The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Volume 2 / Jewish poems: Translations

     If the sudden news were known,
       That anigh the desert-place
     Where once blossomed Babylon,
       Scions of a mighty race
     Still survived, of giant build,
       Huntsmen, warriors, priest and sage,
     Whose ancestral fame had filled,
       Trumpet-tongued, the earlier age,
     How at old Assyria's feet
     Pilgrims from all lands would meet!

     Yet when Egypt's self was young,
       And Assyria's bloom unworn,
     Ere the mythic Homer sung,
       Ere the gods of Greece were born,
     Lived the nation of one God,
       Priests of freedom, sons of Shem,
     Never quelled by yoke or rod,
       Founders of Jerusalem—
     Is there one abides to-day,
     Seeker of dead cities, say!

     Answer, now as then, THEY ARE;
       Scattered broadcast o'er the lands,
     Knit in spirit nigh and far,
       With indissoluble bands.
     Half the world adores their God,
       They the living law proclaim,
     And their guerdon is—the rod,
       Stripes and scourgings, death and shame.
     Still on Israel's head forlorn,
     Every nation heaps its scorn.

     Well-nigh two thousand years hath Israel
       Suffered the scorn of man for love of God;
       Endured the outlaw's ban, the yoke, the rod,
     With perfect patience.  Empires rose and fell,
       Around him Nebo was adored and Bel;
     Edom was drunk with victory, and trod
     On his high places, while the sacred sod
       Was desecrated by the infidel.
     His faith proved steadfast, without breach or flaw,
       But now the last renouncement is required.
     His truth prevails, his God is God, his Law
       Is found the wisdom most to be desired.
     Not his the glory!  He, maligned, misknown,
     Bows his meek head, and says, "Thy will be done!"

     Kindle the taper like the steadfast star
       Ablaze on evening's forehead o'er the earth,
     And add each night a lustre till afar
       An eightfold splendor shine above thy hearth.
     Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,
       Blow the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn;
     Chant psalms of victory till the heart takes fire,
       The Maccabean spirit leap new-born.

     Remember how from wintry dawn till night,
       Such songs were sung in Zion, when again
     On the high altar flamed the sacred light,
       And, purified from every Syrian stain,
     The foam-white walls with golden shields were hung,
       With crowns and silken spoils, and at the shrine,
     Stood, midst their conqueror-tribe, five chieftains sprung
       From one heroic stock, one seed divine.

     Five branches grown from Mattathias' stem,
       The Blessed John, the Keen-Eyed Jonathan,
     Simon the fair, the Burst-of Spring, the Gem,
       Eleazar, Help of-God; o'er all his clan
     Judas the Lion-Prince, the Avenging Rod,
       Towered in warrior-beauty, uncrowned king,
     Armed with the breastplate and the sword of God,
       Whose praise is: "He received the perishing."

     They who had camped within the mountain-pass,
       Couched on the rock, and tented neath the sky,
     Who saw from Mizpah's heights the tangled grass
       Choke the wide Temple-courts, the altar lie
     Disfigured and polluted—who had flung
       Their faces on the stones, and mourned aloud
     And rent their garments, wailing with one tongue,
       Crushed as a wind-swept bed of reeds is bowed,

     Even they by one voice fired, one heart of flame,
       Though broken reeds, had risen, and were men,
     They rushed upon the spoiler and o'ercame,
       Each arm for freedom had the strength of ten.
     Now is their mourning into dancing turned,
       Their sackcloth doffed for garments of delight,
     Week-long the festive torches shall be burned,
       Music and revelry wed day with night.

     Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm,
       The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word.
     Where is our Judas?  Where our five-branched palm?
       Where are the lion-warriors of the Lord?
     Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,
       Sound the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn,
     Chant hymns of victory till the heart take fire,
       The Maccabean spirit leap new-born!

     "O World-God, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian cried.
     His prayer was granted.  High as heaven, behold
     Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide
     Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.
     Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,
     World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,
     His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined,
     Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.
     Seek Pharaoh's race to-day and ye shall find
     Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

     "O World-God, give me beauty!" cried the Greek.
     His prayer was granted.  All the earth became
     Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,
     Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,
     Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.
     The lyre was his, and his the breathing might
     Of the immortal marble, his the play
     Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue.
     Go seek the sun-shine race, ye find to-day
     A broken column and a lute unstrung.

