Canto 17 ("Fine, very fine," said Derwent light…)

"Fine, very fine," said Derwent light; "But, look, yon rustics there in sight Crossing the slope; and are they not Those Arabs that we saw in grot?" "Why, who they be their garb bespeaks: Yes, 'tis those Arab Catholics." "Catholic Arabs? Say not that! Some words don't chime together, see.' "Oh, never mind the euphony: We saw them worship, and but late. Our Bethlehemites, the guard, they too Are Catholics. I talked with one, And much from his discourse I drew, Which the conventicles would shun: These be the children of the sun: They like not prosing—turn the lip From Luther's jug—prefer to sip From that tall chalice brimmed with wine Which Rome hath graved, and made to shine For haughty West and barbarous East, To win all people to her feast." "So, so! But, glamoured in that school

Of taking shows and charmful rites, What ween they of Christ's genuine rule, These credulous poor neophytes? Alas for such disciples! No, At mass before the altar, own, The celebrant in mystic gown To them is but a Prospero, A prince of magic. I deplore That zeal in such conversions seeks Less Christians than good Catholics: And here one might append much more. But drop.—Yon vineyards they are fair. For hill-side scenery—for curve Of beauty in a meek reserve— 'Tis Bethlehem the bell may bear!" Longer he gazed, then turned aside.

Clarel was left with Rolfe. In view Leaned Ungar, watching there the guide Below, who passed on errand new. "Your judgment of him let me crave— Him there," here lowly Rolfe. "I would I were his mate," in earnest mood Clarel rejoined; "such faith to have, I'd take the rest, even Crib and Cave.

"Ah, you mistake me; him I mean, Our comrade, Ungar." "He? at loss I am: at loss, for he's most strange; Wild, too, adventurous in range; And suffers; so that one might glean An added import from the word The Tuscan spake: You bear a cross, Referring to the straight-hilt sword." "I know. And when the Arnaut ran, But yesterday, with arms how bright (Like wheeling Phcebus flashing light), Superb about this sombrous man—

A soldier too with vouching tinge; Methought, O War, thy bullion fringe Never shall gladsome make thy pall. Ungar is Mars in funeral Of reminiscence—not in pledge And glory of brave equipage And manifesto. But some keen Side-talk I had with him yestreen: Brave soldier and stout thinker both; In this regard, and in degree, An Ethan Allen, by my troth, Or Herbert lord of Cherbury, Dusked over. 'Tis an iron glove, An armed man in the Druid grove."