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

     My friend spoke with insinuating tongue:
       "Drink wine, and thy flesh shall be made whole.  Look how
        it hisses in the leathern bottle like a captured serpent."
     Oh fool! can the sun be forged into a cask stopped with
       earthly bungs.  I know not that the power of wine has ever
       overmastered my sorrows; for these mighty giants I have found
       as yet no resting-place.

     "With tears thy grief thou dost bemoan,
     Tears that would melt the hardest stone,
     Oh, wherefore sing'st thou not the vine?
     Why chant'st thou not the praise of wine?
     It chases pain with cunning art,
     The craven slinks from out thy heart."

     But I: Poor fools the wine may cheat,
     Lull them with lying visions sweet.
     Upon the wings of storms may bear
     The heavy burden of their care.
     The father's heart may harden so,
     He feeleth not his own child's woe.

     No ocean is the cup, no sea,
     To drown my broad, deep misery.
     It grows so rank, you cut it all,
     The aftermath springs just as tall.
     My heart and flesh are worn away,
     Mine eyes are darkened from the day.

     The lovely morning-red behold
     Wave to the breeze her flag of gold.
     The hosts of stars above the world,
     Like banners vanishing are furled.
     The dew shines bright; I bide forlorn,
     And shudder with the chill of morn.

     With heavy groans did I approach my friends,
     Heavy as though the mountains I would move.
     The flagon they were murdering; they poured
     Into the cup, wild-eyed, the grape's red blood.
     No, they killed not, they breathed new life therein.
     Then, too, in fiery rapture, burned my veins,
     But soon the fumes had fled.  In vain, in vain!
     Ye cannot fill the breach of the rent heart.
     Ye crave a sensuous joy; ye strive in vain
     To cheat with flames of passion, my despair.
     So when the sinking sun draws near to night,
     The sky's bright cheeks fade 'neath those tresses black.
     Ye laugh—but silently the soul weeps on;
     Ye cannot stifle her sincere lament.

     DEFIANCE.

     "Conquer the gloomy night of thy sorrow, for the morning greets
          thee with laughter.
     Rise and clothe thyself with noble pride,
     Break loose from the tyranny of grief.
     Thou standest alone among men,
     Thy song is like a pearl in beauty."

     So spake my friend.  'T is well!
     The billows of the stormy sea which overwhelmed my soul,—
     These I subdue; I quake not
     Before the bow and arrow of destiny.
     I endured with patience when he deceitfully lied to me
     With his treacherous smile.

     Yea, boldly I defy Fate,
     I cringe not to envious Fortune.
     I mock the towering floods.
     My brave heart does not shrink—
     This heart of mine, that, albeit young in years,
     Is none the less rich in deep, keen-eyed experience.

              A DEGENERATE AGE.

     Where is the man who has been tried and found strong and sound?
     Where is the friend of reason and of knowledge?
     I see only sceptics and weaklings.
     I see only prisoners in the durance of the senses,
     And every fool and every spendthrift
     Thinks himself as great a master as Aristotle.
     Think'st thou that they have written poems?
     Call'st thou that a Song?
     I call it the cackling of ravens.
     The zeal of the prophet must free poesy
     From the embrace of wanton youths.
     My song I have inscribed on the forehead of Time,
     They know and hate it—for it is lofty.

     ABUL HASSAN JUDAH BEN HA-LEVI. (Born Between 1080-90.)

             A LETTER TO HIS FRIEND ISAAC.

