From “Clarel” [The Recluse]

Ere yet they win that verge and line, Reveal the stranger. Name him—Vine. His home to tell—kin, tribe, estate— Would naught avail. Alighting grow, As on the tree the mistletoe, ⁠ All gifts unique. In seeds of fate Borne on the winds these emigrate And graft the stock. Vine’s manner shy A clog, a hindrance might imply; ⁠ A lack of parlor-wont. But grace Which is in substance deep and grain May, peradventure, well pass by The polish of veneer. No trace Of passion’s soil or lucre’s stain, ⁠ Though life was now half ferried o’er. If use he served not, but forbore— Such indolence might still but pine In dearth of rich incentive high: Apollo slave in Mammon’s mine? ⁠ Better Admetus’ shepherd lie. A charm of subtle virtue shed A personal influence coveted, Whose source was difficult to tell As ever was that perfumed spell ⁠ Of Paradise-flowers invisible Which angels round Cecilia bred. A saint then do we here unfold? Nay, the ripe flush, Venetian mould Evinced no nature saintly fine, ⁠ But blood like swart Vesuvian wine. What cooled the current? Under cheer Of opulent softness, reigned austere Control of self. Flesh, but scarce pride, Was curbed: desire was mortified; ⁠ But less indeed by moral sway Than doubt if happiness thro’ clay Be reachable. No sackclothed man; Howbeit, in sort Carthusian Tho’ born a Sybarite. And yet ⁠ Not beauty might he all forget, The beauty of the world, and charm: He prized it tho’ it scarce might warm. Like to the nunnery’s denizen His virgin soul communed with men ⁠ But thro’ the wicket. Was it clear This coyness bordered not on fear— Fear or an apprehensive sense? Not wholly seemed it diffidence Recluse. Nor less did strangely wind ⁠ Ambiguous elfishness behind All that: an Ariel unknown. It seemed his very speech in tone Betrayed disuse. Thronged streets astir To Vine but ampler cloisters were. ⁠ Cloisters? No monk he was, allow; But gleamed the richer for the shade About him, as in sombre glade Of Virgil’s wood the Sibyl’s Golden Bough.