Canto 4 ("Our friend there--he's a little queer…)

"Our friend there—he's a little queer," To Rolfe said Derwent riding on; "Beshrew me, there is in his tone Naught of your new world's chanticleer. Who's the eccentric? can you say?" "Partly; but 'tis at second hand. At the Black Jew's I met with one Who, in response to my demand, Did in a strange disclosure run Respecting him."—"Repeat it, pray."— And Rolfe complied. But here receive Less the details of narrative Than what the drift and import may convey.

A Swede he was—illicit son Of noble lady, after-wed, Who, for a cause over which be thrown Charity of oblivion dead,— Bore little love, but rather hate, Even practiced to ensnare his state. His father, while not owning, yet In part discharged the natural debt Of duty; gave him liberal lore And timely income; but no more. Thus isolated, what to bind But the vague bond of human kind? The north he left, to Paris came—

Paris, the nurse of many a flame Evil and good. This son of earth, This Psalmanazer, made a hearth In warm desires and schemes for man: Even he was an Arcadian. Peace and good will was his acclaim— If not in words, yet in the aim: Peace, peace on earth: that note he thrilled, But scarce in way the cherubs trilled To Bethlehem and the shepherd band. Yet much his theory could tell; And he expounded it so well, Disciples came. He took his stand. Europe was in a decade dim: Upon the future's trembling rim The comet hovered. His a league Of frank debate and close intrigue: Plot, proselyte, appeal, denouncc Conspirator, pamphleteer, at once, And prophet. Wear and tear and jar He met with coffee and cigar: These kept awake the man and mood And dream. That uncreated Good He sought, whose absence is the cause Of creeds and Atheists, mobs and laws. Precocities of heart outran

The immaturities of brain. Along with each superior mind The vain, foolhardy, worthless, blind, WithJudases, are nothing loath To clasp pledged hands and take the oath Of aim, the which, if just, demands Strong hearts, brows deep, and priestly hands. Experience with her sharper touch Stung Mortmain: Why, if men prove such, Dote I? love theory overmuch? Yea, also, whither will advance yhis Revolution sprung in France So many years ago? where end?

That current takes me. Whither tend? Come, thou who makest such hot haste To forge the future—weigh the past. Such frame he knew. And timed event Cogent a further question lent: Wouldst meddle with the state? Well, mount Thy guns; how many men dost count? Besides, there's more that here belongs: Be many questionable wrongs: By yet more questionable war, Prophet of peace, these wouldst thou bar? The world's not new, nor new thy plea. Tho' even shouldst thou triumph, see, Prose overtakes the victor's songs: Victorious right may need redress: No failure like a harsh success. Yea, ponder well the historic page: Of all who, fired with noble rage, Have warred for right without reprieve, How many spanned the wings immense Of Satan's muster, or could cheat His cunning tactics of retreat And ambuscade? Oh, now dispense! The world is portioned out, believe: The good have but a patch at best, The wise their corner; for the rest— Malice divides with ignorance. And what is stable? find one boon That is not lackey to the moon Of fate. The flood ebbs out—the ebb Floods back; the incessant shuttle shifts And flies, and weaves and tears the web. Turn, turn thee to the proof that sifts: What if the kings in Forty-eight Fled like the gods? even as the gods Shall do, return they made; and sate And fortified their strong abodes; And, to confirm them there in state, Contrived new slogans, apt to please—

Pan and the tribal unities. Behind all this still works some power Unknowable, thou'lt yet adore. That steers the world, not man. States drive; The crazy rafts with billows strive.— Go, go—absolve thee. Join that band That wash them with the desert sand For lack of water. In the dust Of wisdom sit thee down, and rust.

So mused hc solitary pined. Tho' his apostolate had thrown New prospects ope to Adam's kind, And fame had trumped him far and free— Now drop he did—a clod unknown; Nay, rather, he would not disown Oblivion's volunteer to be; Like those new-world discoverers bold Ending in stony convent cold, Or dying hermits; as if they, Chastised to Micah's mind austere, Remorseful felt that ampler sway Their lead had given for old career Of human nature. But this man No cloister sought. He, under ban

Of strange repentance and last dearth, Roved the gray places of the earth. And what seemed most his heart to wring Was some unrenderable thing: 'Twas not his bastardy, nor bale Medean in his mother pale, Nor thwarted aims of high design; But deeper—deep as nature's mine. Tho' frequent among kind he sate Tranquil enough to hold debate, His moods he had, mad fitful ones Prolonged or brief, outbursts or moans And at such times would hiss or cry:

"Fair Circe—goddess of the sty!" More frequent this: "Mock worse than wrong: The Syren's kiss—the Fury's thong!"

Such he. Tho' scarce as such portrayed In full by Rolfe, yet Derwent said At close: "There's none so far astray, Detached, abandoned, as might seem, As to exclude the hope, the dream Of fair redemption. One fine day I saw at sea, by bit of deck— Weedy—adrift from far away— The dolphin in his gambol light Through showery spray, arch into sight: He flung a rainbow o'er that wreck."