Canto 23 ('Tis travel teaches much that's strange…)

'Tis travel teaches much that's strange, Mused Derwent in his further range; Then fell into uneasy frame: The visored man, relinquished name, And touch of unglad mystery.

He rallied: I will go and see The archimandrite in his court: And thither straight he made resort And met with much benignity.

The abbot's days were near the span, A holy and right reverend man, By name Christodulus, which means Servant of Christ. Behind the screens He kept, but issued the decree: Unseen he ruled, and sightlessly: Yes, blind he was, stone-blind and old; But, in his silken vestment rolled, At mid-day on his Persian rug, Showed cosy as the puss Maltese Demure, in rosy fire-light snug, Upon the velvet hem at ease Of seated lady's luxuries Of robe. For all his days, and nights, Which Eld finds wakeful, and the slights Of churlish Time, life still could please. And chief what made the charm to be, Was his retention of that toy, Dear to the old—authority. And blent herewith was soothing balm, Senior complacency of calm—

A settledness without alloy, In tried belief how orthodox And venerable; which the shocks Of schism had stood, ere yet the state Of Peter claimed earth's pastorate. So far back his Greek Church did plant, Rome's Pope he deemed but Protestant— A Rationalist, a bigger Paine— Heretic, worse than Arian; He lumped him with that compound mass Of sectaries of the West, alas!

Breathed Derwent: "This is a lone life; Removed thou art from din and strife,

But from all news as well." "Even so, My son. But what's news here below? For hearts that do Christ's promise claim, No hap's important since He came. Besides: in Saba here remain Ten years; then back, the world regain— Five minutes' talk with any one Would put thee even with him, son. Pretentious are events, but vain." "But new books, authors of the time?" "Books have we ever new—sublime: The Scriptures—drama, precept fine, Verse and philosophy divine, All best. Believe again, O son, God's revelation, Holy Writ, Quite supersedes and makes unfit All text save comment thereupon. The Fathers have we, these discuss: Sweet Chrysostom, Basilius, Great Athanase, and—but all's known To you, no question." In the mien Of Derwent, as this dropped in ear, A junior's deference was seen. Nothing he controverted. Here He won the old man's heart, he knew, And readier brought to pass the thing That he designed: which was, to view The treasures of this hermit-king. At hint urbane, the abbot called An acolyth, a blue-robed boy, So used to service, he forestalled His lighter wishes, and took joy In serving. Keys were given. He took From out a coffer's deeper nook Small shrines and reliquaries old: Beryl and Indian seed-pearl set In little folding-doors of gold

And ivory, of tryptych form, With starred Byzantine pictures warm, And opening into cabinet Where lay secured in precious zone The honeycombed gray-greenish bone Of storied saint. But prized supreme Were some he dwelt upon, detained, Felt of them lovingly in hand; Making of such a text or theme For grave particulars; far back Tracing them in monastic dream: While fondling them (in way, alack, Of Jew his coins) with just esteem For rich encasings. Here anew Derwent's attention was not slack; Yet underneath a reverence due, Slyly he kept his pleasant state: The dowager—her family plate. The abbot, with a blind man's way Of meek divining, guessed the play Of inkept comment: "Son," said he, "These dry bones cannot live: what then? In times ere Christianity By worldlings was professed, true men And brave, which sealed their faith in blood Or flame, the Christian brotherhood

Revered—attended them in death; Caught the last parting of the breath: Happy were they could they but own Some true memento, but a bone Purchased from executioner, Or begged: hence relics. Trust me, son, 'Twas love began, and pious care Prolongs this homage." Derwent bowed; And, bland: "Have miracles been wrought From these?" "No, none by me avowed From knowledge personal. But then Such things may be, for they have been." "Have been?" "'Tis in the Scripture taught

That contact with Elisha's bones Restored the dead to life." "Most true," Eyeing the bits of skeletons As in enlightened reverence new, Forgetting that his host was blind, Nor might the flattery receive.

Erelong, observing the old man Waxed weary, and to doze began, Strange settling sidelong, half reclined, His blessing craved he, and took leave.