Canto 3 (Sheep-tracks they'd look, at distance seen…)

Sheep-tracks they'd look, at distance seen, Did any herbage border them, Those slender foot-paths slanting lean Down or along waste slopes which hem The high-lodged, walled Jerusalem. Slipped from Bethesda's Pool leads one Which by an arch across is thrown Kedron the brook. The Virgin's Tomb (Whence the near gate the Latins name— St. Stephen's, as the Lutherans claim— Hard by the place of martyrdom), Time-worn in sculpture dim, is set Humbly inearthed by Olivet. 'Tis hereabout now halt the band, And by Gethsemane at hand, For few omitted trifles wait And guardsman whom adieus belate. Some light dismount. But hardly here, Where on the verge they might foretaste Or guess the flavor of the waste, Greek sire and son took festive cheer. Glaucon not less a topic found At venture. One old tree becharmed Leaned its decrepit trunk deformed Over the garden's wayside bound: "See now: this yellow olive wood

They carve in trinkets—rosary—rood: Of these we must provide some few For travel-gifts, ere we for good Set out for home. And why not too Some of those gems the nuns reverc In hands of veteran venders here, Wrought from the Kedron's saffron block In the Monk's Glen, Mar Saba's rock; And cameos of the Dead Sea stone?" "Buy what ye will, be it Esau's flock," The other said: but for that stone—

Avoid, nor name!" "That stone? what one?" And cast a look of grieved surprise Marking the senior's ruffled guise; "Those cameos of Death's Sea—" "Have done, I beg! Unless all joy you'd cripple, Both noun omit and participle." "Dear sir, what noun? strange grammar's this." "Have I expressed myself amiss? Oh, don't you think it is but spleen: A well-bred man counts it unclean This name of—boy, and can't you guess? Last bankruptcy without redress!" "For heaven's sake!" "With that ill word Whose first is D and last is H, No matter what be in regard, Let none of mine ere crape his speech, But shun it, ay, and shun the knell Of each derivative." "Oh, well— I see, I see; with all my heart! Each conjugation will I curb, All moods and tenses of the verb; And, for the noun, to save from errors I'll use instead—the 'King of Terrors. ' " "Sir, change the topic.—Would 'twere done, This scheme of ours, and we clean gone From out this same dull land so holy Which breeds but blues and melancholy. To while our waiting I thought good To join these travelers on their road; But there's a bird in saucy glee Trills—Fool, retreat; 'tis not for thee. Had I fair pretext now, I'd turn. But yonder—he don't show concern," Glancing toward Derwent, lounging there

Holding his horse with easy air Slack by the rein. With morning zest, In sound digestion unoppressed, The clergyman's good spirits made A Tivoli of that grim glade. And turning now his cheery eyes Toward Salem's towers in solemn guise Stretched dumb along the Mount of God, He cried to Clarel waiting near In saddle-seat and gazing drear: "A canter, lad, on steed clean-shod Didst ever take on English sod? The downs, the downs! Yet even here For a fair matin ride withal I like the run round yonder wall. Hight have you, outlook; and the view Varies as you the turn pursue."— So he, thro' inobservance, blind To that preoccupied young mind, In frame how different, in sooth— Pained and reverting still to Ruth Immured and parted from him there Behind those ramparts of despair. Mortmain, whose wannish eyes declared How ill thro' night-hours he had fared, By chance overheard, and muttered—"Brass,

A sounding brass and tinkling cymbal! Who he that with a tongue so nimble Affects light heart in such a pass?" And full his cloud on Derwent bent: "Yea, and but thou seem'st well content. But turn, another thing's to see: Thy back's upon Gethsemane." The priest wheeled short: What kind of man Was this? The other re-began: "'Tis Terra Santa—Holy Land: Terra Damnata though's at hand

Within."—"You mean whereJudas stood? Yes, monks locate and name that ground; They've railed it off. Good, very good: It minds one of a vacant pound.— We tarry long: why lags our man?" And rose; anew glanced toward the hight. Here Mortmain from the words and plight Conjecture drew; and thus he ran: "Be some who with the god will sup, Happy to share his paschal wine. 'Tis well. But the ensuing cup, The bitter cup?" "Art a divine?" Asked Derwent, turning that aside; "Methinks, good friend, too much you chide. I know these precincts. Still, believe— And let's discard each idle trope— Rightly considered, they can give A hope to man, a cheerful hope." "Not for this world. The Christian plea— What basis has it, but that here Man is not happy, nor can be? There it confirms philosophy: The compensation of its cheer Is reason why the grass survives Of verdurous Christianity, Ay, trampled, lives, tho' hardly thrives In these mad days."— Surprised at it, Derwent intently viewed the man, Marked the unsolaced aspect wan; And fidgeted; yet matter fit Had offered; but the other changed In quick caprice, and willful ranged In wild invective: "O abyss! Here, upon what was erst the sod, A man betrayed the yearning god; A man, yet with a woman's kiss.

'Twas human, that unanimous cry, 'We're fixed to hate him—crucify!' he which they did. And hands, nailed down, Might not avail to screen the face rom each head-wagging mocking one. his day, with some of earthly race, May passion similar go on?"— Inferring, rightly or amiss, ome personal peculiar cause or such a poignant strain as this, 'he priest disturbed not here the pause hich sudden fell. The other turned, nd, with a strange transition, burned nvokingly: "Ye trunks of moan— ethsemane olives, do ye hear he trump of that vain-glorious land here human nature they enthrone isplacing the divine?" His hand e raised there—let it fall, and fell imself, with the last syllable, o moody hush. Then, fierce: "Hired band laureates of man's fallen tribe laves are ye, slaves beyond the scribe f Nero; he, if flatterer blind, oadied not total human kind, Ihich ye kerns do. But Bel shall bow and Nebo stoop."

"Ah, come, friend, come, leaded the charitable priest till bearing with him, anyhow, y fate unbidden to joy's feast: rhou'rt strong; yield then the weak some roon oo earnest art thou;" and with eye f one who fain would mollify All frowardness, he looked a smile. But not that heart might he beguile: Man's vicious: snaffle him with kings; Or, if kings cease to curb, devise

Severer bit. This garden brings Such lesson. Heed it, and be wise In thoughts not new." "Thou'rt ill to-day," Here peering, but in cautious way, "Nor solace find in valley wild." The other wheeled, nor more would say; And soon the cavalcade defiled.