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Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here!
'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe,
To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip

And share with thee whatever Jewry yields.
A viscid choler is observable

In tertians, I was nearly bold to say;
And falling-sickness hath a happier cure
Than our school wots of: there's a spider here
Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs,
Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back;

Take five and drop them . . . but who knows his mind,
The Syrian runagate I trust this to?

His service payeth me a sublimate

Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye.
Best wait: I reach Jerusalem at morn,
There set in order my experiences,

Gather what most deserves, and give thee all
Or I might add, Judæa's gum-tragacanth
Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained,
Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry,
In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-disease
Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy
Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar
But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end.

Yet stay my Syrian blinketh gratefully,
Protesteth his devotion is my price

Suppose I write what harms not, though he steal?
I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush,
What set me off a-writing first of all.
An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang!
For, be it this town's barrenness

or else

The Man had something in the look of him

His case has struck me far more than 't is worth.

So, pardon if (lest presently I lose

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In the great press of novelty at hand

The care and pains this somehow stole from me)
I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind,
Almost in sight - for, wilt thou have the truth?
The very man is gone from me but now,
Whose ailment is the subject of discourse.
Thus then, and let thy better wit help all!

'Tis but a case of mania - subinduced By epilepsy, at the turning-point

Of trance prolonged unduly some three days:

When, by the exhibition of some drug
Or spell, exorcisation, stroke of art

Unknown to me and which 't were well to know
The evil thing outbreaking all at once

Left the man whole and sound of body indeed,
But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide,
Making a clear house of it too suddenly,
The first conceit that entered might inscribe
Whatever it was minded on the wall

So plainly at that vantage, as it were,
(First come, first served,) that nothing subsequent
Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls

The just-returned and new-established soul
Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart

That henceforth she will read or these or none.
And first the man's own firm conviction rests
That he was dead (in fact they buried him)

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That he was dead and then restored to life By a Nazarene physician of his tribe:

'Sayeth, the same bade "Rise," and he did rise. "Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry.

Not so this figment!

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- not, that such a fume,

Instead of giving way to time and health,
Should eat itself into the life of life,

As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones and all!
For see, how he takes up the after-life.
The man it is one Lazarus a Jew,
Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age,
The body's habit wholly laudable,

As much, indeed, beyond the common health
As he were made and put aside to show.
Think, could we penetrate by any drug

And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh,
And bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep!
Whence has the man the balm that brightens all?
This grown man eyes the world now like a child.
Some elders of his tribe, I should premise,
Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep,
To bear my inquisition. While they spoke,
Now sharply, now with sorrow,
told the case,

He listened not except I spoke to him,

But folded his two hands and let them talk, Watching the flies that buzzed: and yet no fool. And that's a sample how his years must go. Look if a beggar, in fixed middle-life,

Should find a treasure, can he use the same

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With straitened habits and with tastes starved small,
And take at once to his impoverished brain
The sudden element that changes things,
That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand,
And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust?
Is he not such an one as moves to mirth
Warily parsimonious, when no need,
Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times?
All prudent counsel as to what befits
The golden mean, is lost on such an one :
The man's fantastic will is the man's law.
So here we call the treasure knowledge, say,
Increased beyond the fleshly faculty –

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Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth,
Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven:
The man is witless of the size, the sum,

The value in proportion of all things,
Or whether it be little or be much.
Discourse to him of prodigious armaments
Assembled to besiege his city now,

And of the passing of a mule with gourds
'Tis one! Then take it on the other side,
Speak of some trifling fact, he will gaze rapt
With stupor at its very littleness,

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(Far as I see,) as if in that indeed

He caught prodigious import, whole results;
And so will turn to us the bystanders
In ever the same stupor (note this point)
That we too see not with his opened eyes.
Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play,
Preposterously, at cross purposes.
Should his child sicken unto death,
For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness,

Or pretermission of the daily craft!

why, look

While a word, gesture, glance from that same child

At play or in the school or laid asleep,

Will startle him to an agony of fear,

Exasperation, just as like. Demand

The reason why-"'t is but a word," object

"A gesture

” — he regards thee as our lord

Who lived there in the pyramid alone,

Looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being young, We both would unadvisedly recite

Some charm's beginning, from that book of his,

Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst

All into stars, as suns grown old are wont.

Thou and the child have each a veil alike

Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye know!

He holds on firmly to some thread of life (It is the life to lead perforcedly)

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Which runs across some vast distracting orb
Of glory on either side that
meagre thread,
Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet-
The spiritual life around the earthly life:
The law of that is known to him as this,

His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here,
So is the man perplext with impulses

Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on,
Proclaiming what is right and wrong across,
And not along, this black thread through the blaze
"It should be " balked by "here it cannot be."
And oft the man's soul springs into his face
As if he saw again and heard again

His sage that bade him "Rise " and he did rise.
Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within
Admonishes: then back he sinks at once
To ashes, who was very fire before,
In sedulous recurrence to his trade

Whereby he earneth him the daily bread;
And studiously the humbler for that pride,
Professedly the faultier that he knows
God's secret, while he holds the thread of life.
Indeed the especial marking of the man
Is prone submission to the heavenly will
Seeing it, what it is, and why it is.
'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last

For that same death which must restore his being
To equilibrium, body loosening soul

Divorced even now by premature full growth:
He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live

So long as God please, and just how God please.
He even seeketh not to please God more
(Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please.
Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach
The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be,
Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do:
How can he give his neighbor the real ground,
His own conviction? (Ardent as he is
Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old
"Be it as God please" reassureth him.

I probed the sore as thy disciple should:
"How, beast," said I, "this stolid carelessness
Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her march
To stamp out like a little spark thy town,
Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?
He merely looked with his large eyes on me.
The man is apathetic, you deduce?

Contrariwise, he loves both old and young,
Able and weak, affects the very brutes
And birds - how say I? flowers of the field
As a wise workman recognizes tools

In a master's workshop, loving what they make.
Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb:
Only impatient, let him do his best,
At ignorance and carelessness and sin
An indignation which is promptly curbed:
As when in certain travel I have feigned
To be an ignoramus in our art

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According to some preconceived design,
And happed to hear the land's practitioners
Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance,
Prattle fantastically on disease,

Its cause and cure - and I must hold my peace!

Thou wilt object

Why have I not ere this

Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene

Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source,
Conferring with the frankness that befits?
Alas! it grieveth me, the learned leech
Perished in a tumult many years ago,
Accused our learning's fate-of wizardry,
Rebellion, to the setting up a rule

And creed prodigious as described to me.
His death, which happened when the earthquake fell
(Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss

To occult learning in our lord the sage
Who lived there in the pyramid alone),

Was wrought by the mad people-that's their wont !
On vain recourse, as I conjecture it,

To his tried virtue, for miraculous help -
How could he stop the earthquake?

That's their way!

The other imputations must be lies:
But take one, though I loathe to give it thee,
In mere respect for any good man's fame.
(And after all, our patient Lazarus

Is stark mad; should we count on what he says?

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