English poem
Canto 25 (Returned to harbor, Derwent sought…)
Returned to harbor, Derwent sought His Mexic friend; and him he found At home in by-place of a court Of private kind—some tools around, And planks and joiner's stuff, and more, With little things, and odds and ends, Conveniences which ease commends Unto some plain old bachelor. And here, indeed, one such a stay At whiles did make; a placid friar, A sexton gratis in his way, When some poor brother did require The last fraternal offices. This funeral monk, now much at ease, Uncowled, upon a work-bench sat— Lit by a greenish earthen lamp (With cross-bones baked thereon for stamp) Behind him placed upon a mat—
Engaged in gossip, old men's chat, With the limb-lopped Eld of Mexico; Who, better to sustain him so On his one leg, had niched him all In one of some strange coffins there, A 'lean and open by the wall Like sentry-boxes.— "Take a chair, Don Derwent; no, I mean—yes, take A—coffin; come, be sociable." "Don Hannibal, Don Hannibal, What see I? Well, for pity's sake!" "Eh? This is brother Placido, And we are talking of old times, For, learn thou, that in Mexico First knew he matins and the chimes. But, come, get in; there's nothing else; 'Tis easy; here one lazy dwells Almost as in a barber's chair; See now, I lean my head." "Ah, yes; But I—don't—feel the weariness: Thanks, thanks; no, I the bench prefer.— Good brother Placido, I'm glad You find a countryman." And so
For little time discourse he made; But presently—the monk away Being called—proposed that they should go, He and Don Hannibal the gray, And in refectory sit down That talk might more convenient run. The others through the courts diverge, Till all to cots conducted fare Where reveries in slumber merge, While lulling steals from many a cell A bee-like buzz of bed-side prayer— Night in the hive monastical.
And now—not wantonly designed Like lays in grove of Daphne sung,
But helping to fulfill the piece Which in these cantoes finds release, Appealing to the museful mind— A chord, the satyr's chord is strung.
More by Herman Melville
- Canto 24 (But Clarel, bides he still by…)
- Canto 24 (In the south wall, where low…)
- Canto 25 ("Ah Rome, your tie! may child…)
- Canto 25 (If where, in blocks unbeautified…)
- Canto 25 (The stone huts face the stony…)
- Canto 26 ("Patcher of the rotten cloth…)
- Canto 26 (Along those ledges, up and down…)
- Canto 26 (As Clarel entered with the guide…)