Canto 16 (Look how a pine in luckless…)

Look how a pine in luckless land By fires autumnal overrun, Abides a black extinguished brand Gigantic—killed, not overthrown; And high upon the horny bough Perches the bandit captain-crow And caws unto his troop afar Of foragers: much so, in scar Of blastment, looms the Crusaders' Tower On the waste verge of Jericho: So the dun sheik in lawless power Kings it aloft in sombre robe, Lord of the tawny Arab mob To which, upon the plains in view, He shouts down his wild hullabaloo.

There on the tower, through eve's delay The pilgrims tarry, till for boon,

Launched up from Nebo far away, Balloon-like rose the nibbled moon— Nibbled, being after full one day. Intent they watched the planet's rise— Familiar, tho' in strangest skies. The ascending orb of furrowed gold, Contracting, changed, and silvery rolled In violet heaven. The desert brown, Dipped in the dream of argent light, Like iron plated, took a tone Transmuting it; and Ammon shone In peaks of Paradise—so bright. They gazed. Rolfe brake upon the calm: "O haunted place, O powerful charm! Were now Elijah's chariot seen (And yonder, read we writ aright, He went up—over against this site) Soaring in that deep heaven serene, To me 'twould but in beauty rise; Nor hair-clad John would now surprisc But Volney!" "Volney?" Derwent cried; "Ah, yes; he came to Jordan's side A pilgrim deist from the Seine." "Ay, and Chateaubriand, he too, The Catholic pilgrim, hither drew—

Here formed his purpose to assert Religion in her just desert Against the Red Caps of his time. The book he wrote; it dies away; But those Septemberists of crime Enlarge in Vitriolists to-day. Nor while we dwell upon this scene Can one forget poor Lamartinc A latter palmer. Oh, believe When, his fine social dream to grieve, Strode Fate, that realist how grim, Displacing, deriding, hushing him, Apt comment then might memory weave In lesson from this waste.—That cry! And would the jackal testify From Moab?" Derwent could but sway: "Omit ye in citation, pray, The healthy pilgrims of times old? Robust they were; and cheery saw Shrines, chapels, castles without flaw Now gone. That river convent's fold, By willows nigh the Pilgrims' Strand Of Jordan, was a famous hold. Prince Sigurd from the Norseman land, Quitting his keel atJoppa, crossed Hither, with Baldwin for his host, And Templars for a guard. Perchance Under these walls the train might prance By Norman warder eyed." "Maybe, " Responded Vine; "but why disown The Knight of the Leopard—even he, Since hereabout that fount made moan, Named Diamond of the Desert?"—"Yes," Beamed Rolfe, divining him in clue; "Such shadows we, one need confess That Scott's dreamed knight seems all but true As men which history vouches. She— Tasso's Armida, by Lot's sea, Where that enchantress, with sweet look Of kindliest human sympathy, Such webs about Rinaldo wove That all the hero he forsook— Lost in the perfidies of love— Armida—starts at fancy's bid Not less than Rahab, lass which hid The spies here in this Jericho. "

A lull. Their thoughts, mute plunging, strayed Like Arethusa under ground; While Clarel marked where slumber-bound Lay Nehemiah in screening shade.

Erelong, in reappearing tide, Rolfe, gazing forth on either side: "How lifeless! But the annual rout At Easter here, shall throng and shout, Far populate the lonely plain, (Next day a solitude again,) All pressing unto Jordan's dew; While in the saddle of disdain Skirr the Turk guards with fierce halloo, Armed herdsmen of the drove." He ceased; And fell the silence unreleased Till yet again did Rolfe round peer Upon that moonlit land of fear: "Man sprang from deserts: at the touch Of grief or trial overmuch, On deserts he falls back at need; Yes, 'tis the bare abandoned home Recalleth then. See how the Swede Like any rustic crazy Tom, Bursting through every code and ward Of civilization, masque and fraud, Takes the wild plunge. Who so secure, Except his clay be sodden loam, As never to dream the day may come

When he may take it, foul or pure? What in these turns of mortal tides— What any fellow-creature bides, May hap to any." "Pardon, pray," Cried Derwent—"but 'twill quick away: Yon moon in pearl-cloud: look, her face Peers like a bride's from webs of lace." They gazed until it faded there: When Rolfe with a discouraged air Sat as rebuked. In winning strain, As 'twere in penitence urbane, Here Derwent, "Come, we wait thee now." "No matter," Rolfe said; "let it go. My earnestness myself decry; But as heaven made me, so am I."

"You spake of Mortmain," breathed Vine low. As embers, not yet cold, will catch Quick at the touch of smallest match, Here Rolfe: "In gusts of lonely pain Beating upon the naked brain—" "God help him, ay, poor realist!" So Derwent. and that theme dismissed

When Ashtoreth her zenith won, Sleep drugged them and the winds made moan.