Canto 4 ("Noble gods at the board…)

"Noble gods at the board Where lord unto lord Light pushes the care-killing wine: Urbane in their pleasure, Superb in their leisure— Lax ease— Lax ease after labor divine!

"Golden ages eternal, Autumnal, supernal, Deep mellow their temper serene: The rose by their gate Shall it yield unto fate? They are gods— They are gods and their garlands keep green.

"Ever blandly adore them; But spare to implore them: They rest, they discharge them from time; Yet believe, light believe They would succor, reprieve— Nay, retrieve— Might but revelers pause in the prime!"

"Who sings?" cried Rolfe; "dare say no Quaker: Fine song o'er funeral Siddim here: So, mindless of the undertaker, In cage above her mistress' bier The gold canary chirps. What cheer? Who comes?" "Ay, welcome as the drums Of marching allies unto men Beleaguered—comes, who hymning comes— What rescuer, what Delian?" So Derwent, and with quick remove Scaling the rock which hemmed their cove He thence descried where hither yet

A traveler came, by cliffs beset, Descending, and where terrors met. Nor Orpheus of heavenly seed Adown thrilled Hades' gorges singing, About him personally flinging The bloom transmitted from the mead; In listening ghost such thoughts could breed As did the vocal stranger here In Mortmain, where relaxed he lay Under that voice from other sphere And carol laughing at the clay. Nearer the minstrel drew. How fair And light he leaned with easeful air Backward in saddle, so to frame A counterpoise as down he came. Against the dolorous mountain side His Phrygian cap in scarlet pride Burned like a cardinal-flower in glen. And after him, in trappings paced His escort armed, three goodly men. Observing now the other train, He halted. Young he was, and graced With fortunate aspect, such as draws Hearts to good-will by natural laws. No furtive scrutiny he made, But frankly flung salute, and said:

"Well met in desert! Hear my song?" "Indeed we did," cried Derwent boon. "And wondered where you got that tune," Rolfe added there. "Oh, brought along From Cyprus; I'm a Cypriote, You see; one catches many a note Wafted from only heaven knows where." "And, pray, how name you it?" "The air? Why, hymn of Aristippus." "Ah: And whither wends your train?" "Not far;" And sidelong in the saddle free A thigh he lolled: "'Tis thus, you see: My dame beneath Our Lady's star

Vowed in her need, to Saba's shrine Three flagons good for holy wine: Vowed, and through me performed. Even now I come from Saba, having done Her will, accomplishing the vow. But late I made a private onc Meant to surprise her with a present She'll value more than juicy pheasant, Good mother mine. Yes, here I go To Jordan, in desert there below, To dip this shroud for her." "Shroud, shroud?" Cried Derwent, following the hand In startled wonderment unfeigned, Which here a little tap bestowed In designation on a roll Strapped to the pommel; "Azrael's scroll! You do not mean you carry there A—a—" "The same; 'tis woven fair:

"My shroud is saintly linen, In lavender 'tis laid; I have chosen a bed by the marigold And supplied me a silver spade!"

The priest gazed at the singer; then Turned his perplexed entreating ken Upon Djalea. But Rolfe explained: "I chance to know. Last year I gained The Jordan at the Easter tide, And saw the Greeks in numbers there, Men, women, blithe on every side, Dipping their winding-sheets. With care They bleach and fold and put away And take home to await the day: A custom of old precedent, And curious too in mode 'tis kept, Showing how under Christian sway Greeks still retain their primal bent,

Nor let grave doctrine intercept That gay Hellene lightheartedness Which in the pagan years did twine The funeral urn with fair caress Of vintage holiday divine." He turned him toward the Cypriote: "Your courier, the forerunning note Which ere we sighted you, we heard— You're bold to trill it so, my bird." "And why? It is a fluent song. Though who they be I cannot say, I trust their lordships think no wrong; I do but trill it for the air; 'Tis anything as down we fare." Enough; Rolfe let him have his way; Yes, there he let the matter stay. And so, with mutual good-will shown, They parted. For l'envoy anon They heard his lilting voice impel Among the crags this versicle:

"With a rose in thy mouth Through the world lightly veer: Rose in the mouth Makes a rose of the year!"

Then, after interval again, But fainter, further in the strain:

"With the Prince of the South O'er the Styx bravely steer: Rose in the mouth And a wreath on the bier!"

Chord deeper now that touched within. Listening, they at each other look; Some charitable hope they brook,

Yes, vague belief they fondly win That heaven would brim his happy years Nor time mature him into tears

And Vine in heart of revery saith: Like any flute inspired with breath Pervasive, and which duly renders Unconseious in melodious play, Whate'er the light musician tenders; So warblest thou lay after lay Scarce self-derived; and (shroud before) Down goest singing toward Death's Sea, Where lies aloof our pilgrim hoar In pit thou'lt pass. Ah, young to be!