Canto 5 (While Agath was his story telling…)

While Agath was his story telling (Ere yet the ill thing worked surprise) The officer with forest eyes Still kept them dwelling, somber dwelling On that mild merman gray. His mien In part was that of one who tries Something outside his own routine Of memories, all too profuse In personal pain monotonous. And yet derived he little here, As seemed, to soothe his mind—austere With deep impressions uneffaced. At chance allusion—at the hint That the dragged tortoise bore the print Of something mystic and debased, How glowed the comment in his eyes: No cynic fire sarcastic; nay, But deeper in the startled sway Of illustrations to surmise. Ever on him they turned the look, While yet the hearing not forsook The salt seer while narration ran. The desert march resumed, in thought They dwell, till Rolfe the Druze besought If he before had met this man— So distant, though a countryman By birth. Why, yes—had met him: see, Drilling some tawny infantry In shadow of a Memphian wall, White-robed young conseripts up the Nile; And, afterward, onJaffa beach, With Turkish captains holding speech Over some cannon in a pile Late landed—with the conic ball. No more? No more the Druze let fall, If more he knew. Thought Rolfe: Ay me, Ay me, poor Freedom, can it be

A countryman's a refugee? What maketh him abroad to roam, Sharing with infidels a home? Is it the immense charred solitudes Once farms? and chimney-stacks that reign War-burnt upon the houseless plain Of hearthstones without neighborhoods? Is it the wilds whose memories own More specters than the woods bestrown With Varus' legions mossy grown? Is't misrule after strife? and dust From victor heels? Is it disgust For times when honor's out of date And serveth but to alienate? The usurping altar doth he scout— The Parsee of a sun gone out? And this, may all this mar his state? His very virtues, in the blench And violence of fortune's wrench, Alas, serve but to vitiate? Strong natures have a strong recoil Whose shock may wreck them or despoil. Oh, but it yields a thought that smarts, To note this man. Our New World bold Had fain improved upon the Old;

But the hemispheres are counterparts. So inly Rolfe; and did incline In briefer question there to Vine, Who could but answer him with eyes Opulent in withheld replies. And here without a thought to chide- Feeling the tremor of the ground— Reluctant touching on the wound Unhealed yet in our mother's side; Behooveth it to hint in brief The rankling thing in Ungar's grief; For bravest grieve.—That evil day, Black in the New World's calendar— The dolorous winter ere the war; True Bridge of Sighs—so yet 'twill be

Esteemed in riper history— Sad arch between contrasted eras; The span of fate; that evil day When the cadets from rival zones, Tradition's generous adherers, Their country's pick and flower of sons, Abrupt were called upon to act— For life or death, nor brook delay— Touching construction of a pact, A paper pact, with points abstruse As theologic ones—profuse In matter for an honest doubt; And which, in end, a stubborn knot Some cut but with the sword; that day With its decision, yet could sway Ungar, and plunging thoughts excite. Reading and revery imped his pain, Confirmed, and made it take a flight Beyond experience and the reign Of self; till, in a sort, the man Grew much like that Pamphylian Who, dying (as the fable goes) In walks of Hades met with those Which, though he was a sage of worth, Did such new pregnancies implant, Hadean lore, he did recant All science he had brought from earth. Herewith in Ungar, though, ensued A bias, bitterness—a strain Much like an Indian's hopeless feud Under the white's aggressive reign. Indian's the word; nor it impeach For over-pointedness of speech; No, let the story rearward run And its propriety be shown:

Up Chesapeake in days of old, By winding banks whose curves unfold Cape after cape in bright remove, Steered the ship Ark with her attendant Dove. From the non-conformists' zeal or bile Which urged, inflamed the civil check Upon the dreaded Popish guile, The New World's fairer flowers and dews Welcomed the English Catholic: Like sheltering arms the shores expand To embrace and take to heart the crews. Care-worn, sea-worn, and tempest-tanned, Devout they hail that harbor green; And, mindful of heaven's gracious Queen And Britain's princess, name it Mary-Land. It was from one of Calvert's friends The exile of the verse descends; And gifts, brave gifts, and martial fame Won under Tilly's great command That sire of after-sires might claim. But heedless, in the Indian glade He wedded with a wigwam maid, Transmitting through his line, far down, Along with touch in lineaments, A latent nature, which events Developed in this distant son, And overrode the genial part— An Anglo brain, but Indian heart. And yet not so but Ungar knew (In freak, his forest name alone

Retained he now) that instinct true Which tempered him in years bygone, When, spite the prejudice of kin And custom, he with friends could be Outspoken in his heart's belief That holding slaves was aye a grief— The system an iniquity In those who plant it and begin; While for inheritors—alas Who knows? and let the problem pass. But now all that was over—gone; Now was he the self-exiled one. Too steadfast! Wherefore should be lent The profitless high sentiment?

Renounce conviction in defeat: Pass over, share the spoiler's seat And thrive. Behooves thee else turn cheek To fate with wisdom of the meek. Wilt not? Unblest then with the store Of heaven, and spurning worldly lore Astute, eat thou thy cake of pride, And henceforth live on unallied.— His passion, that—mused, never said; And his own pride did him upbraid.

The habit of his mind, and tone Tenacious touching issues gone, Expression found, nor all amiss, In thing he'd murmur: it was this:

"Who abideth by the dead Which ye hung before your Lord? Steadfast who, when all have fled Tree and corse abhorred? Who drives off the wolf, the kite— Bird by day, and beast by night, And keeps the hill through all? It is Rizpah: true is one Unto death; nor then will shun The Seven throttled and undone, To glut the foes of Saul."

That for the past; and for the surge Reactionary, which years urge:

"Elating and elate, Do they mount them in their pride? Let them wait a little, wait, For the brimming of the flood Brings the turning of the tide."

His lyric. Yet in heart of hearts Perchance its vanity he knew,

At least suspected. What to do? Time cares not to avenge your smarts, But presses on, impatient of review.