Canto 28 (Clarel and Ruth--might it but be…)

Clarel and Ruth—might it but be That range they could green uplands free By gala orchards, when they fling Their bridal favors, buds of Spring; And, dreamy in her morning swoon, The lady of the night, the moon, Looks pearly as the blossoming; And youth and nature's fond accord Wins Eden back, that tales abstruse Of Christ, the crucified, Pain's Lord, Seem foreign—forged—incongruous.

Restrictions of that Eastern code Immured the maiden. From abode Frequent nor distant she withdrew Except with Jewess, scarce with Jew. So none the less in former mode, Nehemiah still with Clarel went, Who grew in liking and content

In company of one whose word Babbled of Ruth "My bird—God's bird."

The twain were one mild morning led Out to a waste where beauty clings, Vining a grot how doubly dead: The rifled Sepulcher of Kings. Hewn from the rock a sunken space Conducts to garlands—fit for vasc In sculptured frieze above a tomb: Palm leaves, pine apples, grapes. These bloom,

Involved in death—to puzzle us— As 'twere thy line, Theocritus, Dark Joel's text of terror threading: Yes, strange that Pocahontas-wedding Of contraries in old belief— Hellenic cheer, Hebraic grief. The homicide Herods, men aver, Inurned behind that wreathage were.

But who is he uncovered seen, Profound in shadow of the tomb Reclined, with meditative mien Intent upon the tracery? A low wind waves his Lydian hair: A funeral man, yet richly fair— Fair as the sabled violets be. The frieze and this secluded one, Retaining each a separate tone, Beauty yet harmonized in grace And contrast to the barren place. But noting that he was discerned, Salute the stranger made, then turned And shy passed forth in obyious state Of one who would keep separate.

Those cells explored, thro' dale they paced Downward, and won Moriah's walls And seated them. Clarel recalls The colonnades that Herod traced— Herod, magnific Idumaean— In marble along the mountain flank: Column on column, rank on rank Above the valley Tyropeeon. Eastward, in altitude they view Across Jehoshaphat, a crag Of sepulchers and huts. Thereto They journey. But awhile they lag Beneath, to mark the tombs in row Pierced square along the gloomy steep In beetling broadside, and with show

' Of port-holes in black battle-ship. They climb; and Clarel turning saw Their late resort, the hill of law— Moriah, above the Kedron's bed; And, turreting his aged head, The angle of King David's wall— Acute seen here, here too best scanned, As 'twere that cliff, tho' not so tall, Nor tempest-sculptured therewithal, Envisaged in Franconian land, Fyhe marvel of the Pass. Anon A call he hears behind, in note Familiar, being man's; remote No less, and strange in hollowed tone As 'twere a voice from out the tomb. A tomb it is; and he in gloom Of porch there biddeth them begone. Clings to his knee a toddling one Bewildered poising in wee hand A pictured page—Nehemiah's boon— He passive in the sun at stand. Morosely then the Arab turns, Snatches the gift, and drops and spurns. As down now from the crag they wend

Reverted glance see Clarel lend: Thou guest of Death, which in his house Sleep'st nightly, mayst thou not espouse His daughter, Peace? Aslant they come Where, hid in shadow of the rocks, Stone steps descend unto Siloam. Proof to the fervid noon-day tide Reflected from the glen's steep side Moist ledge with ledge here interlocks, Vaulting a sunken grotto deep. Down there, as quiet as in sleep, Anew the stranger they descried Sitting upon a step full low, Watching the fountain's troubled tide Which after ebb began to flow, Gurgling from viewless caves. The lull Broke by the flood is wonderful. Science explains it. Bides no less The true, innate mysteriousness. Through him there might the vision flit Of angel in Bethesda's pool With porches five, so troubling it That whoso bathed then was made whole? Or, by an equal dream beguiled, Did he but list the fountain moan Like Ammon's in the Libyan wild, For muse and oracle both gone? By chance a jostled pebble there Slipped from the surface down the stair. It jarred—it broke the brittle spell: Siloam was but a rural well.

Clarel who could again but shun To obtrude on the secluded one, Turned to depart.—"Ere yet we go," Said Nehemiah, "I will below: Dim be mine eyes, more dim they grow: I'll wash them in these waters cool, As did the blind the Master sent, And who came seeing from this pool;" And down the grotto-stairs he went. The stranger, just ascending, stood; And, as the votary laved his eyes, He marked, looked up, and Clarel viewed, And they exchanged quick sympathies Though but in glance, moved by that act Of one whose faith transfigured fact. A bond seemed made between them there; And presently the trio fare Over Kedron, and in one accord Of quietude and chastened tone Approach the spot, tradition's own, For ages held the garden of Our Lord.