Canto 30 (And wherefore by the convents be…)

And wherefore by the convents be Gardens? Ascetics roses twine? Nay, but there is a memory. Within a garden walking see The angered God. And where the vine And olive in the darkling hours Inweave green sepulchers of bowers— Who, to defend us from despair, Pale undergoes the passion there In solitude? Yes, memory Links Eden and Gethsemane;

So that not meaningless in sway Gardens adjoin the convents gray.

On Salem's hill in Solomon's years Of gala, O the happy town! In groups the people sauntered down, And, Kedron crossing, lightly wound Where now the tragic grove appears, Then palmy, and a pleasure-ground.

The student and companions win The wicket—pause, and enter in. By roots strapped down in fold on fold— Gnarled into wens and knobs and knees— In olives, monumental trees, The Pang's survivors they behold. A wizened blue fruit drops from them, Nipped harvest of Jerusalem. Wistful here Clarel turned toward Vine, And would have spoken; but as well Hail Dathan swallowed in the minc- Tradition, legend, lent such spell And rapt him in remoteness so. Meanwhile, in shade the olives throw, Nehemiah pensive sat him down And turned the chapter in St John. What frame of mind may Clarel woo?

He the night-scene in picture drew— The band which came for sinless blood With swords and staves, a multitude. They brush the twigs, small birds take wing, The dead boughs crackle, lanterns swing Till lo, they spy them thro' the wood. "Master!"—'Tis Judas. Then the kiss. And He, He falters not at this— Speechless, unspeakably submiss: The fulsome serpent on the cheek Sliming: endurance more than meek—

Endurance of the fraud foreknown, And fiend-heart in the human one. Ah, now the pard on Clarel springs: The Passion's narrative plants stings. To break away, he turns and views The white-haired under olive bowed Immersed in Scripture; and he woos— "Whate'er the chapter, read aloud." The saint looked up, but with a stare Absent and wildered, vacant there. As part to kill time, part for task Some shepherd old pores over book— Shelved farm-book of his life forepast When he bestirred him and amassed; If chance one interrupt, and ask— What read you? he will turn a look Which shows he knows not what he reads, Or knowing, he but weary heeds, Or scarce remembers; here much so With Nehemiah, dazed out and low. And presently—to intercept— Over Clarel, too, strange numbness crept. A monk, custodian of the ground, Drew nigh, and showed him by the steep The rock or legendary mound Where James and Peter fell asleep. Dully the pilgrim scanned the spot, Nor spake.—"Signor, and think'st thou not 'Twas sorrow brought their slumber on? St. Luke avers no sluggard rest: Nay, but excess of feeling pressed Till ache to apathy was won." To Clarel 'twas no hollow word. Experience did proof afford. For Vine, aloof he loitered—shrunk In privity and shunned the monk. Clarel awaited him. He came The shadow of his previous air Merged in a settled neutral frame

Assumed, may be. Would Vine disclaim All sympathy the youth might share?

About to leave, they turn to look For him but late estranged in book: Asleep he lay; the face bent down Viewless between the crossing arms, One slack hand on the good book thrown In peace that every care becharms. Then died the shadow off from Vine: A spirit seemed he not unblest As here he made a quiet sign Unto the monk: Spare to molest; Let this poor dreamer take his rest, His fill of rest. But now at stand Who there alertly glances up By grotto of the Bitter Cup— Spruce, and with volume light in hand Bound smartly, late in reference scanned? Inquisitive Philistine: lo, Tourists replace the pilgrims so. At peep of that brisk dapper man Over Vine's face a ripple ran Of freakish mockery, elfin light; Whereby what thing may Clarel see?

O angels, rescue from the sight! Paul Pry? and in Gethsemane? He shrunk the thought of it to fan; Nor liked the freak in Vine that threw Such a suggestion into view; Nor less it hit that fearful man.