11. Disquiet -

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.

Now 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?

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