Canto 14 ("Bless that good chaplain," Derwent here…)

"Bless that good chaplain," Derwent here; "All doves and halcyons round the sphere Defend him from war's rude alarms!" Then (Oh, sweet impudence of wine) Then rising and approaching Vine In suppliant way: "I crave an alms: Since this gray guest, this serious one, Our wrinkled old Euroclydon, Since even he, with genial breath His quota here contributeth, Helping our gladness to prolong— Thou too! Nay, nay; as everywhere Water is found if one not spare To delvc tale, prithee now, or song!" Vine's brow shot up with crimson lights As may the North on frosty nights

Over Dilston Hall and his low statc The fair young Earl whose bloody end Those red rays do commemorate, And take his name. Now all did bend In chorus, crying, "Tale or song!" Investing him. Was no escape Beset by such a Bacchic throng. "Ambushed in leaves we spy your grape," Cried Derwent; "black but juicy onc A song!" No way for Vine to shun: "Well, if you'll let me here recline At ease the while, I'll hum a word Which in his Florence loft I heard An artist trill one morning fine:—

"What is beauty? 'tis a dream Dispensing still with gladness: The dolphin haunteth not the shoal, And deeps there be in sadness.

"The rose-leaves, see, disbanded be Blowing, about me blowing; But on the death-bed of the rose My amaranths are growing.

"His amaranths: a fond conceit, Yes, last illusion of retreat! Short measure 'tis." "And yet enough," Said Derwent; "'tis a hopeful song; Or, if part sad, not less adorning, Like purple in a royal mourning. We debtors be. Now come along To table, we'll take no rebuff." So Vine sat down among them then— Adept—shy prying into men. Derwent here wheeled him: "But for sake Of conseience, noble Arnaut, tell;

When now I as from dream awake It just dawns on me: how is this? Wine-bibbing? No! that kind of bliss Your Koran bars. And Belex, man, Thou'st smoked before the sun low fell; And this month's what? your Ramadan? May true believers thus rebel?" Good sooth, did neither know to tell, Or care to know, what time did fall The Islam fast; yet took it so As Derwent roguish prompted, though It was no Ramadan at all; 'Twas far ahead, a movable fast Of lunar month, which to forecast Needs reckoning. Ponderous pause The Anak made: "Mahone has laws, And Allah's great—of course:—forefend! Ho, rouse a stave, and so an end:

"The Bey, the Emir, and Mamalook lords Charged down on the field in a grove of swords: Hurrah! hurrah and hurrah For the grove of swords in the wind of war!

"And the Bey to the Emir exclaimed, Who knows? In the shade of the scimiters Paradise shows! Hurrah! hurrah and hurrah For the grove of swords in the wind of war!"

He sang; then settled down, a mate For Mars' high pontiff—solemn sate, And on his long broad Bazra blade Deep ruminated. Less sedate, The Spahi now in escapade Vented some Turkish guard-room joke, But scarce thereby the other woke To laughter, for he never laughed, Into whatever mood he broke,

Nor verbal levity vouchsafed, So leonine the man. But here The Spahi, with another cheer Into a vein of mockery ran, Toasting the feast of Ramadan, Laughing thereat, removed from fear. It was a deep-mouthed mastiff burst, Nor less, for all the jovial tone The echo startling import won— At least for Clarel, little versed In men, their levities and tides Unequal, and of much besides. There by a lattice open swung Over the Kedron's gulf he hung, And pored and pondered: With what sweep Doubt plunges, and from maw to maw; Traditions none the nations keep— Old ties dissolve in one wide thaw; The Frank, the Turk, and e'en the Jew Share it; perchance the Brahmin too. Returns each thing that may withdraw? The schools of blue-fish years desert Our sounds and shores—but they revert; The ship returns on her long tack: The bones of Theseus are brought back: A comet shall resume its path

Though three millenniums go. But faith? Ah, Nehemiah—and, Derwent, thou! 'Twas dust to dust: what is it now And here? Is life indeed a dream? Are these the pilgrims late that heard The wheeling desert vultures scream Above the Man and Book interred— Scream like the haglet and the gull Off Chiloe o'er the foundered hull?

But hark: while here light fell the clink The five cups made touched brink to brink In fair bouquet of fellowship,

And just as the gay Lesbian's lip Was parted—jetting came a wail In litany from Kedron's jail Profound, and belly of the whale:

"Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Intercedefor me, Angel of the Agony. Spare me, spare me! Merciful be— Lord, spare me— Spare and deliver me!"

Arrested, those five revelers there, Fixed in light postures of their glee, Seemed problematic shapes ye see In linked caprice of festal air Graved round the Greek sarcophagi.