Canto 5 (Upon the morrow's early morn…)

Upon the morrow's early morn Clarel is up, and seeks the Urn. Advancing towards the fane's old arch Of entrance—curved in sculptured stone, Dim and defaced, he saw thereon From rural Bethany the march Of Christ into another gate— The golden and triumphal one, Upon Palm Morn. For porch to shrine On such a site, how fortunate That adaptation of design. Well might it please. He entered then. Strangers were there, of each degree, From Asian shores, with island men, Mild guests of the Epiphany. As when to win the Paschal joy And Nisan's festal month renew, The Nazarenes to temple drew, Even Joseph, Mary, and the BOY, Whose hand the mother's held; so here To later rites and altars dear, Domestic in devotion's flame Husbands with wives and children came. But he, the student, under dome Pauses; he stands before the Tomb. Through open door he sees the wicks Alight within, where six and six For Christ's apostles, night and day, Lamps, olden lamps do burn. In smoke Befogged they shed no vivid ray, But heat the cell and seem to choke. He marked, and revery took flight: "These burn not like those aspects bright Of starry watchers when they kept Vigil at napkined feet and head Of Him their Lord.—Nay, is He fled? Or tranced lies, tranced nor unbewept With Dorian gods? or, fresh and clear, A charm diffused throughout the sphere, Streams in the ray through yonder dome? Not hearsed He is. But hath ghost home Dispersed in soil, in sea, in air? False Pantheism, false though fair!" So he; and slack and aimless went, Nor might untwine the ravelment Of doubts perplexed. For easement there Halting awhile in pillared shade, A friar he marked, in robe of blue And round Greek cap of sable hue: Poor men he led; much haste he made, Nor sequence kept, but dragged them so Hither and thither, to and fro, To random places. Might it be That Clarel, who recoil did here, Shared but that shock of novelty Which makes some Protestants unglad First viewing the mysterious cheer In Peter's fane? Beheld he had, In Rome beneath the Lateran wall, The Scala Santa—watched the knees Of those ascending devotees, Who, absolution so to reap, Breathe a low prayer at every step. Nay, 'twas no novelty at all. Nor was it that his nature shrunk But from the curtness of the monk: Another influence made swerve And touched him in profounder nerve. He turned, and passing on enthralled, Won a still chapel; and one spake The name. Brief Scripture, here recalled, The context less obscure may make: 'Tis writ that in a garden's bound Our Lord was urned. On that green ground He reappeared, by Mary claimed. The place, or place alleged, is shown— Arbors congealed to vaults of stone— The Apparition's chapel named. This was the spot where now, in frame Hard to depict, the student came— The spot where in the dawning gray, His pallor with night's tears bedewed, Restored the Second Adam stood— Not as in Eden stood the First All ruddy. Yet, in leaves immersed And twilight of imperfect day, Christ seemed the gardener unto her Misjudging, who in womanhood Had sought him late in sepulchre Embowered, nor found. Here, votive here— Here by the shrine that Clarel won— A wreath shed odors. Scarce that cheer Warmed some poor Greeks recumbent thrown, Sore from late journeying far and near, To hallowed haunts without the town; So wearied, that no more they kneeled, But over night here laid them down, Matrons and children, yet unhealed Of ache. And each face was a book Of disappointment. "Why weep'st thou? Whom seekest?"—words, which chanceful now Recalled by Clarel, he applied To these before him; and he took, In way but little modified, Part to himself; then stood in dream Of all which yet might hap to them. He saw them spent, provided ill— Pale, huddled in the pilgrim fleet, Back voyaging now to homes afar. Midnight, and rising tempests beat— Such as St. Paul knew—furious war, To meet which, slender is the skill. The lamp that burnt upon the prow In wonted shrine, extinct is now— Drowned out with Heaven's last feeble star. Panic ensues; their course is turned; Toward Tyre they drive—Tyre undiscerned: A coast of wrecks which warping bleach On wrecks of piers where eagles screech. How hopeful from their isles serene They sailed, and on such tender quest; Then, after toils that came between, They reembarked; and, tho' distressed, Grieved not, for Zion had been seen; Each wearing next the heart for charm Some priestly scrip in leaf of palm. But these, ah, these in Dawn's pale reign Asleep upon beach Tyrian! Or is it sleep? no, rest—that rest Which naught shall ruffle or molest. In gliding turn of dreams which mate He saw from forth Damascus' gate Tall Islam in her Mahmal go— Elected camel, king of all, In mystic housings draped in flow, Silk fringed, with many a silver ball, Worked ciphers on the Koran's car And Sultan's cloth. He hears the jar Of janizaries armed, a throng Which drum barbaric, shout and gong Invest. And camels—robe and shawl Of riders which they bear along— Each sheik a pagod on his tower, Crosslegged and dusky. Therewithal, In affluence of the opal hour, Curveting troops of Moslem peers And flash of scimeters and spears In groves of grassgreen pennons fair, (Like Feiran's palms in fanning air,) Wherefrom the crescent silvery soars. Then crowds pell-mell, a concourse wild, Convergings from Levantine shores; On foot, on donkeys; litters rare— Whole families; twin panniers piled; Rich men and beggars—all beguiled To cheerful trust in Allah's care; Allah, toward whose prophet's urn And Holy City, fond they turn As forth in pilgrimage they fare. But long the way. And when they note, Ere yet they pass wide suburbs green, Some camp in field, nor far remote, Inviting, pastoral in scene; Some child shall leap, and trill in glee "Mecca, 'tis Mecca, mother—see!" Then first she thinks upon the waste Whither the Simoom maketh haste; Where baskets of the white ribbed dead Sift the fine sand, while dim ahead In long, long line, their way to tell, The bones of camels bleaching dwell, With skeletons but part interred— Relics of men which friendless fell; Whose own hands, in last office, scooped Over their limbs the sand, but drooped: Worse than the desert of the Word, El Tih, the great, the terrible. Ere town and tomb shall greet the eye Many shall fall, nor few shall die Which, punctual at set of sun, Spread the worn prayer cloth on the sand, Turning them toward the Mecca stone, Their shadows ominously thrown Oblique against the mummy land. These pass; they fade. What next comes near? The tawny peasants—human wave Which rolls over India year by year, India, the spawning place and grave. The turbaned billow floods the plains, Rolling toward Brahma's rarer fanes— His Compostel or brown Loret Where sin absolved, may grief forget. But numbers, plague struck, faint and sore, Drop livid on the flowery shore— Arrested, with the locusts sleep, Or pass to muster where no man may peep. That vision waned. And, far afloat, From eras gone he caught the sound Of hordes from China's furthest moat, Crossing the Himalayan mound, To kneel at shrine or relic so Of Buddha, the Mongolian Fo Or Indian Saviour. What profound Impulsion makes these tribes to range? Stable in time's incessant change Now first he marks, now awed he heeds The inter-sympathy of creeds, Alien or hostile tho' they seem— Exalted thought or groveling dream. The worn Greek matrons mark him there: Ah, young, our lassitude dost share? Home do thy pilgrim reveries stray? Art thou too, weary of the way?— Yes, sympathies of Eve awake; Yet do but err. For how might break Upon those simple natures true, The complex passion? might they view The apprehension tempest tossed, The spirit in gulf of dizzying fable lost?