     But yesterday the earth drank like a child
       With eager thirst the autumn rain.
     Or like a wistful bride who waits the hour
       Of love's mysterious bliss and pain.
     And now the Spring is here with yearning eyes;
       Midst shimmering golden flower-beds,
     On meadows carpeted with varied hues,
       In richest raiment clad, she treads.
     She weaves a tapestry of bloom o'er all,
       And myriad eyed young plants upspring,
     White, green, or red like lips that to the mouth
       Of the beloved one sweetly cling.
     Whence come these radiant tints, these blended beams?
       Here's such a dazzle, such a blaze,
     As though each stole the splendor of the stars,
       Fain to eclipse them with her rays.
     Come! go we to the garden with our wine,
       Which scatters sparks of hot desire,
     Within our hand 't is cold, but in our veins
       It flashes clear, it glows like fire.
     It bubbles sunnily in earthen jugs.
     We catch it in the crystal glass,
       Then wander through cool, shadowy lanes and breathe
       The spicy freshness of the grass.
     Whilst we with happy hearts our circuit keep,
       The gladness of the Earth is shown.
     She smileth, though the trickling raindrops weep
       Silently o'er her, one by one.
     She loves to feel the tears upon her cheek,
       Like a rich veil, with pearls inwove.
     Joyous she listens when the swallows chirp,
       And warbles to her mate, the dove.
     Blithe as a maiden midst the young green leaves,
       A wreath she'll wind, a fragrant treasure;
     All living things in graceful motion leap,
       As dancing to some merry measure.
     The morning breezes rustle cordially,
       Love's thirst is sated with the balm they send.
     Sweet breathes the myrtle in the frolic wind,
       As though remembering a distant friend.
     The myrtle branch now proudly lifted high,
       Now whispering to itself drops low again.
     The topmost palm-leaves rapturously stir,
       For all at once they hear the birds' soft strain.
     So stirs, so yearns all nature, gayly decked,
       To honor ISAAC with her best array.
     Hear'st thou the word?  She cries—I beam with joy,
     Because with Isaac I am wed to-day.

     ADMONITION.

     Long in the lap of childhood didst thou sleep,
     Think how thy youth like chaff did disappear;
     Shall life's sweet Spring forever last?  Look up,
     Old age approaches ominously near.
     Oh shake thou off the world, even as the bird
     Shakes off the midnight dew that clogged his wings.
     Soar upward, seek redemption from thy guilt
     And from the earthly dross that round thee clings.
     Draw near to God, His holy angels know,
     For whom His bounteous streams of mercy flow.

     LOVE-SONG.

     "See'st thou o'er my shoulders falling,
       Snake-like ringlets waving free?
     Have no fear, for they are twisted
       To allure thee unto me."

     Thus she spake, the gentle dove,
       Listen to thy plighted love:—
     "Ah, how long I wait, until
       Sweetheart cometh back (she said)
     Laying his caressing hand
       Underneath my burning head."

     SEPARATION.

     And so we twain must part!  Oh linger yet,
       Let me still feed my glance upon thine eyes.
     Forget not, love, the days of our delight,
       And I our nights of bliss shall ever prize.
     In dreams thy shadowy image I shall see,
       Oh even in my dream be kind to me!

     Though I were dead, I none the less would hear
       Thy step, thy garment rustling on the sand.
     And if thou waft me greetings from the grave,
       I shall drink deep the breath of that cold land.
     Take thou my days, command this life of mine,
       If it can lengthen out the space of thine.

     No voice I hear from lips death-pale and chill,
       Yet deep within my heart it echoes still.
     My frame remains—my soul to thee yearns forth.
       A shadow I must tarry still on earth.
     Back to the body dwelling here in pain,
       Return, my soul, make haste and come again!

     LONGING FOR JERUSALEM.

     O city of the world, with sacred splendor blest,
     My spirit yearns to thee from out the far-off West,
     A stream of love wells forth when I recall thy day,
     Now is thy temple waste, thy glory passed away.
     Had I an eagle's wings, straight would I fly to thee,
     Moisten thy holy dust with wet cheeks streaming free.
     Oh, how I long for thee! albeit thy King has gone,
     Albeit where balm once flowed, the serpent dwells alone.
     Could I but kiss thy dust, so would I fain expire,
     As sweet as honey then, my passion, my desire!

     ON THE VOYAGE TO JERUSALEM.

                        I.

