Canto 11 ("Life is not by square and…)

"Life is not by square and line: Wisdom's stupid without folly: Sherbet to-day, to-morrow winc Feather in cap and the world is jolly!"

So he, the aforesaid mellow man, Thrumming upon the table's span. Scarce audible except in air Mirth's modest overture seemed there. Nor less the pilgrims, folding wing, Weary, would now in slumber fall— Sleep, held for a superfluous thing By that free heart at home in hall. And who was he so jovial? Purveyor, he some needful stores Supplied from Syrian towns and shores; And on his trips, dismissing care,— His stores delivered all and told, Would rest awhile in Saba's fold. Not broken he with fast and prayer:

The leg did well plump out the sock; Nor young, nor old, but did enlock In reconcilement a bright cheek And fleecy beard; that cheek, in show, Arbutus flaked about with snow, Running-arbutus in Spring's freak Overtaken so. In Mytilene, Sappho and Phaon's Lesbos green, His home was, his lax Paradise, An island yet luxurious seen, Fruitful in all that can entice. For chum he had a mountaineer, A giant man, beneath whose lee Lightly he bloomed, like pinks that cheer The base of tower where cannon be. That mountaineer the battle tans, An Arnaut of no mean degree, A lion of war, and drew descent Through dames heroic, from the tent Of Pyrrhus and those Epirot clans Which routed Rome. And, furthermore, In after-line enlinked he stood To Scanderbeg's Albanian brood, And Arslan, famous heretofore, The horse-tail pennon dyed in gore. An Islamite he was by creed— In act, what fortune's chances breed:

Attest the medal, vouch the scar— Had bled for Sultan, won for Czar; His psalter bugle was and drum, Any scorched rag his Labarum. For time adherent of the Turk, In Saba's hold he sheathed his dirk, Waiting arrival of a troop Destined for some dragooning swoop On the wild tribes beyond the wave Of Jordan. Unconstrained though grave, Stalwart but agile, nobly tall,

Complexion a burnt red, and all His carriage charged with courage high And devil-dare. A hawk's his eye. While, for the garb: a snow-white kilt Was background to his great sword-hilt: The waistcoat blue, with plates and chains Tarnished a bit with grapy stains; Oaches in silver rows: stout greaves Of leather: buskins thonged; light cloak Of broidered stuff Damascus weaves; And, scorched one side with powder smoke, A crimson Fez, bald as a skull Save for long tassel prodigal. Last, add hereto a blood-red sash, With dagger and pistol's silvery charms, And there you have this Arnaut rash, In zone of war—a trophy of arms. While yet the monks stood by serene, He as to kill time, his moustache Adjusted in his scimeter's sheen; But when they made their mild adieu, Response he nodded, seemly too. And now, the last gowned friar gone, His heart of onslaught he toned down Into a solemn sort of grace, Each pilgrim looking full in face, As he should say: Why now, let's be Good comrades here to-night. Grave plea For brotherly love and jollity From such an arsenal of man, A little strange seemed and remote. To bring it nearer—spice—promote— Nor mindless of some aspects wan, Lesbos, with fair engaging tone, Threw in some moral cinnamon: "Sir pilgrims, look; 'tis early yet; In evening arbor here forget The heat, the burden of the day. Life has its trials, sorrows—yes, I know—I feel; but blessedness Makes up. Ye've grieved the tender clay: Solace should now all that requite; 'Tis duty, sirs. And—by the way— Not vainly Anselm bade good night, For see!" and cheery on the board The flask he set. "I and the sword" The Arnaut said (and in a tone Of natural bass which startled onc Profound as the profound trombone) "I and the sword stand by the red. But this will pass, this molten ore Of yellow gold. Is there no more?" "Trust wit for that," the other said: "Purveyor, shall he not purvey?" And slid a panel, showing store Of cups and bottles in array. "Then arms at ease, and ho, the bench!" It made the slender student blench To hark the jangling of the steel, Vibration of the floor to feel, Tremor through beams and bones which ran As that ripe masterpiece of man Plumped solid down upon the deal.

Derwent a little hung behind— Censorious not, nor disinclined, But with self-querying countenance, As if one of the cloth, perchance Due bound should set, observe degree In liberal play of social glee. Through instinct of good fellow bright His poise, as seemed, the Lesbian wight Divined: and justly deeming here The stage required a riper cheer Than that before—solicitous,

With bubbling cup in either hand, Toward Derwent drew he, archly bland; Then posed; and tunefully e'en thus:

"A shady rock, and trickling too, Is good to meet in desert drear: Prithee now, the beading here Beads of Saba, saintly dew: Quaffit, sweetheart, I and you: Quaff it, for thereby ye bless Beadsmen here in wilderness. Spite of sorrow, maugre sin, Bless their larder and laud their bin: Nor deem that here they vainly pine Who toil for heaven and till the vine!"

