Canto 2 (A lamp in archway hangs from…)

A lamp in archway hangs from key— A lamp whose sidelong rays are shed On a slim vial set in bed Of doorpost all of masonry. That vial hath the Gentile vexed; Within it holds Talmudic text, Or charm. And there the Black Jew sits, Abdon the host. The lamplight flits O'er reverend beard of saffron hue Sweeping his robe of Indian blue. Disturbed and troubled in estate, Longing for solacement of mate, Clarel in court there nearer drew, As yet unnoted, for the host In meditation seemed engrossed, Perchance upon some line late scanned In leathern scroll that drooped from hand. Ere long, without surprise expressed, The lone man marked his lonelier guest, And welcomed him. Discourse was bred; In end a turn it took, and led To grave recital. Here was one (If question of his word be none) Descended from those dubious men, The unreturning tribes, the Ten Whom shout and halloo wide have sought, Lost children in the wood of time. Yes, he, the Black Jew, stinting naught, Averred that ancient India's clime Harbored the remnant of the Tribes, A people settled with their scribes In far Cochin. There was he born And nurtured, and there yet his kin, Never from true allegiance torn, Kept Moses' law. Cochin, Cochin (Mused Clarel). I have heard indeed Of those Black Jews, their ancient creed And hoar tradition. Esdras saith The Ten Tribes built in Arsareth— Eastward, still eastward. That may be. But look, the scroll of goatskin, see Wherein he reads, a wizard book; It is the Indian Pentateuch Whereof they tell. Whate'er the plea (And scholars various notions hold Touching these missing clans of old), This seems a deeper mystery; How Judah, Benjamin, live on— Unmixed into time's swamping sea So far can urge their Amazon. He pondered. But again the host, Narrating part his lifetime tossed, Told how, long since, with trade in view, He sailed from India with a Jew And merchant of the Portuguese For Lisbon. More he roved the seas And marts, till in the last event He pitched in Amsterdam his tent. "There had I lived my life," he said, "Among my kind, for good they were; But loss came loss, and I was led To long for Judah—only her. But see." He rose, and took the light And led within: "There ye espy What prospect's left to such as I— Yonder!"—a dark slab stood upright Against the wall; a rude gravestone Sculptured, with Hebrew ciphers strown. "Under Moriah it shall lie No distant date, for very soon, Ere yet a little, and I die. From Ind to Zion have I come, But less to live, than end at home. One other last remove!" he sighed, And meditated on the stone, Lamp held aloft. That magnified The hush throughout the dim unknown Of night—night in a land how dead! Thro' Clarel's heart the old man's strain Dusky meandered in a vein One with the revery it bred; His eyes still dwelling on the Jew In added dream—so strange his shade Of swartness like a born Hindoo, And wizened visage which betrayed The Hebrew cast. And subtile yet In ebon frame an amulet Which on his robe the patriarch wore— And scroll, and vial in the door, These too contributed in kind. They parted. Clarel sought his cell Or tomblike chamber, and—with mind To break or intermit the spell, At least perplex it and impede— Lighted the lamp of olive oil, And, brushing from a trunk the soil— 'Twas one late purchased at his need— Opened, and strove to busy him With small adjustments. Bootless cheer! While wavering now, in chanceful skim His eyes fell on the word JUDEA In paper lining of the tray, For all was trimmed, in cheaper way, With printed matter. Curious then To know this faded denizen, He read, and found a piece complete, Briefly comprised in one poor sheet:

"The World accosts—

"Last one out of Holy Land, What gift bring'st thou? Sychem grapes? Tabor, which the Eden drapes, Yieldeth garlands. I demand Something cheery at thy hand. Come, if Solomon's Song thou singest, Haply Sharon's rose thou bringest."

"The Palmer replies:

"Nay, naught thou nam'st thy servant brings, Only Judea my feet did roam; And mainly there the pilgrim clings About the precincts of Christ's tomb. These palms I bring—from dust not free, Since dust and ashes both were trod by me. O'er true thy gift (thought Clarel). Well, Scarce might the world accept, 'twould seem. But I, shall I my feet impel Through road like thine and naught redeem? Rather thro' brakes, lone brakes, I wind: As I advance they close behind.— Thought's burden! on the couch he throws Himself and it—rises, and goes To peer from casement. 'Twas moonlight, With stars, the Olive Hill in sight, Distinct, yet dreamy in repose, As of Katahdin in hot noon, Lonely, with all his pines in swoon. The nature and evangel clashed, Rather, a double mystery flashed. Olivet, Olivet do I see? The ideal upland, trod by Thee? Up or reclined, he felt the soul Afflicted by that noiseless calm, Till sleep, the good nurse, deftly stole The bed beside, and for a charm Took the pale hand within her own, Nor left him till the night was gone.