Canto 2 (Needs well to know the distant…)

Needs well to know the distant site (Like Agath, who late on the way From Joppa here had made delay) Ere, if unprompted, thou aright Mayst single Zion's mountain out From kindred summits roundabout. Abandoned quarry mid the hills Remote, as well one's dream fulfills Of what Jerusalem should be, As that vague heap, whose neutral tones Blend in with Nature's, helplessly: Stony metropolis of stones. But much as distant shows the town Erst glorious under Solomon, Appears now, in these latter days,

To languid eyes, through dwelling haze, The city St. John saw so bright With sardonyx and ruby? Gleam No more, like Monte Rosa's hight, Thy towers, O New Jerusalem? To Patmos now may visions steal? Lone crag where lone the ospreys wheel!

Such thought, or something near akin, Touched Clarel, and perchance might win (To judge them by their absent air) Others at hand. But not of these The Illyrian bold: impatient stare He random flung; then, like a breeze Which fitful rushes through the glen Over clansmen low—Prince Charlie's men— Shot down the ledges, while the clang Of saber 'gainst the stirrup rang, And clinked the steel shoe on the stone. His freak of gallantry in cheer Of barbarous escort ending here, Back for the stronghold dashed he lone. When died the din, it left them more Becalmed upon that hollow shore.

Not slack was ocean's wrinkled son

In study of the mountain town— Much like himself, indeed, so gray Left in life's waste to slow decay. For index now as he stretched forth His loose-sleeved arm in sailor way Pointing the bearings south and north, Derwent, arrested, cried, "Dost bleed?" Touching the naked skin: "Look here A living fresco!" And indeed, Upon the fore-arm did appear A thing of art, vermil and blue, A crucifixion in tattoo, With trickling blood-drops strange to see.

Above that emblem of the loss, Twin curving palm-boughs draping met In manner of a canopy Over an equi-limbed small cross And three tri-spiked and sister crowns: And under these a star was set: And all was tanned and toned in browns. In chapel erst which knew the mass, A mullioned window's umber glass Dyed with some saintly legend old, Obscured by cobwebs; this might hold Some likeness to the picture rare On arm here webbed with straggling hair. "Leave out the crucifixion's hint," Said Rolfe, "the rest will show in tint The Ensign: palms, cross, diadems, And star—the Sign!—Jerusalem's, Coeval with King Baldwin's sway.— Skilled monk in sooth ye need have sought In Saba." Quoth the sea-sage: "Nay; Sketched out it was one Christmas day OffJava-Head. Little I thought (A heedless lad, scarce through youth's straits— How hopeful on the wreckful way) What meant this thing which here ye see, The bleeding man upon the tree; Since then I've felt it, and the fates." "Ah—yes," sighed Derwent; "yes, indeed! But 'tis the Ensign now we heed." The stranger here his dusk eye ran In reading sort from man to man, Cleric to sailor—back again. "But, shipmate," Derwent cried; "tell me: How came you by this blazonry?" "We seamen, when there's naught to do In calms, the straw for hats we plait, Or one another we tattoo With marks we copy from a mate,

Which he has from his elders ta'en, And those from prior ones again; And few, if any, think or reck But so with pains their skin to deck. This crucifixion, though, by some A charm is held 'gainst watery doom."

"Comrades," said Rolfe, "'tis here we note Downhanded in a way blind-fold, A pious use of times remote. Ah, but it dim grows, and more dim, The gold of legend, that fine gold! Washed in with wine of Bethlehem, This Ensign in the ages old Was stamped on every pilgrim's arm By grave practitioners elect Whose calling lacked not for respect In Zion. Like the sprig of palm, Token it was at home, that he Which bore, had kneeled at Calvary. Nay, those monk-soldiers helmet-crowned, Whose effigies in armed sleep, lie— Stone, in the stony Temple round In London; and (to verify Them more) with carved greaves crossed, for sign Of duty done in Palestine;

Exceeds it, pray, conjecture fair, These may have borne this blazon rare, And not alone on standard fine, But pricked on chest or sinewy arm, Pledged to defend against alarm His tomb for whom they warred? But see, From these mailed Templars now the sign, Losing the import and true key, Descends to boatswains of the brine."

