Canto 24 (And do the clear sands pure…)

And do the clear sands pure and cold At last each virgin elf enfold? Under what drift of silvery spar Sleeps now thy servant, Holy Rood,

Which in the age of brotherhood Approaching here Bethabara By wilds the verse depicted late, Of Jordan caught a fortunate Fair twinkle starry under trees; And, with his crossed palms heartward pressed, Bowed him, or dropped on reverent knees, Warbling that hymn of beauty blest— The Ave maris stella?—Lo, The mound of him do field-mice know? Nor less the rite, a rule serene, Appropriate in tender grace, Became the custom of the place With each devouter Frank. A truce Here following the din profuse Of Moab's swimming robbers keen, Rolfe, late enamored of the spell Of rituals olden, thought it well To observe the Latin usage: "Look," Showing a small convenient book In vellum bound; embossed thereon, 'Tween angels with a rosy crown, Viols, Cecilia on a throne: "Thanks, friar Benignus Muscatel; Thy gift I prize, given me in cell

Of St. John's convent.—Comrades, come! If heaven delight in spirits glad, And men were all for brothers made, Grudge not, beseech, to joy with Rome;" And launched the hymn. Quick to rejoice, The liberal priest lent tenor voice; And marking them in cheery bloom On turf inviting, even Vine, Ravished from his reserve supine, Drew near and overlooked the page— All self-surprised he overlooked, Joining his note impulsively; Yet, flushing, seemed as scarce he brooked

This joy. Was joy a novelty? Fraternal thus, the group engage— While now the sun, obscured before, Illumed for time the wooded shore— In tribute to the beach and tide. The triple voices blending glide, Assimilating more and more, Till in the last ascriptive line Which thrones the Father, lauds the Son, Came concord full, completion fine— Rapport of souls in harmony of tone.

Meantime Nehemiah, eager bent, Instinctive caught the sentiment; But checked himself; and, in mixed mood, Uncertain or relapsing stood, Till ere the singers cease to thrill, His joy is stayed. How cometh this? True feeling, steadfast faith are his, While they at best do but fulfill A transient, an esthetic glow; Knew he at last—could he but know— The rite was alien? that no form Approved was his, which here might warm Meet channel for emotion's tide? Apart he went, scarce satisfied; But presently slipped down to where The river ran, and tasting spare, Not quaffing, sighed, "As sugar sweet!" Though unsweet was it from the flow Of turbid, troubled waters fleet. Now Margoth—who had paced the strand Gauging the level of the land, Computing part theJordan's fall From Merom's spring, and therewithal Had ended with a river-sip, Which straight he spewed—here curled the lip At hearing Nehemiah: The fool! Fool meek and fulsome like to this—

Too old again to go to school— Was never! wonder who he is: I'll ask himself.—"Who art thou, say?" "The chief of sinners."—"Lack-a-day, I think so too;" and moved away, Low muttering in his ill content At that so Christian bafflement; And hunted up his sumpter mule Intent on lunch. A pair hard by He found. The third some person sly In deeper shade had hitched—more cool. This was that mule whose rarer wine, In pannier slung and blushing shy, The Thessalonian did decline Away with him in flight to take, And friendly gave them when farewell he spake.