     "O World-God, give me Power!" the Roman cried.
     His prayer was granted.  The vast world was chained
     A captive to the chariot of his pride.
     The blood of myriad provinces was drained
     To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart.
     Invulnerably bulwarked every part
     With serried legions and with close-meshed Code,
     Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home,
     A roofless ruin stands where once abode
     The imperial race of everlasting Rome.

     "O Godhead, give me Truth!" the Hebrew cried.
     His prayer was granted; he became the slave
     Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,
     Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save.
     The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
     His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.
     Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.
     Seek him to-day, and find in every land.
     No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
     Immortal through the lamp within his hand.

     Weep, Israel! your tardy meed outpour
       Of grateful homage on his fallen head,
     That never coronal of triumph wore,
       Untombed, dishonored, and unchapleted.
     If Victory makes the hero, raw Success
       The stamp of virtue, unremembered
     Be then the desperate strife, the storm and stress
       Of the last Warrior Jew.  But if the man
     Who dies for freedom, loving all things less,
       Against world-legions, mustering his poor clan;
     The weak, the wronged, the miserable, to send
       Their death-cry's protest through the ages' span—
     If such an one be worthy, ye shall lend
       Eternal thanks to him, eternal praise.
     Nobler the conquered than the conqueror's end!

                     1492.

     Thou two-faced year, Mother of Change and Fate,
     Didst weep when Spain cast forth with flaming sword,
     The children of the prophets of the Lord,
     Prince, priest, and people, spurned by zealot hate.
     Hounded from sea to sea, from state to state,
     The West refused them, and the East abhorred.
     No anchorage the known world could afford,
     Close-locked was every port, barred every gate.
     Then smiling, thou unveil'dst, O two-faced year,
     A virgin world where doors of sunset part,
     Saying, "Ho, all who weary, enter here!
     There falls each ancient barrier that the art
     Of race or creed or rank devised, to rear
     Grim bulwarked hatred between heart and heart!"
       1883.

               A Legend of the Talmud.

                         I.

     When angels visit earth, the messengers
     Of God's decree, they come as lightning, wind:
     Before the throne, they all are living fire.
     There stand four rows of angels—to the right
     The hosts of Michael, Gabriel's to the left,
     Before, the troop of Ariel, and behind,
     The ranks of Raphael; all, with one accord,
     Chanting the glory of the Everlasting.
     Upon the high and holy throne there rests,
     Invisible, the Majesty of God.
     About his brows the crown of mystery
     Whereon the sacred letters are engraved
     Of the unutterable Name.  He grasps
     A sceptre of keen fire; the universe
     Is compassed in His glance; at His right hand
     Life stands, and at His left hand standeth Death.

     II.

     Lo, the divine idea of making man
     Had spread abroad among the heavenly hosts;
     And all at once before the immortal throne
     Pressed troops of angels and of seraphim,
     With minds opposed, and contradicting cries:
     "Fulfill, great Father, thine exalted thought!
     Create and give unto the earth her king!"
     "Cease, cease, Almighty God! create no more!"
     And suddenly upon the heavenly sphere
     Deep silence fell; before the immortal throne
     The angel Mercy knelt, and thus he spoke:
     "Fulfill, great Father, thine exalted thought!
     Create the likeness of thyself on earth.
     In this new creature I will breathe the spirit
     Of a divine compassion; he shall be
     Thy fairest image in the universe."
     But to his words the angel Peace replied,
     With heavy sobs: "My spirit was outspread,
     Oh God, on thy creation, and all things
     Were sweetly bound in gracious harmony.
     But man, this strange new being, everywhere
     Shall bring confusion, trouble, discord, war."
     "Avenger of injustice and of crime,"
     Exclaimed the angel Justice, "he shall be
     Subject to me, and peace shall bloom again.
     Create, oh Lord, create!"  "Father of truth,"
     Implored with tears the angel Truth, "Thou bring'st
     Upon the earth the father of all lies!"
     And over the celestial faces gloomed
     A cloud of grief, and stillness deep prevailed.
     Then from the midst of that abyss of light
     Whence sprang the eternal throne, these words rang forth:
     "Be comforted, my daughter!  Thee I send
     To be companion unto man on earth."
     And all the angels cried, lamenting loud:
     "Thou robbest heaven of her fairest gem.
     Truth! seal of all thy thoughts, Almighty God,
     The richest jewel that adorns thy crown."
     From the abyss of glory rang the voice:
     "From heaven to earth, from earth once more to heaven,
     Shall Truth, with constant interchange, alight
     And soar again, an everlasting link
     Between the world and sky."
                   And man was born.

