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Clarel

a poem and pilgrimage in the Holy Land

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Up, up! Around morn's standard rally;
She makes a sortie—join the sally:
Up, slugabeds; up, up!”
That call
Ere matins did each pilgrim hear
In cell, and knew the blithe voice clear.
“Beshrew thee, thou'rt poetical,”
Rolfe murmured from his place withdrawn.
“Ay, brother; but 'tis not surprising:
Apollo's the god of early rising.
Up, up! The negro-groom of Night
Leads forth the horses of the Dawn!
Up, up!” So Derwent, jocund sprite—
Although but two days now were passed
Since he had viewed a sunrise last—
Persuaded them to join him there
And unto convent roof repair.
Thought one: He's of no nature surly,
So cheerful in the morning early.
Sun-worship over, they came down:
And Derwent lured them forth, and on.

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Behind the Convent lies a dale.
The Valley of the Shepherds named,
(And never may the title fail!)
By old tradition fondly claimed
To be in truth the very ground
About whose hollow, on the mound
Of hills, reclined in dozing way
That simple group ere break of day,
Which, startled by their flocks' dismay—
All bleating up to them in panic
And sparkling in scintillant ray—
Beheld a splendor diaphanic—
Effulgence never dawn hath shot,
Nor flying meteors of the night;
And trembling rose, shading the sight;
But heard the angel breathe—Fear not.
So (might one reverently dare
Terrene with heavenly to compare),
So, oft in mid-watch on that sea
Where the ridged Andes of Peru
Are far seen by the coasting crew—
Waves, sails and sailors in accord
Illumed are in a mystery,
Wonder and glory of the Lord,
Though manifest in aspect minor—
Phosphoric ocean in shekinah.