     My two-score years and ten are over,
           Never again shall youth be mine.
     The years are ready-winged for flying,
           What crav'st thou still of feast and wine?
     Wilt thou still court man's acclamation,
           Forgetting what the Lord hath said?
     And forfeiting thy weal eternal,
           By thine own guilty heart misled?
     Shalt thou have never done with folly,
           Still fresh and new must it arise?
     Oh heed it not, heed not the senses,
           But follow God, be meek and wise;
     Yea, profit by thy days remaining,
           They hurry swiftly to the goal.
     Be zealous in the Lord's high service,
           And banish falsehood from thy soul.
     Use all thy strength, use all thy fervor,
           Defy thine own desires, awaken!
     Be not afraid when seas are foaming,
           And earth to her foundations shaken.
     Benumbed the hand then of the sailor,
           The captain's skill and power are lamed.
     Gayly they sailed with colors flying,
           And now turn home again ashamed.
     The ocean is our only refuge,
           The sandbank is our only goal,
     The masts are swaying as with terror,
           And quivering does the vessel roll.
     The mad wind frolics with the billows,
           Now smooths them low, now lashes high.
     Now they are storming up like lions,
           And now like serpents sleek they lie;
     And wave on wave is ever pressing,
           They hiss, they whisper, soft of tone.
     Alack! was that the vessel splitting?
           Are sail and mast and rudder gone?
     Here, screams of fright, there, silent weeping,
           The bravest feels his courage fail.
     What stead our prudence or our wisdom?
           The soul itself can naught avail.
     And each one to his God is crying,
           Soar up, my soul, to Him aspire,
     Who wrought a miracle for Jordan,
           Extol Him, oh angelic choir!
     Remember Him who stays the tempest,
           The stormy billows doth control,
     Who quickeneth the lifeless body,
           And fills the empty frame with soul.
     Behold! once more appears a wonder,
           The angry waves erst raging wild,
     Like quiet flocks of sheep reposing,
           So soft, so still, so gently mild.
     The sun descends, and high in heaven,
           The golden-circled moon doth stand.
     Within the sea the stars are straying,
           Like wanderers in an unknown land.
     The lights celestial in the waters
           Are flaming clearly as above,
     As though the very heavens descended,
           To seal a covenant of love.
     Perchance both sea and sky, twin oceans,
           From the same source of grace are sprung.
     'Twixt these my heart, a third sea, surges,
           With songs resounding, clearly sung.

     II.

     A watery waste the sinful world has grown,
     With no dry spot whereon the eye can rest,
     No man, no beast, no bird to gaze upon,
     Can all be dead, with silent sleep possessed?
     Oh, how I long the hills and vales to see,
     To find myself on barren steppes were bliss.
     I peer about, but nothing greeteth me,
     Naught save the ship, the clouds, the waves' abyss,
     The crocodile which rushes from the deeps;
     The flood foams gray; the whirling waters reel,
     Now like its prey whereon at last it sweeps,
     The ocean swallows up the vessel's keel.
     The billows rage—exult, oh soul of mine,
     Soon shalt thou enter the Lord's sacred shrine!

     III.

     TO THE WEST WIND.

     O West, how fragrant breathes thy gentle air,
     Spikenard and aloes on thy pinions glide.
     Thou blow'st from spicy chambers, not from there
     Where angry winds and tempests fierce abide.
     As on a bird's wings thou dost waft me home,
     Sweet as a bundle of rich myrrh to me.
     And after thee yearn all the throngs that roam
     And furrow with light keel the rolling sea.
     Desert her not—our ship—bide with her oft,
     When the day sinks and in the morning light.
     Smooth thou the deeps and make the billows soft,
     Nor rest save at our goal, the sacred height.
     Chide thou the East that chafes the raging flood,
     And swells the towering surges wild and rude.
     What can I do, the elements' poor slave?
     Now do they hold me fast, now leave me free;
     Cling to the Lord, my soul, for He will save,
     Who caused the mountains and the winds to be.

     EXTRACTS FROM THE BOOK OF TARSHISH,

     OR "NECKLACE OF PEARLS."

                           I.

     The shadow of the houses leave behind,
     In the cool boscage of the grove reclined,
     The wine of friendship from love's goblet drink,
     And entertain with cheerful speech the mind.

     Drink, friend! behold, the dreary winter's gone,
     The mantle of old age has time withdrawn.
     The sunbeam glitters in the morning dew,
     O'er hill and vale youth's bloom is surging on.

     Cup-bearer! quench with snow the goblet's fire,
     Even as the wise man cools and stills his ire.
     Look, when the jar is drained, upon the brim
     The light foam melteth with the heart's desire.

     Cup-bearer! bring anear the silver bowl,
     And with the glowing gold fulfil the whole,
     Unto the weak new vigor it imparts,
     And without lance subdues the hero's soul.

