Canto 12 (But ere they meet in place…)

But ere they meet in place assigned, It needs—to make the sequel clear— A crossing thread be first entwined. Within the Terra-Santa's wall (A prefix dropped, the Latins here So the Franciscan Convent call), Commended to the warden's care, The mitred father-warden there, By missives from a cardinal, It chanced an uncompanioned youth. By birth a Roman, shelter found. In casual contact, daily round, Mixed interest the stranger won. Each friar, the humblest, could but own His punctual courtesy, in sooth, Though this still guarded a reserve Which, not offending, part estranged. Sites, sites and places all he ranged Unwearied, but would ever swerve From escort such as here finds place, Or cord-girt guide, or chamberlain Martial in Oriental town, By gilt-globed staff of office known, Sword by his side, in golden lace, Tall herald making clear the van.

But what most irked each tonsured man, Distrust begat, concern of heart, Was this: though the young man took part In chapel service, 'twas as guest Who but conformed; he showed no zest Of faith within, faith personal. Ere long the warden, kindly all, Said inly with himself: Poor boy, Enough hast thou of life-annoy; Let be reproach. Tied up in knot Of body by the fleshly withes, Needs must it be the spirit writhes And takes a warp. But Christ will blot Some records in the end. And own, So far as in by out is shown, Not idle was the monk's conceit. Fair head was set on crook and lump, Absalom's locks but Esop's hump. Deep in the grave eyes' last retreat, One read thro' guarding feint of pride, Quick sense of all the ills that gride In one contorted so. But here, More to disclose in bearing chief, More than to monks might well appear, There needs some running mention brief.

Fain had his brethren have him grace Some civic honorable place; And interest was theirs to win Ample preferment; he as kin Was loved, if but ill understood: At heart they had his worldly good; But he postponed, and went his way Unpledged, unhampered. So that still Leading a studious life at will, And prompted by an earnest mind, Scarce might he shun the fevered sway Of focused question in our day. Overmuch he shared, but in that kind

Which marks the ltalian turn of thought, When, counting Rome's tradition naught, The mind is coy to own the rule Of sect replacing, sect or school. At sea, in brig which swings no boat, To founder is to sink. On day When from St. Peter's balcony, The raised pontific fingers bless The city and the world; the stress He knew of fate: Blessest thou me, One wave here in this heaving sea Of heads? how may a blessing be? Luckless, from action's thrill removed, And all that yields our nature room; In courts a jest; and, harder doom, Never the hunchback may be loved. Never! for Beatrice—Bice—O, Diminutive once sweet, made now All otherwise!—didst thou but fool? Arch practice in precocious school? Nay, rather 'twas ere thou didst bud Into thy riper womanhood. Since love, arms, courts, abjure why then Remaineth to me what? the pen? Dead feather of ethereal life! Nor efficacious much, save when It makes some fallacy more rife. My kin—I blame them not at heart— Would have me act some routine part, Subserving family, and dreams Alien to me illusive schemes. This world clean fails me: still I yearn. Me then it surely does concern Some other world to find. But where? In creed? I do not find it there. That said, and is the emprise o'er? Negation, is there nothing more? This side the dark and hollow bound

Lies there no unexplored rich ground? Some other world: well, there's the New— Ah, joyless and ironic too! They vouch that virgin sphere's assigned Seat for man's re-created kind: Last hope and proffer, they protest. Brave things! sun rising in the west; And bearded centuries but gone For ushers to the beardless one. Nay, nay; your future's too sublime: The Past, the Past is half of time, The proven half.—Thou Pantheon old, Two thousand years have round thee rolled: Yet thou, in Rome, thou bid'st me seek Wisdom in something more antique Than thou thyself. Turn then: what seer, The senior of this Latian one, Speaks from the ground, transported here In Eastern soil? Far buried down— For consecration and a grace Enlocking Santa Croce's base— Lies earth of Jewry, which of yore The homeward bound Crusaders bore In fleet from Jaffa.—Trajan's hall, That huge ellipse imperial, Was built by Jews. And Titus' Arch

Transmits their conqueror in march Of trophies which those piers adorn. There yet, for an historic plea, In heathen triumph's harlotry The Seven-Branched Candlestick is borne. What then? Tho' all be whim of mine, Yet by these monuments I'm schooled, Arrested, strangely overruled; Methinks I catch a beckoning sign, A summons as from Palestine. Yea, let me view that pontiff-land Whose sway occult can so command; Make even Papal Rome to be

Her appanage or her colony. Is Judah's mummy quite unrolled? To pluck the talisman from fold! But who may well indeed forecast The novel influence of scenes Remote from his habitual Past? The unexpected supervenes; Which Celio proved. 'Neath Zion's lee His nature, with that nature blent, Evoked an upstart element, As do the acid and the alkali