Canto 6 (He turned to go; he turned,…)

He turned to go; he turned, but stood: In many notes of varying keys, From shrines like coves in Jordan's wood Hark to the rival liturgies, Which, rolling underneath the dome, Resound about the patient Tomb And penetrate the aisles. The rite Of Georgian and Maronite, Armenian and fervid Greek, The Latin organ, and wild clash Of cymbals smitten cheek to cheek Which the dark Abyssinian sways; These like to tides together dash And question of their purport raise. If little of the words he knew, Might Clarel's fancy forge a clue? A malediction seemed each strain— Himself the mark: O heart profane, O pilgrim infidel, begone! Nor here the sites of Faith pollute, Thou who misgivest we enthrone A God untrue, in myth absurd As monstrous figments blabbed of Jove, Or, worse, rank lies of Islam's herd: We know thee, thou there standing mute. Out, out—begone! try Nature's reign Who deem'st the supernature vain: To Lot's Wave by black Kedron rove; On, by Mount Seir, through Edom move; There crouch thee with the jackall down— Crave solace of the scorpion! 'Twas fancy, troubled fancy weaved Those imputations half believed. The porch he neared; the chorus swelled; He went forth like a thing expelled. Yet, going, he could but recall The wrangles here which oft befall: Contentions for each holy place, And jealousies how far from grace: O, bickering family bereft, Was feud the heritage He left?