13. The Church of the Star
They rise, and for a little space
In farewell Agath they detain, Transferred here to a timelier train Than theirs. A work-day, passive face He turns to Derwent's Luck to thee! No slight he means--'tis far from that But, schooled by the inhuman sea, He feels 'tis vain to wave the hat In God-speed on this mortal strand; Recalling all the sailing crews Destined to sleep in ocean sand, Cheered from the wharf with blithe adieus. Nor less the heart's farewell they say, And bless the old man on his way.
Led by a slender monk and young, With curls that ringed the shaven crown, Courts now and shrines they trace. That thong Ascetic which can life chastise Down to her bleak necessities, They mark in coarse serge of his gown, And girdling rope, with cross of wood For tag at end; and hut-like hood Superfluous now behind him thrown; And sandals which expose the skin Transparent, and the blue vein thin Meandering there: the feet, the face Alike in lucid marble grace.
His simple manners self-possessed
Both saint and noble-born suggest; Yet under quietude they mark The slumbering of a vivid spark-- Excitable, if brought to test. A Tuscan, he exchanged the charm Val d'Arno yields, for this dull calm Of desert. Was his youth self-given In frank oblation unto heaven? Or what inducement might disarm This Isaac when too young to know?
Hereon they, pacing, musc till, lo, The temple opens in dusk glades Of long-drawn double colonnades: Monoliths two-score and eight. Rolfe looked about him, pleased in state: "But this is goodly! Here we rove As down the deep Dodona grove: Years, years and years these boles have stood!-- Late by the spring in idle mood My will I made (if ye recall), Providing for the Inn of Trees: But ah, to set out trunks like these In harbor open unto all For generations!" So in vein
Rolfe free descanted as through fane
They passed. But noting now the guide
In acquiescence by their side, He checked himself: "Why prate I here? This brother--I usurp his sphere."
They came unto a silver star
In pavement set which none do mar
By treading. Here at pause remained
The monk; till, seeing Rolfe refrained, And all, from words, he said: "The place, Signori, where that shining grace Which led the Magi, stood; below,
The Manger is." They comment none
Not voicing everything they know, In cirque about that silver star They quietly gaze thereupon. But, turning now, one glanced afar Along the columned aisles, and thought Of Baldwin whom the mailed knights brought While Godfrey's requiem did ring, Hither to Bethlehem, and crowned His temples helmet-worn, with round Of gold and velvet--crowned him king-- King of Jerusalem, on floor Of this same nave august, above The Manger in its low remove Where lay, a thousand years before, The Child of awful worshiping, Destined to prove all slights and scorns And a God's coronation--thorns. Not Derwent's was that revery; Another thing his heart possessed, The clashing of the East and West, Odd sense of incongruity; He felt a secret impulse move To start a humorous comment slant Upon the monk, and sly reprove. But no: I'll curb the Protestant And modern in me--at least here For time I'll curb it. Perish truth If it but act the boor, in sooth, Requiting courtesy with jeer; For courteous is our guide, with grace Of a pure heart. Some little trace, May be, of Derwent's passing thought The Tuscan from his aspect caught; And turned him: "Pardon! but the crypt: This way, signori--follow me." Down by a rock-hewn stair they slipped, Turning by steps which winding be,
Winning a sparry chamber brave
Unsearched by that prose critic keen, The daylight. Archimago's cave Was here? or that more sorcerous scene The Persian Sibyl kept within For turbaned musings? Bowing o'er, Crossing himself, and on the knee, Straight did the guide that grot adore; Then, rising, and as one set free: "The place of the Nativity." Dim pendent lamps, in cluster small Were Pleiads of the mystic hall; Fair lamps of silver, lamps of gold-- Rich gifts devout of monarchs old, Kings catholic. Rare objects beamed All round, recalling things but dreamed: Solomon's talismans garnered up, His sword, his signet-ring and cup. In further caverns, part revealed, What silent shapes like statues kneeled; What brown monks moved by twinkling shrines Like Aztecs down in silver mines.
This, this the Stable mean and poor? Noting their looks, to ward surprise, The Italian: "'Tis incrusted o'er