     Raschi of Troyes, the Moon of Israel,
     The authoritative Talmudist, returned
     From his wide wanderings under many skies,
     To all the synagogues of the Orient,
     Through Spain and Italy, the isles of Greece,
     Beautiful, dolorous, sacred Palestine,
     Dead, obelisked Egypt, floral, musk-breathed Persia,
     Laughing with bloom, across the Caucasus,
     The interminable sameness of bare steppes,
     Through dark luxuriance of Bohemian woods,
     And issuing on the broad, bright Moldau vale,
     Entered the gates of Prague.  Here, too, his fame,
     Being winged, preceded him.  His people swarmed
     Like bees to gather the rich honey-dew
     Of learning from his lips.  Amazement filled
     All eyes beholding him.  No hoary sage,
     He who had sat in Egypt at the feet
     Of Moses ben-Maimuni, called him friend;
     Raschi the scholiast, poet, and physician,
     Who bore the ponderous Bible's storied wisdom,
     The Mischna's tangled lore at tip of tongue,
     Light as a garland on a lance, appeared
     In the just-ripened glory of a man.
     From his clear eye youth flamed magnificent;
     Force, masked by grace, moved in his balanced frame;
     An intellectual, virile beauty reigned
     Dominant on domed brow, on fine, firm lips,
     An eagle profile cut in gilded bronze,
     Strong, delicate as a head upon a coin,
     While, as an aureole crowns a burning lamp,
     Above all beauty of the body and brain
     Shone beauty of a soul benign with love.
     Even as a tawny flock of huddled sheep,
     Grazing each other's heels, urged by one will,
     With bleat and baa following the wether's lead,
     Or the wise shepherd, so o'er the Moldau bridge
     Trotted the throng of yellow-caftaned Jews,
     Chattering, hustling, shuffling.  At their head
     Marched Rabbi Jochanan ben-Eleazar,
     High priest in Prague, oldest and most revered,
     To greet the star of Israel.  As a father
     Yearns toward his son, so toward the noble Raschi
     Leapt at first sight the patriarch's fresh old heart.
     "My home be thine in Prague!  Be thou my son,
     Who have no offspring save one simple girl.
     See, glorious youth, who dost renew the days
     Of David and of Samuel, early graced
     With God's anointing oil, how Israel
     Delights to honor who hath honored him."
     Then Raschi, though he felt a ball of fire
     Globe itself in his throat, maintained his calm,
     His cheek's opaque, swart pallor while he kissed
     Silent the Rabbi's withered hand, and bowed
     Divinely humble, his exalted head
     Craving the benison.
                            For each who asked
     He had the word of counsel, comfort, help;
     For all, rich eloquence of thanks.  His voice,
     Even and grave, thrilled secret chords and set
     Plain speech to music.  Certain folk were there
     Sick in the body, dragging painful limbs,
     To the physician.  These he solaced first,
     With healing touch, with simples from his pouch,
     Warming and lulling, best with promises
     Of constant service till their ills were cured.
     And some, gray-bearded, bald, and curved with age,
     Blear-eyed from poring over lines obscure
     And knotty riddles of the Talmud, brought
     Their problems to this youth, who cleared and solved,
     Yielding prompt answer to a lifetime's search.
     Then, followed, pushed by his obsequious tribe,
     Who fain had pedestaled him on their backs,
     Hemming his steps, choking the airs of heaven
     With their oppressive honors, he advanced,
     Midst shouts, tumultuous welcomes, kisses showered
     Upon his road-stained garments, through Prague's streets,
     Gaped at by Gentiles, hissed at and reviled,
     But no whit altering his majestic mien
     For overwhelming plaudits or contempt.
     Glad tidings Raschi brought from West and East
     Of thriving synagogues, of famous men,
     And flourishing academies.  In Rome
     The Papal treasurer was a pious Jew,
     Rabbi Jehiel, neath whose patronage
     Prospered a noble school.  Two hundred Jews
     Dwelt free and paid no tributary mark.
     Three hundred lived in peace at Capua,
     Shepherded by the learned Rabbi David,
     A prince of Israel.  In Babylon
     The Jews established their Academy.
     Another still in Bagdad, from whose chair
     Preached the great rabbi, Samuel Ha-levi,
     Versed in the written and the oral law,
     Who blindfold could repeat the whole vast text
     Of Mischna and Gemara.  On the banks
     Of Eden-born Euphrates, one day's ride
     From Bagdad, Raschi found in the wilderness,
     Which once was Babylon, Ezekiel's tomb.
     Thrice ten perpetual lamps starred the dim shrine,
     Two hundred sentinels held the sleepless vigil,
     Receiving offerings.  At the Feast of Booths
     Here crowded Jews by thousands, out of Persia,
     From all the neighboring lands, to celebrate
     The glorious memories of the golden days.
     Ten thousand Jews with their Academy
     Damascus boasted, while in Cairo shone
     The pearl, the crown of Israel, ben-Maimuni,
     Physician at the Court of Saladin,
     The second Moses, gathering at his feet
     Sages from all the world.
                               As Raschi spake,
     Forgetting or ignoring the chief shrine,
     The Exile's Home, whereunto yearned all hearts,
     All ears were strained for tidings.  Some one asked:
     "What of Jerusalem?  Speak to us of Zion."
     The light died from his eyes.  From depths profound
     Issued his grave, great voice: "Alas for Zion!
     Verily is she fallen!  Where our race
     Dictated to the nations, not a handful,
     Nay, not a score, not ten, not two abide!
     One, only one, one solitary Jew,
     The Rabbi Abraham Haceba, flits
     Ghostlike amid the ruins; every year
     Beggars himself to pay the idolaters
     The costly tax for leave to hold a-gape
     His heart's live wound; to weep, a mendicant,
     Amidst the crumbled stones of palaces
     Where reigned his ancestors, upon the graves
     Where sleep the priests, the prophets, and the kings
     Who were his forefathers.  Ask me no more!"

