Canto 11 (At breakfast in refectory there…)

At breakfast in refectory there The priest—if Clarel not mistook— The good priest wore the troubled air Of honest heart striving to brook Injury, which from words abstained, And, hence, not readily arraigned; Which to requite in its own sort Is not allowed in heaven's high court, Or self-respect's. Such would forget, But for the teasing doubt or fret Lest unto worldly witness mere The injury none the less appear To challenge notice at the least.

Ungar withdrew, leaving the priest Less ill at ease; who now a thought Threw out, as 'twere in sad concern For one whose nature, sour or stern, Still dealt in all unhandsome flings

At happy times and happy things: " 'The bramble sayeth it is naught:' Poor man!" But that; and quite forbore To vent his grievance. Nor less sore He felt it—Clarel so inferred, Recalling here too Mortmain's word Of cutting censorship. How then? While most who met him frank averred That Derwent ranked with best of men, The Swede and refugee unite In one repugnance, yea, and slight. How take, construe their ill-content? A thing of vein and temperament? Rolfe liked him; and if Vine said naught, Yet even Vine seemed not uncheered By fair address. Then stole the thought Of how the priest had late appeared In that one confidential hour, Ambiguous on Saba's tower. There he dismissed it, let it fall: To probe overmuch seems finical. Nor less (for still the point did tease, Nor would away and leave at ease), Nor less, I wonder, if ere long He'll turn this off, not worth a song, As lightly as of late he turned

Poor Mortmain's sally when he burned?