Canto 32 (The gray of dawn. A tremor…)

The gray of dawn. A tremor slight: The trouble of imperfect light Anew begins. In floating cloud Midway suspended down the gorge, A long mist trails white shreds of shroud How languorous toward the Dead Sea's verge. Riders in seat halt by the gate: Why not set forth? For one they wait Whose stirrups empty be—the Swede. Still absent from the frater-hall Since afternoon and vesper-call, He, they imagined, had but sought Some cave in keeping with his thought, And reappear would with the light Suddenly as the Gileadite In Obadiah's way. But—no, He cometh not when they would go. Dismounting, they make search in vain Till Clarel—minding him again Of something settled in his air— A quietude beyond mere calm— Whell seen from ledge beside the Palm Reclined in nook of Bethel stair, Thitherward led them in a thrill Of nervous apprehension, till Startled he stops, with eyes avert And indicating hand.— 'Tis he— So undisturbed, supine, inert— The filmed orbs fixed upon the Tree— Night's dews upon his eyelids be. To test if breath remain, none tries: On those thin lips a feather lies— An eagle's, wafted from the skies. The vow: and had the genius heard, Benignant? nor had made delay, But, more than taking him at word,

Quick wafted where the palm-boughs sway In SaintJohn's heaven? Some divined That long had he been undermined In frame; the brain a tocsin-bell Overburdensome for citadel Whose base was shattered. They refrain From aught but that dumb look that fell Identifying; feeling pain That such a heart could beat, and will— Aspire, yearn, suffer, baffled still, And end. With monks which round them stood Concerned, not discomposed in mood, Interment they provided for— Heaved a last sigh, nor tarried more.

Nay; one a little lingered there; 'Twas Rolfe. And as the rising sun, Though viewless yet from Bethel stair, More lit the mountains, he was won To invocation, scarce to prayer:

"Holy Morning, What blessed lore reservest thou, Withheld from man, that evermore Without surprise, But, rather, with a hurtless scorning

In thy placid eyes, Thou viewest all events alike? Oh, tell me, do thy bright beams strike The healing hills of Gilead now?"

And glanced toward the pale one near In shadow of the crag's dark brow.— Did Charity follow that poor bier? It did; but Bigotry did steer: Friars buried him without the walls (Nor in a consecrated bed) Where vulture unto vulture calls, And only ill things find a friend:

There let the beak and claw contend There the hyena's cub be fed: Heaven that disclaims, and him beweeps In annual showers; and the tried spirit sleeps.