Canto 15 (The roller upon Borneo's strand…)

The roller upon Borneo's strand Halts not, but in recoiling throe Drags back the shells involved with sand, Shuffled and muffled in the flow And hollow of the wallowing undertow.

In night Rolfe waked, and whelming felt That refluence of disquiet dealt In sequel to redundant joy. Around he gazed in vague annoy Upon his mates. The lamp-light dim Obscurely showed them, strangely thrown In sleep, nor heeding eye of him; Flung every way, with random limb— Like corses, when the battle's done And stars come up. No sound but slight

Calm breathing, or low elfin shriek In dream. But Mortmain, coiled in plight, Lay with one arm wedged under cheek, Mumbling by starts the other hand, As the wolf-hound the bone. Rolfe rose And shook him. Whereat, from his throes He started, glaring; then lapsed down: "Soft, soft and tender; feels so bland— Grind it! 'tis hers, Brinvilliers' hand, My nurse." From which mad dream anon He seemed his frame to re-command; And yet would give an animal moan. "God help thee, and may such ice make Except against some solid? nay— But thou who mark'st, get thee away, Nor in such coals of Tartarus rake." So Rolfe; and wide a casement threw. Aroma! and is this Judaea? Down the long gorge of Kedron blew A balm beyond the sweet Sabaea— An air as from Elysian grass; Such freshening redolence divine As mariners upon the brine Inhale, when barren beach they pass By night; a musk of wafted spoil From Nature's scent-bags in the soil,

Not in her flowers; nor seems it known Even on the shores wherefrom 'tis blown. Clarel, he likewise wakeful grew, And rose, joined Rolfe, and both repaired Out to a railed-in ledge. In view Across the gulf a fox was scared Even by their quiet coming so, And noiseless fled along a line Of giddy cornice, till more slow He skulked out of the clear moonshine; For great part of that wall did show, To these beneath the shadowed hight, With arras hung of fair moon-light.

The lime-stone mountain cloven asunder, With scars of many a plunge and shock Tremendous of the rifted rock; So hushed now after all the thunder, Begat a pain of troubled wonder. The student felt it; for redress He turned him—anywhere to find Some simple thing to ease the mind Dejected in her littleness. Rolfe read him; and in quiet way Would interpose, lead off, allay. "Look," whispered he, "yon object whitc— This side here, on the crag at brink— 'Tis touched, just touched by paler light; Stood we in Finland, one might think An ermine there lay coiled. But no, A turban 'tis, Djalea's, aloof Reclining, as he used to do In Lebanon upon proud roof— His sire's. And, see, long pipe in state, He inhales the friendly fume sedate. Yon turban with the snowy folds Announces that my lord there holds The rank of Druze initiate— Not versed in portion mere, but total— Advanced in secrets sacerdotal; Though what these be, or high or low, Who dreams? Might Lady Esther learn?" "Who?" "Lady Esther. Don't you know? Pitt's sibyl-niece, who made sojourn In Libanus, and read the stars; Self-exiled lady, long ago She prophesied of wizard wars, And kept a saddled steed in stall Awaiting some Messiah's call Who came not.—But yon Druze's veil Of Sais may one lift, nor quail? We'll try."

To courteous challenge sent, The Druze responded, not by word Indeed, but act: he came; content He leaned beside them in accord, Resting the pipe-bowl. His assent In joining them, nay, all his air Mute testimony seemed to bear That now night's siren element, Stealing upon his inner frame, Pliant had made it and more tame. With welcome having greeted him, Rolfe led along by easy skim And won the topic: "Tell us here— Your Druze faith: are there not degrees, Orders, ascents of mysteries Therein? One would not pry and peer: Of course there's no disclosing these; But what's that working thought you win? The prelate-princes of your kin, They—they—doubtless they take their ease." No ripple stirred the Emir's son, He whiffed the vapor, kept him staid, Then from the lip the amber won: "No God there is but God," he said, And tapped the ashes from the bowl, And stood. 'Twas passive self-control

Of Pallas' statue in sacked Rome Which bode till pushed from off the plinth; Then through the rocky labyrinth Betook him where cool sleep might come; But not before farewell sedate:— "Allah preserve ye, Allah great!"