University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Clarel

a poem and pilgrimage in the Holy Land

collapse section 
collapse section 
collapse section1. 
collapse section1. 
  
 2. 
 3. 
 4. 
 5. 
 6. 
 7. 
 8. 
 9. 
 10. 
 11. 
 12. 
 13. 
 14. 
 15. 
 16. 
 17. 
 18. 
 19. 
 20. 
 21. 
 22. 
 23. 
 24. 
 25. 
 26. 
 27. 
 28. 
 29. 
 30. 
 31. 
 32. 
 33. 
 34. 
 35. 
 36. 
 37. 
 38. 
 39. 
 40. 
 41. 
 42. 
 43. 
 44. 
collapse section2. 
 1. 
  
 3. 
 4. 
 5. 
 6. 
 7. 
 8. 
 9. 
 10. 
 11. 
 12. 
 13. 
 14. 
 15. 
 16. 
 17. 
 18. 
 19. 
 20. 
 21. 
 22. 
 23. 
 24. 
 25. 
 26. 
 27. 
 28. 
 29. 
 30. 
 31. 
 32. 
 33. 
 34. 
 35. 
 36. 
 37. 
 38. 
 39. 
collapse section2. 
collapse section3. 
 1. 
 2. 
 3. 
 4. 
 5. 
 6. 
 7. 
 8. 
 9. 
 10. 
 11. 
 12. 
 13. 
 14. 
 15. 
 16. 
 17. 
 18. 
 19. 
 20. 
 21. 
 22. 
 23. 
 24. 
 25. 
 26. 
 27. 
 28. 
 29. 
 30. 
 31. 
 32. 
collapse section4. 
 1. 
 2. 
 3. 
 4. 
 5. 
 6. 
 7. 
 8. 
 9. 
 10. 
 11. 
 12. 
 13. 
 14. 
 15. 
 16. 
 17. 
 18. 
 19. 
 20. 
 21. 
 22. 
 23. 
 24. 
 25. 
 26. 
 27. 
 28. 
 29. 
 30. 
 31. 
 32. 
 33. 
 34. 
 35. 

Clarel, reposing there aside,
By secret thought preoccupied,
Now, as he inward chafe would shun,
A feigned quick interest put on:
“The import of these marks? Tell me.”
“Come, come,” cried Derwent; “dull ye bide!
By palm-leaves here are signified
Judæa, as on the Roman gem;
The cross scarce needs a word, agree;

449

The crowns are for the magi three;
This star—the star of Bethlehem.”
“One might have known;” and fell anew
In void relapse.
“Why, why so blue?”
Derwent again; and rallying ran:
“While now for Bethlehem we aim,
Our stellar friend the post should claim
Of guide. We'll put him in the van—
Follow the star on the tattooed man,
We wise men here.—What's that?”
A gun,
At distance fired, startles the group.
Around they gaze, and down and up;
But in the wilds they seem alone.
Long time the echo sent its din,
Hurled roundabout, and out and in—
A foot-ball tossed from crag to crag;
Then died away in ether thin—
Died, as they deemed, yet did but lag,
For all abrupt one far rebound
Gave pause; that o'er, the hush was crowned.
“We loiter,” Derwent said, in tone
Uneasy; “come, shall we go on?”
“Wherefore?” the saturnine demands.
Toward him they look, for his eclipse
There gave way for the first; and stands
The adage old, that one's own lips
Proclaim the character: “A gun:
A gun's man's voice—sincerest one.
Blench we to have assurance here,
Here in the waste, that kind is near?”
Eyes settle on his scars in view,
Both warp and burn, the which evince
Experience of the thing he hints.
“Nay—hark!” and all turn round anew:

450

Remoter shot came duller there:
“The Arnaut—and but fires in air,”
Djalea averred: “his last adieu.”