Clarel — Part 4 — Canto 3

"In waters where no charts avail,Where only fin and spout ye see,The lonely spout of hermit-whale,God set that isle which haunteth me.There clouds hang low, but yield no rain-- 5Forever hang, since wind is noneOr light; nor ship-boy's eye may gainThe smoke-wrapped peak, the inland oneVolcanic; this, within its shroudStreaked black and red, burns unrevealed; 10It burns by night--by day the cloudShows leaden all, and dull and sealed.The beach is cinders. With the tideSalt creek and ashy inlet bringMore loneness from the outer ring 15Of ocean."Pause he made, and sighed.--"But take the way across the marl,A broken field of tumbled slabsLike ice-cakes frozen in a snarl 20After the break-up in a sound;So win the thicket's upper groundWhere silence like a poniard stabs,Since there the low throb of the seaNot heard is, and the sea-fowl flee 25Far offthe shore, all the long dayHunting the flying-fish their prey.

Haply in bush ye find a path:Of man or beast it scarce may be;And yet a wasted look it hath, 30As it were traveled ceaselessly--Century after century--The rock in places much worn downLike to some old, old kneeling-stoneBefore a shrine. But naught's to see, 35At least naught there was seen by me,Of any moving, creeping one.

No berry do those thickets bear,Nor many leaves. Yet even there,Some sailor from the steerage den 40Put sick ashorc alas, by menWho, weary of him, thus abjure--The way may follow, in pursuitOf apples red--the homestead-fruitHe dreams of in his calenture. 45He drops, lost soul; but we go on--Advance, until in end be wonThe terraced orchard's mysteries,Which well do that imp-isle beseem;Paved with jet blocks those terraces, 50The surface rubbed to unctuous gleamBy something which has life, you feel:And yet, the shades but death reveal;For under cobwebbed cactus trees,White by their trunks--what hulks be these 55Which, like old skulls of Anaks, areSet round as in a Golgotha?But, list,--a sound! Dull, dull it booms--Dull as the jar in vaulted tombsWhen urns are shifted. With amaze 60Into the dim retreats ye gaze.Lo, 'tis the monstrous tortoise drear!Of huge humped arch, the ancient shellIs trenched with seams where lichens dwell,Or some adhesive growth and sere: 65A lumpish languor marks the paccA hideous, harmless look, with traceOf hopelessness; the eyes are dullAs in the bog the dead black pool:Penal his aspect; all is dragged, 70As he for more than years had lagged--A convict doomed to bide the place;A soul transformed--for earned disgraceDegraded, and from higher race.Ye watch him--him so woe-begone: 75Searching, he creeps with laboring neck,

Each crevice tries, and long may seek:Water he craves, where rain is noncWater within the parching zone,Where only dews of midnight fall 80And dribbling lodge in chinks of stone.For meat the bitter tree is all--The cactus, whose nipped fruit is shedOn those bleached skull-like hulks below,Which, when by life inhabited, 85Crept hither in last journey slowAfter a hundred years of painAnd pilgrimage here to and fro,For other hundred years to reignIn hollow of white armor so-- 90Then perish piecemeal. You advance:Instant, more rapid than a glance,Long neck and four legs are drawn in,Letting the shell down with reportUpon the stone; so falls in court 95The clattering buckler with a din.There leave him, since for hours he'll keepThat feint of death.--But for the islcMuch seems it like this barren steep:As here, few there would think to smile." 100

So, paraphrased in lines sincere

Which still similitude would win,The sketch ran of that timoneer.He ended, and how passive sate:Nature's own look, which might recall 105Dumb patience of mere animal,Which better may abide life's fateThan comprehend.What may man know?(Here pondered Clarel;) let him rule-- 110Pull down, build up, creed, system, school,And reason's endless battle wage,Make and remake his verbiage--But solve the world! Scarce that he'll do:Too wild it is, too wonderful. 115Since this world, then, can baffle so--Our natural harbor--it were strangeIf that alleged, which is afar,Should not confound us when we rangeIn revery where its problems are.-- 120Such thoughts! and can they e'en be mineIn fount? Did Derwent true divineUpon the tower of Saba--yes,Hinting I too much felt the stressOf Rolfe--or whom? Green and unsure, 125And in attendance on a mindPoised at self-center and mature,Do I but lacquey it behind?Yea, here in frame of thought and wordBut wear the cast clothes of my lord? 130