Clarel, reposing there aside, By secret thought preoccupied, Now. as he inward chafe would shun,

A feigned quick interest put on: "The import of these marks? Tell me." "Come, come," cried Derwent; "dull ye bide! By palm-leaves here are signified Judaea, as on the Roman gem; The cross scarce needs a word, agree; The crowns are for the magi three; This star—the star of Bethlehem." "One might have known;" and fell anew In void relapse. "Why, why so blue?" Derwent again; and rallying ran: "While now for Bethlehem we aim, Our stellar friend the post should claim Of guide. We'll put him in the van— Follow the star on the tattooed man, We wise men here.—What's that?" A gun, At distance fired, startles the group. Around they gaze, and down and up; But in the wilds they seem alone. Long time the echo sent its din, Hurled roundabout, and out and in— A foot-ball tossed from crag to crag; Then died away in ether thin— Died, as they deemed, yet did but lag, For all abrupt one far rebound Gave pause; that o'er, the hush was crowned. "We loiter," Derwent said, in tone Uneasy; "come, shall we go on?" "Wherefore?" the saturnine demands. Toward him they look, for his eclipse There gave way for the first; and stands The adage old, that one's own lips Proclaim the character: "A gun: A gun's man's voice—sincerest one. Blench we to have assurance here, Here in the waste, that kind is near?" Eyes settle on his scars in view,

Both warp and burn, the which evince Experience of the thing he hints. "Nay—hark!" and all turn round anew: Remoter shot came duller there: "The Arnaut—and but fires in air," Djalea averred: "his last adieu."

By chance directed here in thought, Clarel upon that warrior haught Low mused: The rowel of thy spur The robe rips of philosopher! Naught reckest thou of wisest book: The creeds thou star'st down with a look. And how the worse for such wild sense? And where is wisdom's recompense? And as for heaven—Oh, heavens enlarge Beyond each designated marge: Valhalla's hall would hardly bar Welcome to one whose end need be In grace and grief of harnessed war, To sink mid swords and minstrelsy.

So willful! but 'tis loss and smart, Clarel, in thy dissolving heart. Will't form anew? Vine's watchful eye,

While none perceived where bent his view, Had fed on Agath sitting by; He seemed to like him, one whose print The impress bore of Nature's mint Authentic; man of nature true, If simple; naught that slid between Him and the elemental scene— Unless it were that thing indeed Uplooming from his ancient creed; Yet that but deepen might the sense Of awe, and serve dumb reverence And resignation.—"Anywhere," Asked Vinc here now to converse led—

"In those far regions, strange or rare, Where thou hast been, may aught compare With Judah llere?" "Sooth, sir," he said, "Some chance comparison I've made In mind, between this stricken land And one far isle forever banned I camped on in life's early days: I view it now—but through a haze: Our boats I view, reversed, turned down For shelter by the midnight sea; The very slag comes back to me I raked for shells, but found not one; That harpy sea-hawk—him I view Which, pouncing, from the red coal drew Our hissing meat—we lounging nigh— An instant's dash—and with it flew To his sea-rock detached, his cry Thence sent, to mock the marl we threw:— I hear, I see; return those days Again—but 'tis through deepening haze: How like a flash that life is gone— So brief the youth by sailors known!"

"But tell us, tell," now others cried And grouped them as by hearth-stone wide. The timoneer, at hazard thrown With men of order not his own, Evinced abashment, yes, proved shy. They urged; and he could but comply. But, more of clearness to confer— Less dimly to express the thing Rude outlined by this mariner, License is claimed in rendering; And tones he felt but scarce might give, The verse essays to interweave.