He sings; and in the act of singing, Near and more near one cup he's bringing, Till by his genial sleight of hand 'Tis lodged in Derwent's, and—retained. As lit by vintage sunset's hue Which mellow warms the grapes that bleed, In amber light the good man view; Nor text of sanction lacked at need; "At Cana, who renewed the wine? Sourly did I this cup decline (Which lo, I quaff, and not for food), 'Twould by an implication rude Asperse that festival benign.— We're brethren, ay!" The lamps disclose The Spahi, Arnaut, and the priest, With Rolfe and the not-of-Sharon Rose, Ranged at the board for family feast. "But where's Djalea?" the cleric cried; "'Tis royalty should here preside:" And looked about him. Truth to own, The Druze, his office having done And brought them into haven there,

Discharged himself of further care Till the next start: the interim Accounting rightfully his own; And may be, heedful not to dim The escutcheon of an Emir's son By any needless letting down.

The Lesbian who had Derwent served, Officiated for them all; And, as from man to man he swerved, Grotesque a bit of song let fall:

"The Mufti in park suburban Lies under a stone Surmounted serene by a turban Magnific—a marble one!"

So, man by man, with twinkling air, And cup and text of stanza fair:

"A Rabbi in Prague they muster In mound evermore Looking up at his monument's cluster— A cluster of grapes of Noah!"

When all were served with wine and rhyme

"Ho, comrade," cried armed Og sublime, "Your singing makes the filling scant; The flask to me, let me decant." With that, the host he played—brimmed up And off-hand pushed the frequent cup; Flung out his thigh, and quaffed apace, Barbaric in his hardy grace; The while his haughty port did say, Who 's here uncivilized, I pray? I know good customs: stint I ye? Indeed (thought Rolfe), a man of mark, And makes a rare symposiarch; I like him; I'll e'en feel his grip.

With that, in vinous fellowship Frank he put out his hand. In mood Of questionable brotherhood The slayer stared—anon construed The overture aright, and yet Not unreservedly he met The palm. Came it in sort too close? Was it embraces were for foes?

Rolfe, noting a fine color stir Flushing each happy reveler, Now leaned back, with this ditty wee:

"The Mountain-Ash And Sumach fine, Tipplers of summer, Betray the wine In autumn leaf Of vermil flame: Bramble and Thorn Cry—Fie, for shame!"

Mortmain aloof and single sat— In range with Rolfe, as viewed from mat Where Vine reposed, observing there That these in contour of the head And goodly profile made a pair, Though one looked like a statue dead. Methinks (mused Vine), 'tis Ahab's court And yon the Tishbite; he'll consort Not long, but Kedron seek. It proved Even so: the desert-heart removed. But he of bins, whose wakeful eye On him had fixed, and followed sly Until the shadow left the door, Turned short, and tristful visage wore In quaint appeal. A shrug; and then "Beseech ye now, ye friendly men, Who's he—a cup, pray;—O, my faith!

That funeral cap of his means death To all good fellowship in feast. Mad, say he's mad!" Awhile the priest And Rolfe, reminded here in heart Of more than well they might impart, Uneasy sat. But this went by: Ill sort some truths with revelry.— The giant plied the flask. For Vine, Relaxed he viewed nor spurned the wine, But humorously moralized On those five souls imparadised For term how brief; well pleased to scan The Mytilene, the juicy man. Earth—of the earth (thought Vine) well, well, So's a fresh turf, but good the smell, Yes, deemed by some medicinal— Most too if damped with wine of Xeres And snuffed at when the spirit wearies. I have it under strong advising 'Tis good at whiles this sensualizing; Would I could joy in it myself; But no!— For Derwent, he, light elf, Not vainly stifling recent fret, Under the table his two knees

Pushed deeper, so as e'en to get Closer in comradeship at ease. Arnaut and Spahi, in respect Of all adventures they had known, These chiefly did the priest affect: Adventures, such as duly shown Printed in books, seem passing strange To clerks which read them by the fire, Yet be the wonted common-place Of some who in the Orient range, Free-lances, spendthrifts of their hire, And who in end, when they retrace Their lives, see little to admire

Or wonder at, so dull they be (Like fish mid marvels of the sea) To every thing that is not pent In self, or thereto ministrant.