Canto 8 (They climb. In Indian file they…)

They climb. In Indian file they gain A sheeted blank white lifted plain— A moor of chalk, or slimy clay, With gluey track and streaky trail Of some small slug or torpid snail. With hooded brows against the sun, Man after man they labor on. Corrupt and mortally intense, What fumes ere long pollute the sense? But, hark the flap and lumbering rise Of launching wing; see the gaunt size Of the ground-shadow thereby thrown. Behind a great and sheltering stone A camel, worn out, down had laid— Never to rise. 'Tis thence the kite Ascends, sails offin Tyreward flight. As 'twere Apollyon, angel bad, They watch him as he speeds away. But Vine, in mere caprice of clay, Or else because a pride had birth Slighting high claims which vaunted be And favoring things of low degrec From heaven he turned him down to earth, Eagle to ass. She now, ahead Went riderless, with even tread And in official manner, sooth, For bell and cord she'd known in youth;

Through mart and wild, bazaar and waste Preceding camels strung in train, Full often had the dwarf thing paced, Conductress of the caravan Of creatures tall. What meant Vine's glance Ironic here which impish ran In thievish way? O, world's advance: We wise limp after! The cavalcade Anon file by a pit-like glade

Clean scooped of last lean dregs of soil; Attesting in rude terraced stones The ancient husbandmen's hard toil,— All now a valley of dry bones— In shape a hopper. 'Twas a sight So marked with dead, dead undelight, That Derwent half unconseious here Stole a quick glance at Mortmain's face To note how it received the cheer. Whereat the moody man, with sting Returned the imprudent glance apace— Wayward retort all withering Though wordless. Clarel looking on, Saw there repeated the wild tone Of that discountenancing late In sequel to prolonged debate Upon the mountain. And again Puzzled, and earnest, less to know What rasped the Swede in such a man Than how indeed the priest could show Such strange forbearance; ventured now To put a question to him fair. "Oh, oh," he answered, all his air Recovered from the disarray; "The shadow flung by Ebal's hill On Gerizim, it cannot stay, But passes. Ay, and ever still— But don't you see the man is mad? His fits he has; sad, sad, how sad! Besides; but let me tell you now; Do you read Greek? Well, long ago, In stage when goslings try the wing, And peacock-chicks would softly sing, And roosters small essay to crow; Reading Theocritus divine, Envious I grew of all that charm Where sweet and simple so entwine; But I plucked up and won a balm: Thought I, I'll beat him in his place:

If, in my verses, and what not, If I can't have this pagan grace, Still—nor alone in page I blot, But all encounters that may be I'll make it up with Christian charity."

Another brink they win, and view Adown in faintly greenish hollow An oval camp of sable hue Pitched full across the track they follow— Twelve tents of shaggy goat's wool dun. "Ah, tents of Kedar may these be," Cried Derwent; "named by Solomon In song? Black, but scarce comely, see. Whom have we here? The brood of Lot?" "The oval seems his burial-plot," Said Rolfe; "and, for his brood, these men— They rove perchance from Moab's den Or Ammon's. Belex here seems well To know them, and no doubt will tell." The Spahi, not at all remiss In airing his Turk prejudice, Exclaimed: "Ay, sirs; and ill betide These Moabites and Ammonites Ferrying Jordan either side— Robbers and starvelings, mangy wights.

Sirs, I will vouch one thing they do: Each year they harry Jericho In harvest; yet thereby they gain But meager, rusty spears of grain. What right have such black thieves to live? Much more to think here to receive Our toll? Just Allah! say the word, And " here he signified with sword The rest, impatient of delay While yet on hight at brink they stay, So bidden by Djalea, who slow Descends into the hopper low, Riding. "To parley with the knaves!" Cried Belex; "spur them down; that saves All trouble, sirs; 'twas Ibrahim's way; When, in the Lebanon one day We came upon a " "Pardon me, The priest; "but look how leisurely He enters; yes, and straight he goes To meet our friend with scowling brows, The warder in yon outlet, see, Holding his desert spear transverse, Bar-like, from sable hearse to hearse Of toll-gate tents. Foreboding ill, The woman calls there to her brood. But what's to fear! Ah, with good-will They bustle in the war-like mood; Save us from those long fish-pole lances! Look, menacingly one advances; But he, our Druze, he mindeth none, But paces. So! they soften down. 'Tis Zar, it is that dainty steed, High-bred fine equine lady brave, Of stock derived from long ago; 'Tis she they now admiring heed, Picking her mincing way so grave, None jostling, grazing scarce a toe Of all the press. The sulky clan, Yes, make way for the mare—and man! There's homage!" "Ay, ay," Belex said, "They'd like to steal her and retire: Her beauty is their heart's desire— Base jackals with their jades! " Well sped The Druze. The champion he nears Posted in outlet, keeping ward, Who, altering at that aspect, peers, And him needs own for natural lord. Though claiming kingship of the land He hesitates to make demand:

Salute he yields. The Druze returns The salutation; nor he spurns To smoke with Ammon, but in way Not derogating—brief delay. They part. The unmolested train Are beckoned, and come down. Amain The camp they enter and pass through; No conflict here, no weak ado Of words or blows. This policy (Djalea's) bred now a pleasing thought In Derwent: "Wars might ended be, Yes, Japhet, Shem, and Ham be brought To confluence of amity, Were leaders but discreet and wise Like this our chief." The armed man's eyes Turned toward him tolerantly there As 'twere a prattling child. They fare Further, and win a nook of stone, And there a fountain making moan. The shade invites, though not of trees: They tarry in this chapel-of-ease; Then up, and journey on and on, Nor tent they see—not even a lonely one.