     Now, when the French Jew's advent was proclaimed,
     And his tumultuous greeting, envious growls
     And ominous eyebeams threatened storm in Prague.
     "Who may this miracle of learning be?
     The Anti-Christ!  The century-long-awaited,
     The hourly-hoped Messiah, come at last!
     Else dared they never wax so arrogant,
     Flaunting their monstrous joy in Christian eyes,
     And strutting peacock-like, with hideous screams,
     Who are wont to crawl, mute reptiles underfoot."
     A stone or two flung at some servile form,
     Liveried in the yellow gaberdine
     (With secret happiness but half suppressed
     On features cast for misery), served at first
     For chance expression of the rabble's hate;
     But, swelling like a snow-ball rolled along
     By mischief-plotting boys, the rage increased,
     Grew to a mighty mass, until it reached
     The palace of Duke Vladislaw.  He heard
     With righteous wrath his injured subjects' charge
     Against presumptuous aliens: how these blocked
     His avenues, his bridges; bared to the sun
     The canker-taint of Prague's obscurest coigne;
     Paraded past the churches of the Lord
     One who denied Him, one by them hailed Christ.
     Enough!  This cloud, no bigger than one's hand,
     Gains overweening bulk.  Prague harbored, first,
     Out of contemptuous ruth, a wretched band
     Of outcast paupers, gave them leave to ply
     Their money-lending trade, and leased them land
     On all too facile terms.  Behold! to-day,
     Like leeches bloated with the people's blood,
     They batten on Bohemia's poverty;
     They breed and grow; like adders, spit back hate
     And venomed perfidy for Christian love.
     Thereat the Duke, urged by wise counsellors—
     Narzerad the statesman (half whose wealth was pledged
     To the usurers), abetted by the priest,
     Bishop of Olmutz, who had visited
     The Holy Sepulchre, whose long, full life
     Was one clean record of pure piety—
     The Duke, I say, by these persuasive tongues,
     Coaxed to his darling aim, forbade his guards
     To hinder the just anger of his town,
     And ordered to be led in chains to him
     The pilgrim and his host.

