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The Lyonese had joined a train
Whereof the man of scars was one
Whose office led him further on
And barring longer stay. Farewell
He overnight had said, ere cell
He sought for slumber. Brief the word,
No hand he grasped; yet was he stirred,
Despite his will, in heart at core:
'Twas countrymen he here forsook:
He felt it; and his aspect wore
In the last parting, that strange look
Of one enlisted for sad fight
Upon some desperate dark shore,
Who bids adieu to the civilian,
Returning to his club-house bright,
In city cheerful with the million.

But Nature never heedeth this:
To Nature nothing is amiss.

It was a morning full of vent
And bustle. Other pilgrims went.
Later, accoutered in array
Don Hannibal and party sate
In saddle at the convent gate,
For Hebron bound.—“Ah, well-a-day!
I'm bolstered up here, tucked away:
My spare spar lashed behind, ye see;
This crutch for scepter. Come to me,
Embrace me, my dear friend,” and leant;
“I'm off for Mamre; under oak
Of Abraham I'll pitch my tent,
Perchance, far from the battle's smoke.
Good friars and friends, behold me bore
A poor one-legged pioneer;
I go, I march, I am the man
In fore-front of the limping van
Of refluent emigration. So,
Farewell, Don Derwent; Placido,
Farewell; and God bless all and keep!—
Start, dragoman; come, take your sheep
To Hebron.”
One among the rest
Attending the departure there
Was Clarel. Unto him, oppressed—
In travail of transition rare,
Scarce timely in its unconstraint
Was the droll Mexican's quirkish air
And humorous turn of hintings quaint.

The group dispersed.
Pleased by the hill
And vale, the minster, grot and vine,
Hardly the pilgrims found the will
To go and such fair scene decline.
But not less Bethlehem, avow,
Negative grew to him whose heart,
Swayed by love's nearer magnet now,
Would fain without delay depart;
Yet comradeship did still require
That some few hours need yet expire.

Restive, he sallied out alone,
And, ere long, place secluded won,
And there a well. The spot he eyed;
For fountains in that land, being rare,
Attention fix. “And, yes,” he sighed,
Weighing the thing; “though everywhere
This vicinage quite altered be,
The well of Jesse's son I see;
For this in parched Adullam's lair
How sore he yearned: ah me, ah me,
That one would now upon me wait
With that sweet water by the gate!—
He stood: But who will bring to me
That living water which who drinks
He thirsteth not again! Let be:
A thirst that long may anguish thee,
Too long ungratified will die.
But whither now, my heart? wouldst fly
Each thing that keepeth not the pace
Of common uninquiring life?
What! fall back on clay commonplace?
Yearnest for peace so? sick of strife?
Yet how content thee with routine
Worldly? how mix with tempers keen
And narrow like the knife? how life
At all, if once a fugitive
From thy own nobler part, though pain
Be portion in wrought with the grain?

But here, in fair accosting word,
A stranger's happy hail he heard
Descending from a vineyard nigh.
He turned: a pilgrim pleased his eye
(A Muscovite, late seen by shrine)
Good to behold—fresh as a pine—
Elastic, tall; complexion clear
As dawn in frosty atmosphere
Rose-tinged.
They greet. At once, to reach
Accord, the Russian said, “Sit here:
You sojourn with the Latin set,
I with the Greeks; but well we're met:
All's much the same: many waves, one beach.
I'm mateless now; one, and but one
I've taken to: and he's late gone.
You may have crossed him, for indeed
He tarried with your Latin breed
While here: a juicy little fellow—
A Seckel pear, so small and mellow.”
“We shared a cell last night.” “Ye did?
And, doubtless, into chat ye slid:
The theme, now; I am curious there.”
“Judæa—the Jews.” With hightened air
The Russ rejoined: “And tell me, pray:
Who broached the topic? he?” “No, I;
And chary he in grudged reply
At first, but afterward gave way.”
“Indeed?” the Russ, with meaning smile;
“But (further) did he aught revile?”
“The Jews, he said, were misconceived;
Much too he dropped which quite bereaved
The Scripture of its Runic spell.
But Runic said I? That's not well!
I alter, sure.”
Not marking here
Clarel in his self-taxing cheer;
But full of his own thoughts in clew,
“Right, I was right!” the other cried:
“Evade he cannot, no, nor hide.
Learn, he who whiled the hour for you,
His race supplied the theme: a Jew!”

Clarel leaped up; “And can it be?
Some vague suspicion peered in me;
I sought to test it—test: and he—
Nay now, I mind me of a stir
Of color quick; and might it touch?”
And paused; then, as in slight demur:
“His cast of Hebrew is not much.”

“Enough to badge him.”
“Very well:
But why should he that badge repel?”

“Our Russian sheep still hate the mark;
They try to rub it off, nor cease
On hedge or briar to leave the fleece
In tell-tale tags. Well, much so he,
Averse to Aaron's cipher dark
And mystical. Society
Is not quite catholic, you know,
Retains some prejudices yet—
Likes not the singular; and so
He'd melt in, nor be separate—
Exclusive. And I see no blame.
Nor rare thing is it in French Jew,
Cast among strangers—traveling too—
To cut old grandsire Abraham
As out of mode. I talked, ere you
With this our friend. Let me avow
My late surmise is surety now.”