Clarel :: :: University of Virginia Library

Clarel looked down: was he depressed?
The prodigal resumed: “Earth's best,
Earth's loveliest portrait, daintiest,
Reveals Judæan grace and form:
Urbino's ducal mistress fair—
Ay, Titian's Venus, golden-warm.
Her lineage languishes in air
Mysterious as the unfathomed sea:
That grave, deep Hebrew coquetry!
Thereby Bathsheba David won;
In bath a purposed bait!—Have done!—
Blushing? The cuticle's but thin!

542

Blushing? yet you my mind would win.
Priests make a goblin of the Jew:
Shares he not flesh with me—with you?”

What wind was this? And yet it swayed
Even Clarel's cypress. He delayed
All comment, gazing at him there.
Then first he marked the clustering hair
Which on the bright and shapely brow
At middle part grew slantly low:
Rich, tumbled, chestnut hood of curls,
Like to a Polynesian girl's,
Who, inland eloping with her lover,
The deacon-magistrates recover—
With sermon and black bread reprove
Who fed on berries and on love.

So young (thought Clarel) yet so knowing;
With much of dubious at the heart,
Yet winsome in the outward showing;
With whom, with what, hast thou thy part
In flaw upon the student's dream
A wafture of suspicion stirred:
He spake: “The Hebrew, it would seem,
You study much; you have averred
More than most Gentiles well may glean
In voyaging mere from scene to scene
Of shifting traffic.” Irksomeness
Here vexed the other's light address;
But, ease assuming, gay he said:
“Oh, in my wanderings, why, I've met,
Among all kinds, Hebrews well-read,
And some nor dull nor bigot-bred;
Yes, I pick up, nor all forget.”

So saying, and as to be rid
Of further prosing, he undid
His vesture, turned him smoothed his cot:
“Late, late; needs sleep, though sleep's a sot.”

543

“A word,” cried Clarel: “bear with me:
Just nothing strange at all you see
Touching the Hebrews and their lot?”

Recumbent here: “Why, yes, they share
That oddity the Gypsies heir:
About them why not make ado?
The Parsees are an odd tribe too;
Dispersed, no country, and yet hold
By immemorial rites, we're told.
Amigo, do not scourge me on;
Put up, put up your monkish thong!
Pray, pardon now; by peep of sun
Take horse I must. Good night, with song:

“Lights of Shushan, if your urn
Mellow shed the opal ray,
To delude one—damsels, turn,
Wherefore tarry? why betray?
Drop your garlands and away!
Leave me, phantoms that but feign;
Sting me not with inklings vain!

“But, if magic none prevail,
Mocking in untrue romance;
Let your Paradise exhale
Odors; and enlink the dance;
And, ye rosy feet, advance
Till ye meet morn's ruddy Hours
Unabashed in Shushan's bowers!”

No more: they slept. A spell came down;
And Clarel dreamed, and seemed to stand
Betwixt a Shushan and a sand;
The Lyonese was lord of one,
The desert did the Tuscan own,

544

The pale pure monk. A zephyr fanned;
It vanished, and he felt the strain
Of clasping arms which would detain
His heart from each ascetic range.
He woke; 'twas day; he was alone,
The Lyonese being up and gone:
Vital he knew organic change,
Or felt, at least, that change was working—
A subtle innovator lurking.

He rose, arrayed himself, and won
The roof to take the dawn's fresh air,
And heard a ditty, and looked down.
Who singing rode so debonair?
His cell-mate, flexible young blade,
Mounted in rear of cavalcade
Just from the gate, in rythmic way
Switching a light malacca gay:

“Rules, who rules?
Fools the wise, makes wise the fools—
Every ruling overrules?
Who the dame that keeps the house,
Provides the diet, and oh, so quiet,
Brings all to pass, the slyest mouse?
Tell, tell it me:
Signora Nature, who but she!”