                                At noontide meal
     Raschi sat, full of peace, with Jochanan,
     And the sole daughter of the house, Rebekah,
     Young, beautiful as her namesake when she brought
     Her firm, frail pitcher balanced on her neck
     Unto the well, and gave the stranger drink,
     And gave his camels drink.  The servant set
     The sparkling jar's refreshment from his lips,
     And saw the virgin's face, bright as the moon,
     Beam from the curled luxuriance of black locks,
     And cast-back linen veil's soft-folded cloud,
     Then put the golden ear-ring by her cheek,
     The bracelets on her hands, his master's pledge,
     Isaac's betrothal gift, whom she should wed,
     And be the mother of millions—one whose seed
     Dwells in the gates of those which hate them.
                                          So
     Yearned Raschi to adorn the radiant girl
     Who sat at board before him, nor dared lift
     Shy, heavy lids from pupils black as grapes
     That dart the imprisoned sunshine from their core.
     But in her ears keen sense was born to catch,
     And in her heart strange power to hold, each tone
     O' the low-keyed, vibrant voice, each syllable
     O' the eloquent discourse, enriched with tales
     Of venturous travel, brilliant with fine points
     Of delicate humor, or illustrated
     With living portraits of world-famoused men,
     Jews, Saracens, Crusaders, Islamites,
     Whose hand he had grasped—the iron warrior,
     Godfrey of Bouillon, the wise infidel
     Who in all strength, wit, courtesy excelled
     The kings his foes—imperial Saladin.
     But even as Raschi spake an abrupt noise
     Of angry shouts, of battering staves that shook
     The oaken portal, stopped the enchanted voice,
     The uplifted wine spilled from the nerveless hand
     Of Rabbi Jochanan.  "God pity us!
     Our enemies are upon us once again.
     Hie thee, Rebekah, to the inmost chamber,
     Far from their wanton eyes' polluting gaze,
     Their desecrating touch!  Kiss me!  Begone!
     Raschi, my guest, my son"—But no word more
     Uttered the reverend man.  With one huge crash
     The strong doors split asunder, pouring in
     A stream of soldiers, ruffians, armed with pikes,
     Lances, and clubs—the unchained beast, the mob.
     "Behold the town's new guest!" jeered one who tossed
     The half-filled golden wine-cup's contents straight
     In the noble pure young face.  "What, master Jew!
     Must your good friends of Prague break bolts and bars
     To gain a peep at this prodigious pearl
     You bury in your shell?  Forth to the day!
     Our Duke himself claims share of your new wealth;
     Summons to court the Jew philosopher!"
     Then, while some stuffed their pokes with baubles snatched
     From board and shelf, or with malignant sword
     Slashed the rich Orient rugs, the pictured woof
     That clothed the wall; others had seized and bound,
     And gagged from speech, the helpless, aged man;
     Still others outraged, with coarse, violent hands,
     The marble-pale, rigid as stone, strange youth,
     Whose eye like struck flint flashed, whose nether lip
     Was threaded with a scarlet line of blood,
     Where the compressed teeth fixed it to forced calm.
     He struggled not while his free limbs were tied,
     His beard plucked, torn and spat upon his robe—
     Seemed scarce to know these insults were for him;
     But never swerved his gaze from Jochanan.
     Then, in God's language, sealed from these dumb brutes,
     Swiftly and low he spake: "Be of good cheer,
     Reverend old man.  I deign not treat with these.
     If one dare offer bodily hurt to thee,
     By the ineffable Name!  I snap my chains
     Like gossamer, and in his blood, to the hilt,
     Bathe the prompt knife hid in my girdle's folds.
     The Duke shall hear me.  Patience.  Trust in me."
     Somewhat the authoritative voice abashed,
     Even hoarse and changed, the miscreants, who feared
     Some strong curse lurked in this mysterious tongue,
     Armed with this evil eye.  But brief the spell.
     With gibe and scoff they dragged their victims forth,
     The abused old man, the proud, insulted youth,
     O'er the late path of his triumphal march,
     Befouled with mud, with raiment torn, wild hair
     And ragged beard, to Vladislaw.  He sat
     Expectant in his cabinet.  On one side
     His secular adviser, Narzerad,
     Quick-eyed, sharp-nosed, red-whiskered as a fox;
     On the other hand his spiritual guide,
     Bishop of Olmutz, unctuous, large, and bland.
     "So these twain are chief culprits!" sneered the Duke,
     Measuring with the noble's ignorant scorn
     His masters of a lesser caste.  "Stand forth!
     Rash, stubborn, vain old man, whose impudence
     Hath choked the public highways with thy brood
     Of nasty vermin, by our sufferance hid
     In lanes obscure, who hailed this charlatan
