Canto 20 (From Ur of the Chaldees roved…)

From Ur of the Chaldees roved the man— Priest, shepherd, prince, and pioneer— Swart Bedouin in time's dusky van; Even he which first, with mind austere,

Arrived in solitary tone To think of God as One—alone; The first which brake with hearth and home For conseience' sake; whom piety ruled, Prosperity blest, longevity schooled, And time in fullness brought to Mamre's tomb Arch founder of the solid base of Christendom. Even this. For why disown the debt When vouchers be? Yet, yet and yet Our saving salt of grace is due All to the East—nor least the Jew. Perverse, if stigma then survive, Elsewhere let such in satire thrive— Not here. Quite other end is won In picturing Margoth, fallen son Of Judah. Him may Gabriel mend.

Little for love, or to unbend, But swayed by tidings, hard to sift, Of robbers by the river-drift In force recruited; they suspend Their going hence to Jordan's trees. Released from travel, in good hour Nehemiah dozed within the tower. Uplands they range, and woo the breeze Where crumbled aqueducts and mounds

Override long slopes and terraces, And shattered pottery abounds— Or such would seem, yet may but be The shards of tile-like brick dispersed Binding the wall or bulwark erst, Such as in Kent still serve that end In Richborough castle by the sea— A Roman hold. What breadth of doom As of the worlds in strata penned— So cosmic seems the wreck of Rome. Not wholly proof to natural sway Of serious hearts and manners mild, Uncouthly Margoth shared the way. He controverted all the wild, And in especial, Sodom's strand Of marl and clinker: "Sirs, heed me: This total tract," and Esau's hand He waved; "the plain—the vale—Lot's sea— It needs we scientists remand Back from old theologic myth To geologic hammers. Pray, Let me but give ye here the pith: As the Phlegraean fields no more Befool men as the spookish shore Where Jove felled giants, but are known— The Solfatara and each cone Volcanic—to be but on a par With all things natural; even so Siddim shall likewise be set far From fable." Part overhearing this, Derwent, in rear with Rolfe: "Old clo'! We've heard all that, and long ago: Conceit of vacant emphasis: Well, well!"—Here archly, Rolfe: "But own, How graceful your concession—won A score or two of years gone by. Nor less therefrom at need ye'll fly, Allow. Scarce easy 'tis to hit Each slippery turn of cleric wit." Derwent but laughed; then said—"But he: Intelligence veneers his mien Though rude: unprofitably keen: Sterile, and with sterility Self-satisfied." "But this is odd! Not often do we hear you rail: The gown it seems does yet avail, Since from the sleeve you draw the rod. But look, they lounge." Yes, all recline, And on the site where havoc clove The last late palm of royal line, Sad Montezuma of the grove.

The mountain of the Imp they see Scowl at the freedom which they take Relaxed beneath his very lee. The bread of wisdom here to break, Margoth holds forth: the gossip tells Of things the prophets left unsaid— With master-key unlocks the spells And mysteries of the world unmade; Then mentions Salem: "Stale is she! Lay flat the walls, let in the air, That folk no more may sicken there! Wake up the dead; and let there be Rails, wires, from Olivet to the sea, With station in Gethsemane." The priest here flushed. Rolfe rose: and, "How— You go too far!" "A long Dutch mile Behind the genius of our time." "Explain that, pray." "And don't you know? Mambrino's helmet is sublime— The barber's basin may be vile: Whether this basin is that helm To vast debate has given rise— Question profound for blinking eyes; But common sense throughout her realm Has settled it."

There, like vain wight His fine thing said, bidding friends good night, He, to explore a rift they see, Parted, bequeathing, as might be, A glance which said—Again ye'll pine Left to yourselves here in decline, Missing my brave vitality!