Canto 19 ("Barque, Easter barque, with happier freight…)

"Barque, Easter barque, with happier freight Than Leon's spoil of Inca plate; Which vernal glidest from the strand Of statues poised like angels fair; On March morn sailest—starting, fanned Auspicious by Sardinian air; And carriest boughs thro' Calpe's gate To Norman ports and Belgian land, That the Green Sunday, even there, No substituted leaf may wear, Holly or willow's lither wand, But sprays of Christ's canonic tree, Rome's Palma-Christi by decree, The Date Palm; ah, in bounty launch, Thou blessed Easter barque, to me Hither one consecrated branch!"

So Rolfe in burst, and turned toward Vine; But he the thorn-wreath still did twine. Rolfe watched him busy there and dumb, Then cried: "Did gardens favor it, How would I match thee here, and sit Wreathing Christ's flower, chrysanthemum."

Erelong the Syrian they view In slow ascent, and also two Between him and the peak,—one wight An Arab with a pouch, nor light, A desert Friday to the one Who went before him, coming down,

Shagged Crusoe, by the mountain spur. This last, when he the votary meets Sad climbing slow, him loudly greets, Stopping with questions which refer In some way to the crag amort— The crag, since thitherward his hand Frequent he waves, as with demand For some exact and clear report Touching the place of his retreat Aloft. As seemed, in neutral plight Submiss responds the anchorite, The wallet dropped beside his feet. These part. Master and man now ply Yet down the slope; and he in van— Round-shouldered, and tho' gray yet spry— A hammer swung. I've met that man Elsewhere (thought Clarel)—he whose cry And gibe came up from the dung-gate In hollow, when we scarce did wait His nearer speech and wagging head, The saint and I.—But naught he said Hereof. The stranger closer drew; And Rolfe breathed "This now is a Jew,— German, I deem—but readvised—

An Israelite, say, Hegelized— Convert to science, for but see The hammer: yes, geology." As now the other's random sight On Clarel mute and Vine is thrown, He misinterprets their grave plight; And, with a banter in the tone, Amused he cries: "Now, now, yon hight— Come, let it not alarm: a mount Whereof I've taken strict account (Its first geologist, believe), And, if my eyes do not deceive, 'Tis Jura limestone, every spur;

Yes, and tho' signs the rocks imprint Which of Plutonic action hint, No track is found, I plump aver, Of Pluto's footings—Lucifer."

The punning mock and manner stirred Repugnance in fastidious Vine; But Rolfe, who tolerantly heard, Parleyed, and won him to define At large his rovings on the hight. The yester-afternoon and night He'd spent there, sleeping in a cave— Part for adventure, part to spite The superstition, and outbrave. 'Twas a severe ascent, he said; In bits a ladder of steep stone With toe-holes cut, and worn, each one By eremites long centuries dead. And of his cullings too he told: His henchman here, the Arab wight, Bare solid texts from Bible old— True Rock of Ages, he averred. To read before a learned board, When home regained should meet his sight, A monograph he would inditc The theme, that crag. He went his way, To win the tower. Little they say; But Clarel started at the view Which showed opposed the anchorite Ascetical and—such a TeW.