Chapter 115
Section 115 of Clairrell by Herman Melville. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Empty stirrups, the gray of dawn, a tremor slight, the trouble of imperfect light anew begins, and floating cloud midway suspended down the gorge,
a long mist trails white shreds of shroud, how languorous towards the Dead Sea's verge, Riders in seat halt by the gate. Why not set forth? For one they wait, whose stirrups empty be, the Swede.
Still absent from the fratter hall since afternoon and vesper call, he, they imagined, had but sought some cave in keeping with his thought, and reappear would with the light suddenly as the Gileadite in Obadiah's way. But, no, he cometh not when they would go Dismounting, they make search in vain
Till Clairle, minding him again of something settled in his air A quietude beyond mere calm When seen from ledge beside the palm Reclined in nook of Bethel stare Ditherward led them in a thrill of nervous apprehension
Till startled he stops, with eyes avert And indicating hand Tis he, so undisturbed Supine, inert The filmed orbs fixed upon the tree
Night's dews upon his eyelids be To test if breath remain, none tries On those thin lips a feather lies And eagles wafted from the skies The vow
And had the genius heard, benignant Nor had made delay, but, more than taking him at word, Quick wafted where the palm boughs sway in St. John's heaven. Some divined that long had he been undermined in frame, The brain a toxin bell, overburdensome for Citadel,
Whose base was shattered. They refrain from aught but that dumb look that fell identifying, Feeling pain that such a heart could beat, and will, Aspire, yearn, suffer, baffled still, and end. With monks which round them stood, concerned, not discomposed in mood, Interment they provided for, heaved a last sigh, nor tarried more.
Nay, one a little lingered there, t'was Rolf, and as the rising sun, Though viewless yet from Bethel's stare, More lit the mountains, He was one to invocation, Scarce to prayer.
Holy morning, What blessed lore reservest thou, Withheld from man, That evermore without surprise, But rather with a hurtless scorning
In thy placid eyes, Thou viewest all events alike. Oh, tell me, Do thy bright beams strike the healing hills of Gilead now, And glance toward the pale one near, in shadow of the crag's dark brow.
Did charity follow that poor beer? It did, but bigotry did steer. Friars buried him without the walls, nor in a consecrated bed, Where vulture unto vulture calls, and only ill things find a friend. There let the beak and claw contend There the hyena's cub be fed
Heaven that disclaims and him beweeps In annual showers and the tried spirit sleeps End of part three End of section 115
