inn's small lattices bestow A rearward glance. And here and there In flaws the languid evening air Stirs the dull weeds adust, which trail In festoons from the crag, and veil The ancient fissures, overtopped By the tall convent of the Copt, Built like a lighthouse o'er the main. Blind arches showed in walls of wane, Sealed windows, portals masoned fast, And terraces where nothing passed By parapets all dumb. No tarn Among the Kaatskills, high above Farmhouse and stack, last lichened barn And logbridge rotting in remove— More lonesome looks than this dead pool In town where living creatures rule. Not here the spell might he undo; The strangeness haunted him and grew. But twilight closes. He descends And toward the inner court he wends.