     With sky-flung caps, bent knees, and echoing shouts,
     Due to ourselves alone in Prague; yea, worse,
     Who offered worship even ourselves disclaim,
     Our Lord Christ's meed, to this blaspheming Jew—
     Thy crimes have murdered patience.  Thou hast wrecked
     Thy people's fortune with thy own.  But first
     (For even in anger we are just) recount
     With how great compensation from thy store
     Of hoarded gold and jewels thou wilt buy
     Remission of the penalty.  Be wise.
     Hark how my subjects, storming through the streets,
     Vent on thy tribe accursed their well-based wrath."
     And, truly, through closed casements roared the noise
     Of mighty surging crowds, derisive cries,
     And victims' screams of anguish and affright.
     Then Raschi, royal in his rags, began:
     "Hear me, my liege!"  At that commanding voice,
     The Bishop, who with dazed eyes had perused
     The grieved, wise, beautiful, pale face, sprang up,
     Quick recognition in his glance, warm joy
     Aflame on his broad cheeks.  "No more!  No more!
     Thou art the man!  Give me the hand to kiss
     That raised me from the shadow of the grave
     In Jaffa's lazar-house!  Listen, my liege!
     During my pilgrimage to Palestine
     I, sickened with the plague and nigh to death,
     Languished 'midst strangers, all my crumbling flesh
     One rotten mass of sores, a thing for dogs
     To shy from, shunned by Christian as by Turk,
     When lo! this clean-breathed, pure-souled, blessed youth,
     Whom I, not knowing for an infidel,
     Seeing featured like the Christ, believed a saint,
     Sat by my pillow, charmed the sting from pain,
     Quenched the fierce fever's heat, defeated Death;
     And when I was made whole, had disappeared,
     No man knew whither, leaving no more trace
     Than a re-risen angel.  This is he!"
     Then Raschi, who had stood erect, nor quailed
     From glances of hot hate or crazy wrath,
     Now sank his eagle gaze, stooped his high head,
     Veiling his glowing brow, returned the kiss
     Of brother-love upon the Christian's hand,
     And dropping on his knees implored the three,
     "Grace for my tribe!  They are what ye have made.
     If any be among them fawning, false,
     Insatiable, revengeful, ignorant, mean—
     And there are many such—ask your own hearts
     What virtues ye would yield for planted hate,
     Ribald contempt, forced, menial servitude,
     Slow centuries of vengeance for a crime
     Ye never did commit?  Mercy for these!
     Who bear on back and breast the scathing brand
     Of scarlet degradation, who are clothed
     In ignominious livery, whose bowed necks
     Are broken with the yoke.  Change these to men!
     That were a noble witchcraft simply wrought,
     God's alchemy transforming clods to gold.
     If there be one among them strong and wise,
     Whose lips anoint breathe poetry and love,
     Whose brain and heart served ever Christian need—
     And there are many such—for his dear sake,
     Lest ye chance murder one of God's high priests,
     Spare his thrice-wretched tribe!  Believe me, sirs,
     Who have seen various lands, searched various hearts,
     I have yet to touch that undiscovered shore,
     Have yet to fathom that impossible soul,
     Where a true benefit's forgot; where one
     Slight deed of common kindness sown yields not
     As now, as here, abundant crop of love.
     Every good act of man, our Talmud says,
     Creates an angel, hovering by his side.
     Oh! what a shining host, great Duke, shall guard
     Thy consecrated throne, for all the lives
     Thy mercy spares, for all the tears thy ruth
     Stops at the source.  Behold this poor old man,
     Last of a line of princes, stricken in years,
     As thy dead father would have been to-day.
     Was that white beard a rag for obscene hands
     To tear? a weed for lumpish clowns to pluck?
     Was that benignant, venerable face
     Fit target for their foul throats' voided rheum?
     That wrinkled flesh made to be pulled and pricked,
     Wounded by flinty pebbles and keen steel?
     Behold the prostrate, patriarchal form,
     Bruised, silent, chained.  Duke, such is Israel!"
     "Unbind these men!" commanded Vladislaw.
     "Go forth and still the tumult of my town.
     Let no Jew suffer violence.  Raschi, rise!
     Thou who hast served the Christ—with this priest's life,
     Who is my spirit's counselor—Christ serves thee.
     Return among thy people with my seal,
     The talisman of safety.  Let them know
     The Duke's their friend.  Go, publish the glad news!"
     Raschi the Saviour, Raschi the Messiah,
     Back to the Jewry carried peace and love.
     But Narzerad fed his venomed heart with gall,
     Vowing to give his fatal hatred vent,
     Despite a world of weak fantastic Dukes
     And heretic bishops.  He fulfilled his vow.

