Canto 3 (In Crete they claimed the tomb…)

In Crete they claimed the tomb of Jove In glen over which his eagles soar; But thro' a peopled town ye rove To Christ's low urn, where, nigh the door, Settles the dove. So much the more The contrast stamps the human God Who dwelt among us, made abode With us, and was of woman born; Partook our bread, and thought no scorn To share the humblest, homeliest hearth, Shared all of man except the sin and mirth. Such, among thronging thoughts, may stir In pilgrim pressing thro' the lane That dusty wins the reverend fane, Seat of the Holy Sepulchre, And naturally named therefrom. What altars old in cluster rare And grottoshrines engird the Tomb: Caves and a crag; and more is there; And halls monastic join their gloom. To sum in comprehensive bounds The Passion's drama with its grounds, Immense the temple winds and strays Finding each storied precinct out— Absorbs the sites all roundabout— Omnivorous, and a world of maze. And yet time was when all here stood Separate, and from rood to rood, Chapel to shrine, or tent to tent, Unsheltered still the pilgrim went Where now enroofed the whole coheres— Where now thro' influence of years And spells by many a legend lent, A sort of nature reappears— Sombre or sad, and much in tone Perhaps with that which here was known Of yore, when from this Salem height, Then sylvan in primeval plight, Down came to Shaveh's Dale, with wine And bread, after the four Kings' check, The Druid priest Melchizedek, Abram to bless with rites divine. What rustlings here from shadowy spaces, Deep vistas where the votary paces, Will, strangely intermitting, creep Like steps in Indian forest deep. How birdlike steals the singer's note Down from some rail or arch remote: While, glimmering where kneelers be, Small lamps, dispersed, with glowworm light Mellow the vast nave's azure night, And make a haze of mystery: The blur is spread of thousand years, And Calvary's seen as through one's tears. In cloistral walks the dome detains Hermits, which during public days Seclude them where the shadow stays, But issue when charmed midnight reigns, Unshod, with tapers lit, and roam, According as their hearts appoint, The purlieus of the central Tomb In round of altars; and anoint With fragrant oils each marble shelf; Or, all alone, strange solace find And oratory to their mind Lone locked within the Tomb itself. Cells note ye as in bower a nest Where some sedate rich devotee Or grave guestmonk from over sea Takes up through Lent his votive rest, Adoring from his saintly perch Golgotha and the guarded Urn, And mysteries everywhere expressed; Until his soul, in rapt sojourn, Add one more chapel to the Church. The friars in turn which tend the Fane, Dress it and keep, a home make there Nor pass for weeks the gate. Again Each morning they ascend the stair Of Calvary, with cloth and broom, For dust thereon will settle down, And gather, too, upon the Tomb And places of the Passion's moan. Tradition, not device and fraud Here rules—tradition old and broad. Transfixed in sites the drama's shown— Each given spot assigned; 'tis here They scourged Him; soldiers yonder nailed The Victim to the tree; in jeer There stood the Jews; there Mary paled; The vesture was divided here. A miracle play of haunted stone— A miracle play, a phantom one, With power to give pause or subdue. So that whatever comment be Serious, if to faith unknown— Not possible seems levity Or aught that may approach thereto. And, sooth, to think what numbers here, Age after age, have worn the stones In suppliance or judgment fear; What mourners—men and women's moans, Ancestors of ourselves indeed; What souls whose penance of remorse Made poignant by the elder creed, Found honest language in the force Of chains entwined that ate the bone; How here a'Becket's slayers clung Taking the contrite anguish on, And, in release from fast and thong, Buried upon Moriah sleep; With more, much more; such ties, so deep, Endear the spot, or false or true As an historic site. The wrong Of carpings never may undo The nerves that clasp about the plea Tingling with kinship through and through— Faith childlike and the tried humanity. But little here moves hearts of some; Rather repugnance grave, or scorn Or cynicism, to mark the dome Beset in court or yard forlorn By pedlars versed in wonted tricks, Venders of charm or crucifix; Or, on saint days, to hark the din As during market day at inn, And polyglot of Asian tongues And island ones, in interchange Buzzed out by crowds in costumes strange Of nations divers. Are these throngs Merchants? Is this Cairo's bazar And concourse? Nay, thy strictures bar. It is but simple nature, see; None mean irreverence, though free. Unvexed by Europe's grieving doubt Which asks And can the Father be? Those children of the climes devout, On festival in fane installed, Happily ignorant, make glee Like orphans in the playground walled. Others the duskiness may find Imbued with more than nature's gloom; These, loitering hard by the Tomb, Alone, and when the day's declined— So that the shadow from the stone Whereon the angel sat is thrown To distance more, and sigh or sound Echoes from place of Mary's moan, Or cavern where the cross was found; Or mouse stir steals upon the ear From where the soldier reached the spear— Shrink, much like Ludovico erst Within the haunted chamber. Thou, Less sensitive, yet haply versed In everything above, below— In all but thy deep human heart; Thyself perchance mayst nervous start At thine own fancy's final range Who here wouldst mock: with mystic smart The subtile Eld can slight avenge. But gibe—gibe on, until there crawl About thee in the scorners' seat, Reactions; and pride's Smyrna shawl Plague strike the wearer. Ah, retreat! But how of some which still deplore Yet share the doubt? Here evermore 'Tis good for such to turn afar From the Skull's place, even Golgotha, And view the cedarn dome in sun Pierced like the marble Pantheon: No blurring pane, but open sky: In there day peeps, there stars go by, And, in still hours which these illume, Heaven's dews drop tears upon the Tomb. Nor lack there dreams romance can thrill: In hush when tides and towns are still, Godfrey and Baldwin from their graves (Made meetly near the rescued Stone) Rise, and in arms. With beaming glaives They watch and ward the urn they won. So fancy deals, a light achiever: Imagination, earnest ever, Recalls the Friday far away, Relives the crucifixion day— The passion and its sequel proves, Sharing the three pale Marys' frame; Thro' the eclipse with these she moves Back to the house from which they came To Golgotha. O empty room, O leaden heaviness of doom— O cowering hearts, which sore beset Deem vain the promise now, and yet Invoke him who returns no call; And fears for more that may befall. O terror linked with love which cried "Art gone? is't o'er? and crucified?" Who might foretell from such dismay Of blank recoilings, all the blest Lilies and anthems which attest The floral Easter holiday?