Canto 37 (Credit the Arab wizard lean…)

Credit the Arab wizard lean, And still at favoring hour are seen (But not by Franks, whom doubts debar) Through waves the cities overthrown: Seboym and Segor, Aldemah, With two whereof the foul renown And syllables more widely reign. Astarte, worshiped on the Plain Ere Terah's day, her vigil keeps Devoted where her temple sleeps Like moss within the agate's vein— A ruin in the lucid sea. The columns lie overlappingly— Slant, as in order smooth they slid Down the live slope. Her ray can bid Their beauty thrill along the lane Of tremulous silver. By the marge (If yet the Arab credence gain) At slack wave, when midsummer's glow

Widens the shallows, statues show— He vouches; and will more enlarge On sculptured basins broad in span, With alum scurfed and alkatran. Nay, further—let who will, believe— As monks aver, on holy eve, Easter orJohn's, along the strand Shadows Corinthian wiles inweave: Voluptuous palaces expand, From whose moon-lighted colonnade Beckons Armida, deadly maid: Traditions; and their fountains run Beyond King Nine and Babylon.

But disenchanters grave maintain That in the time ere Sodom's fall 'Twas shepherds here endured life's pain: Shepherds, and all was pastoral In Siddim; Abraham and Lot, Blanketed Bedouins of the plain; Sodom and her four daughters small— For Sodom held maternal reign— Poor little hamlets, such as dot The mountain side and valley way Of Syria as she shows to-day; The East, where constancies indwell, Such hint may give: 'tis plausible.

Hereof the group—from Mortmain's blight Withdrawn where sands the beach embayed And Nehemiah apart was laid— Held curious discourse that night. They chatted; but 'twas underrun By heavier current. And anon, After the meek one had retired Under the tent, the thought transpired, And Mortmain was the theme. "If mad, 'Tis indignation at the bad," Said Rolfe; "most men somehow get used To seeing evil, though not all They see; 'tis sympathetical; But never some are disabused Of first impressions which appal." "There, there," cried Derwent, "let it fall. Assume that some are but so-so, They'll be transfigured. Let suffice: Dismas he dwells in Paradise." "Who?" "Dismas the Good Thief, you know. Ay, and the Blest One shared the cup WithJudas; e'en letJudas sup With him, at the Last Supper too.— But see!"

It was the busy Jew With chemic lamp aflame, by tent Trying some shrewd experiment With minerals secured that day, Dead unctuous stones. "Look how his ray," Said Rolfe, "too small for stars to heed, Strange lights him, reason's sorcerer, Poor Simon Magus run to seed. And, yes, 'twas here—or else I err— The legends claim, that into sea The old magician flung his book When life and lore he both forsook: The evil spell yet lurks, may be.— But yon strange orb—can be the moon? These vapors: and the waters swoon."

Ere long the tent received them all; They slumber—wait the morning's call.