              [Aaron Ben Mier "loquitur."]

     If I remember Raschi?  An I live,
     Grandson, to bless thy grandchild, I'll forget
     Never that youth and what he did for Prague.
     Aye, aye, I know! he slurred a certain verse
     In such and such a prayer; omitted quite
     To stand erect there where the ritual
     Commands us rise and bow towards the East;
     Therefore, the ingrates brand him heterodox,
     Neglect his memory whose virtue saved
     Each knave of us alive.  Not I forget,
     No more does God, who wrought a miracle
     For his dear sake.  The Passover was here.
     Raschi, just wedded with the fair Rebekah,
     Bode but the lapsing of the holy week
     For homeward journey with his bride to France.
     The sacred meal was spread.  All sat at board
     Within the house of Rabbi Jochanan:
     The kind old priest; his noble, new-found son,
     Whose name was wrung in every key of praise,
     By every voice in Prague, from Duke to serf
     (Save the vindictive bigot, Narzerad);
     The beautiful young wife, whose cup of joy
     Sparkled at brim; next her the vacant chair
     Awaited the Messiah, who, unannounced,
     In God's good time shall take his place with us.
     Now when the Rabbi reached the verse where one
     Shall rise from table, flinging wide the door,
     To give the Prophet entrance, if so be
     The glorious hour have sounded, Raschi rose,
     Pale, grave, yet glad with great expectancy,
     Crossed the hushed room, and, with a joyous smile
     To greet the Saviour, opened the door.
                                            A curse!
     A cry, "Revenged!" a thrust, a stifled moan,
     The sheathing of a poniard—that was all!
     In the dark vestibule a fleeing form,
     Masked, gowned in black; and in the room of prayer,
     Raschi, face downward on the stone-cold floor,
     Bleeding his life out.  Oh! what a cry was that
     (Folk shuddered, hearing, roods off in the street)
     Wherewith Rebekah rushed to raise her lord,
     Kneeling beside him, striving in vain to quench
     With turban, veil, torn shreds of gown, stained hands,
     The black blood's sickening gush.  He never spoke,
     Never rewarded with one glance of life
     The passion in her eyes.  He met his end
     Even as beneath the sickle the full ear
     Bows to its death—so beautiful, silent, ripe.

     Well, we poor Jews must gulp our injuries,
     Howe'er they choke us.  What redress in Prague
     For the inhuman murder?  A strange Jew
     The victim; the suspected criminal
     The ducal counselor!  Such odds forbade
     Revenge or justice.  We forbore to seek.
     The priest, discrowned o' the glory of his age,
     The widow-bride, mourned as though smitten of God,
     Gave forth they would with solemn obsequies
     Bury their dead, and crave no help from man.
     Now of what chanced betwixt the night of murder
     And the appointed burial I can give
     Only the sum of gossip—servants' tales,
     Neighbors' reports, close confidences leaked
     From friends and kindred.  Night and day, folk said,
     Rebekah wept, prayed, fasted by the corpse,
     Three mortal days.  Upon the third, her eyes,
     Sunk in their pits, glimmered with wild, strange fire.
     She started from her place beside the dead,
     Kissed clay-cold brow, cheeks, lids, and lips once more,
     And with a maniac's wan, heart-breaking smile,
     Veiled, hooded, glided through the twilight streets,
     A sable shadow.  From the willow-grove,
     Close by the Moldau's brink, beyond the bridge,
     Her trace was lost.  'T was evening and mild May,
     Air full of spring, skies perfect as a pearl;
     Yet one who saw her pass amidst the shades
     O' the blue-gray branches swears a sudden flame,
     As of miraculous lightning, thrilled through heaven.
     One hour thereafter she reentered Prague,
     Slid swiftly through the streets, as though borne on
     By ankle-wings or floating on soft cloud,
     Smiling no more, but with illumined eyes,
     Transfigured brow, grave lips, and faltering limbs,
     So came into the room where Raschi lay
     Stretched 'twixt tall tapers lit at head and foot.
     She held in both hands leafy, flowerless plants,
     Some she had fastened in her twisted hair,
     Stuck others in her girdle, and from all
     Issued a racy odor, pungent-sweet,
     The living soul of Spring.  Death's chamber seemed
     As though clear sunshine and a singing bird
     Therein had entered.  From the precious herb
     She poured into a golden bowl the sap,
     Sparkling like wine; then with a soundless prayer,
     White as the dead herself, she held the cup
     To Raschi's mouth.  A quick, small flame sprang up
     From the enchanted balsam, died away,
     And lo! the color dawned in cheek and lips,
     The life returned, the sealed, blind lids were raised,
     And in the glorious eyes love reawoke,
     And, looking up, met love.
                                So runs the tale,
     Mocked by the worldly-wise; but I believe,
     Knowing the miracles the Lord hath wrought
     In every age for Jacob's seed.  Moreover,
     I, with the highest and meanest Jew in Prague,
     Was at the burial.  No man saw the dead.
     Sealed was the coffin ere the rites began,
     And none could swear it went not empty down
     Into the hollow earth.  Too shrewd our priest
     To publish such a wonder, and expose
     That consecrated life to second death.
     Scarce were the thirty days of mourning sped,
     When we awoke to find his home left bare,
     Rebekah and her father fled from Prague.
     God grant they had glad meeting otherwhere!

