Canto 14 (Jerusalem, the mountain town…)

Jerusalem, the mountain town Is based how far above the sea; But down, a lead-line's long reach down, A deep-sea lead, beneath the zone Of ocean's level, heaven's decree Has sunk the pool whose deeps submerged The doomed Pentapolis fire-scourged. Long then the slope, though varied oft, From Zion to the seats abject; For rods and roods ye wind aloft By verges where the pulse is checked; And chief both hight and steepness show Ere Achor's gorge the barrier rends And like a thunder-cloud impends Ominous over Jericho.

Hard by the brink the Druze leads on, But halts at a projecting crown

Of cliff, and beckons them. Nor goat Nor fowler ranging far and high Scales such a steep; nor vulture's eye Scans one more lone. Deep down in throat It shows a sooty black. "A forge Abandoned," Rolfe said, "thus may look." "Yea," quoth the saint, "and read the Book: Flames, flames have forked in Achor's gorge. His wizard vehemence surprised: Some new illusion they surmised; Not less authentic text he took: "Yea, after slaughter made at Ai WhenJoshua's three thousand fled, Achan the thief they made to die— They stoned him in this hollow here They burned him with his children dear; Among them flung his ingot red And scarlet robe of Babylon: Meet end for Carmi's wicked son Because of whom they failed at Ai: 'Twas meet the trespasser should die; Yea, verily."—His visage took The tone of that uncanny nook. To Rolfe here Derwent: "Study him;

Then weigh that most ungenial rule Of Moses and the austere school Which e'en our saint can make so grim— At least while Achor feeds his eyes." "But here speaks Nature otherwise?" Asked Rolfe; "in region roundabout She's Calvinistic if devout In all her aspect."— Vine, o'ercast, Estranged rode in thought's hid repast. Clarel, receptive, saw and heard, Learning, unlearning, word by word. Erelong the wilds condense the ill— They hump it into that black Hill Named from the Forty Days and Nights,

The Quarantania's sum of blights. Up from the gorge it grows, it grows: Hight sheer, sheer depth, and death's repose. Sunk in the gulf the wave disowns, Stranded lay ancient torrent-stones. These Mortmain marks: "Ah, from your deep Turn ye, appeal ye to the steep? But that looks off, and everywhere Descries but worlds more waste, more bare."

Flanked by the crag and glen they go. Ahead, erelong in greeting show The mounts of Moab, o'er the vale Of Jordan opening into view, With cloud-born shadows sweeping thro'. The Swede, intent: "Lo, how they trail, The mortcloths in the funeral Of gods!" Although he naught confessed, In Derwent, marking there the scene, What interference was expressed As of harsh grit in oiled machine— Disrelish grating interest: Howbeit, this he tried to screen. "Pisgah!" cried Rolfe, and pointed him. "Peor, too—ay, long Abarim The ridge. Well, well: for thee I sigh, Poor Moses. Saving Jericho And her famed palms in Memphian row, No cheerful landscape met thine eye; Unless indeed (yon Pisgah's high) Was caught, beyond each mount and plain, The blue, blue Mediterranean." "And might he then for Egypt sigh?" Here prompted Rolfe; but no reply; And Rolfe went on: "Balboa's ken Roved in fine sweep from Darien: The woods and waves in tropic meeting,

Bright capes advancing, bays retreating— Green land, blue sea in charm competing!"

Meantime, with slant reverted eyes Vine marked the Crag of Agonies. Exceeding high (as Matthew saith) It shows from skirt of that wild path Bare as an iceberg seamed by rain Toppling awash in foggy main OffLabrador. Grottoes Vine viewed Upon the flank—or cells or tombs— Void as the iceberg's catacombs Of frost. He starts. A form endued With living guise, from ledges dim Leans as if looking down toward him. Not pointing out the thing he saw Vine watched it, but it showed no claw Of hostile purpose; tho' indeed Robbers and outlaws armed have dwelt Vigilant by those caves where knelt Of old the hermits of the creed

Beyond, they win a storied fount Which underneath the higher mount Gurgles, clay-white, and downward sets Toward Jericho in rivulets, Which—much like children whose small mirth

Not funerals can stay—through dearth Run babbling. One old humpbacked tree, Sad grandam whom no season charms Droops o'er the spring her withered arms; And stones as in a ruin laid, Like penitential benches be Where silent thickets fling a shade And gather dust. Here halting, here while they rest and try the cheer.