Canto 22 (As by the wood drifts thistle-down…)

As by the wood drifts thistle-down And settles on soft mosses fair, Stillness was wafted, dropped and sown; Which stillness Vine, with timorous air Of virgin tact, thus brake upon,

Nor with chance hint: "One can't forbear Thinking that Margoth is—aJew." Hereat, as for response, they view The priest. "And, well, why me?" he cried; "With one consent why turn to me? Am I professional? Nay, free! I grant that here by Judah's side Queerly it jars with frame implied To list this geologic Jew His way Jehovah's world construe: In Gentile 'twould not seem so odd. But here may preconceptions thrall?

Be many Hebrews we recall Whose contrast with the breastplate bright Of Aaron flushed in altarlight, And Horeb's Moses, rock and rod, Or closeted alone with God, Quite equals Margoth's in its way: At home we meet them every day. The Houndsditch clothesman scarce would seem Akin to seers. For one, I deem Jew banker, merchant, statesman—these, With artist, actress known to fame, All strenuous in each Gentile aim, Are Nature's off-hand witnesses There's nothing mystic in her reign: YourJew's like wheat from Pharaoh's tomb: Sow it in England, what will come? The weird old seed yields market grain." Pleased by his wit while some recline, A smile uncertain lighted Vine, But died away. "Jews share the change," Derwent proceeded: "Range, they range— In liberal sciences they roam; They're leavened, and it works, believe; Signs are, and such as scarce deceive: From Holland, that historic home Of erudite Israel, many a tome Talmudic, shipped is over sea For antiquarian rubbish." "Rest!" Cried Rolfe; "e'en that indeed may be, Nor less the Jew keep fealty To ancient rites. Aaron's gemmed vest Will long outlive Genevan cloth— Nothing in Time's old camphor-chest So little subject to the moth. But Rabbis have their troublers too. Nay, if thro' dusty stalls we look, Haply we disinter to view More than one bold freethinking Jew

That in his day with vigor shook Faith's leaning tower." "Which stood the throe," Here Derwent in appendix: "look, Faith's leaning tower was founded so: Faith leaned from the beginning; yes, If slant, she holds her steadfastness. " "May be;" and paused: "but wherefore clog?— Uriel Acosta, he was one Who troubled much the synagoguc Recanted then, and dropped undone: A suicide. There's Heine, too, (In lineage crossed by blood of Jew,) Pale jester, to whom life was yet A tragic farce; whose wild death-rattle, In which all voids and hollows met, Desperately maintained the battle Betwixt the dirge and castanet. But him leave to his Paris stone And rail, and friendly wreath thereon. Recall those Hebrews, which of old Sharing some doubts we moderns rue, Would fain Eclectic comfort fold By grafting slips from Plato's palm On Moses' melancholy yew:

But did they sprout? So we seek balm By kindred graftings. Is that true?" "Why ask? But see: there lived a Jew— No Alexandrine Greekish onc You know him—Moses Mendelssohn." "Is't him you cite? True spirit staid, He, though his honest heart was scourged By doubt Judaic, never laid His burden at Christ's door; he urged— 'Admit the mounting flames enfold My basement; wisely shall my feet The attic win, for safe retreat?' " "And he said that? Poor man, he's cold. But was not this that Mendelssohn Whose Hebrew kinswoman's Hebrew son,

Baptized to Christian, worthily won The good name of Neander so?" "If that link were, well might one urge From such example, thy strange flow, Conviction! Breaking habit's tether, Sincerest minds will yet diverge Like chance-clouds scattered by mere weather; Nor less at one point still they meet: The self-hood keep they pure and sweet."

"But Margoth," in reminder here Breathed Vine, as if while yet the ray Lit Rolfe, to try his further cheer: "But Margoth!" "He, poor sheep astray, The Levitic cipher quite erased, On what vile pig-weed hath he grazed. Not his Spinosa's starry brow (A non-conformer, ye'll allow), A lion in brain, in life a lamb, Sinless recluse of Amsterdam; Who, in the obscure and humble lane, Such strangers seemed to entertain As sat by tent beneath the tree On Mamre's plain—mysterious three, The informing guests of Abraham. But no, it had but ill beseemed If God's own angels so could list To visit one, Pan's Atheist. That high intelligence but dreamed— Above delusion's vulgar plain Deluded still. The erring twain, Spinosa and poor Margoth here, Both Jews, which in dissent do vary: In these what parted poles appear— The blind man and the visionary." "And whose the eye that sees aright, If any?" Clarel eager asked. Aside Rolfe turned as overtasked;

And none responded. 'Twas like night Descending from the seats of light, Or seeming thence to fall. But here Sedate a kindly tempered look Private and confidential spoke From Derwent's eyes, Clarel to cheer: Take heart; something to fit thy youth Instill I may, some saving truth— Not best just now to volunteer. Thought Clarel: Pray, and what wouldst prove? Thy faith an over-easy glove.

Meanwhile Vine had relapsed. They saw In silence the heart's shadow draw— Rich shadow, such as gardens keep In bower aside, where glow-worms peep In evening over the virgin bed Where dark-green periwinkles sleep— Their bud the Violet of the Dead.