     From Joshua Ibn Vives of Allorqui to his Former Master, Solomon
     Levi-Paul, de Santa-Maria, Bishop of Cartegna Chancellor of
     Castile, and Privy Councillor to King Henry III. of Spain.

       [In this poem I have done little more than elaborate
       and versify the account given in Graetz's History of the
       Jews (Vol. VIII., page 77), of an Epistle actually written
       in the beginning of the 15th century by Joshua ben Joseph
       Ibn Vives to Paulus de Santa Maria—E.L.]

                           I.

     Master and Sage, greetings and health to thee,
       From thy most meek disciple!  Deign once more
     Endure me at thy feet, enlighten me,
       As when upon my boyish head of yore,
     Midst the rapt circle gathered round thy knee
       Thy sacred vials of learning thou didst pour.
     By the large lustre of thy wisdom orbed
     Be my black doubts illumined and absorbed.

     II.

     Oft I recall that golden time when thou,
       Born for no second station, heldst with us
     The Rabbi's chair, who art priest and bishop now;
       And we, the youth of Israel, curious,
     Hung on thy counsels, lifted reverent brow
       Unto thy sanctity, would fain discuss
     With thee our Talmud problems good and evil,
     Till startled by the risen stars o'er Seville.

     III.

     For on the Synagogue's high-pillared porch
       Thou didst hold session, till the sudden sun
     Beyond day's purple limit dropped his torch.
       Then we, as dreamers, woke, to find outrun
     Time's rapid sands.  The flame that may not scorch,
       Our hearts caught from thine eyes, thou Shining One.
     I scent not yet sweet lemon-groves in flower,
     But I re-breathe the peace of that deep hour.

     IV.

     We kissed the sacred borders of thy gown,
       Brow-aureoled with thy blessing, we went forth
     Through the hushed byways of the twilight town.
       Then in all life but one thing seemed of worth,
     To seek, find, love the Truth.  She set her crown
       Upon thy head, our Master, at thy birth;
     She bade thy lips drop honey, fired thine eyes
     With the unclouded glow of sun-steeped skies.

                      V.

     Forgive me, if I dwell on that which, viewed
       From thy new vantage-ground, must seem a mist
     Of error, by auroral youth endued
       With alien lustre.  Still in me subsist
     Those reeking vapors; faith and gratitude
       Still lead me to the hand my boy-lips kissed
     For benison and guidance.  Not in wrath,
     Master, but in wise patience, point my path.

     VI.

     For I, thy servant, gather in one sheaf
       The venomed shafts of slander, which thy word
     Shall shrivel to small dust.  If haply grief,
       Or momentary pain, I deal, my Lord
     Blame not thy servant's zeal, nor be thou deaf
       Unto my soul's blind cry for light.  Accord—
     Pitying my love, if too superb to care
     For hate-soiled name—an answer to my prayer.

     VII.

     To me, who, vine to stone, clung close to thee,
       The very base of life appeared to quake
     When first I knew thee fallen from us, to be
       A tower of strength among our foes, to make
     'Twixt Jew and Jew deep-cloven enmity.
       I have wept gall and blood for thy dear sake.
     But now with temperate soul I calmly search
     Motive and cause that bound thee to the Church.

     VIII.

     Four motives possible therefor I reach—
       Ambition, doubt, fear, or mayhap—conviction.
     I hear in turn ascribed thee all and each
       By ignorant folk who part not truth from fiction.
     But I, whom even thyself didst stoop to teach,
       May poise the scales, weigh this with that confliction,
     Yea, sift the hid grain motive from the dense,
     Dusty, eye-blinding chaff of consequence.