     My love sways, dancing, like the myrtle-tree,
     The masses of her curls disheveled, see!
     She kills me with her darts, intoxicates
     My burning blood, and will not set me free.

     Within the aromatic garden come,
     And slowly in its shadows let us roam,
     The foliage be the turban for our brows,
     And the green branches o'er our heads a dome.

     All pain thou with the goblet shalt assuage,
     The wine-cup heals the sharpest pangs that rage,
     Let others crave inheritance of wealth,
     Joy be our portion and our heritage.

     Drink in the garden, friend, anigh the rose,
     Richer than spice's breath the soft air blows.
     If it should cease a little traitor then,
     A zephyr light its secret would disclose.

     II.

     Thou who art clothed in silk, who drawest on
     Proudly thy raiment of fine linen spun,
     Bethink thee of the day when thou alone
     Shall dwell at last beneath the marble stone.

     Anigh the nests of adders thine abode,
     With the earth-crawling serpent and the toad.
     Trust in the Lord, He will sustain thee there,
     And without fear thy soul shall rest with God.

     If the world flatter thee with soft-voiced art,
     Know 't is a cunning witch who charms thy heart,
     Whose habit is to wed man's soul with grief,
     And those who are close-bound in love to part.

     He who bestows his wealth upon the poor,
     Has only lent it to the Lord, be sure—
     Of what avail to clasp it with clenched hand?
     It goes not with us to the grave obscure.

     The voice of those who dwell within the tomb,
     Who in corruption's house have made their home;
     "O ye who wander o'er us still to-day,
     When will ye come to share with us the gloom?"

     How can'st thou ever of the world complain,
     And murmuring, burden it with all thy pain?
     Silence! thou art a traveller at an inn,
     A guest, who may but over night remain.

     Be thou not wroth against the proud, but show
     How he who yesterday great joy did know,
     To-day is begging for his very bread,
     And painfully upon a crutch must go.

     How foolish they whose faith is fixed upon
     The treasures of their worldly wealth alone,
     Far wiser were it to obey the Lord,
     And only say, "The will of God be done!"

     Has Fortune smiled on thee?  Oh do not trust
     Her reckless joy, she still deceives and must.
     Perpetual snares she spreads about thy feet,
     Thou shalt not rest till thou art mixed with dust.

     Man is a weaver on the earth, 't is said,
     Who weaves and weaves—his own days are the thread,
     And when the length allotted he hath spun,
     All life is over, and all hope is dead.

     Unto the house of prayer my spirit yearns,
     Unto the sources of her being turns,
     To where the sacred light of heaven burns,
     She struggles thitherward by day and night.

     The splendor of God's glory blinds her eyes,
     Up without wings she soareth to the skies,
     With silent aspiration seeks to rise,
     In dusky evening and in darksome night.

     To her the wonders of God's works appear,
     She longs with fervor Him to draw anear,
     The tidings of His glory reach her ear,
     From morn to even, and from night to night.

     The banner of thy grace did o'er me rest,
     Yet was thy worship banished from my breast.
     Almighty, thou didst seek me out and test
     To try and to instruct me in the night.

     I dare not idly on my pillow lie,
     With winged feet to the shrine I fain would fly,
     When chained by leaden slumbers heavily,
     Men rest in imaged shadows, dreams of night.

     Infatuate I trifled youth away,
     In nothingness dreamed through my manhood's day.
     Therefore my streaming tears I may not stay,
     They are my meat and drink by day and night.

     In flesh imprisoned is the son of light,
     This life is but a bridge when seen aright.
     Rise in the silent hour and pray with might,
     Awake and call upon thy God by night!

     Hasten to cleanse thyself of sin, arise!
     Follow Truth's path that leads unto the skies,
     As swift as yesterday existence flies,
     Brief even as a watch within the night.

     Man enters life for trouble; all he has,
     And all that he beholds, is pain, alas!
     Like to a flower does he bloom and pass,
     He fadeth like a vision of the night.

     The surging floods of life around him roar,
     Death feeds upon him, pity is no more,
     To others all his riches he gives o'er,
     And dieth in the middle hour of night.

     Crushed by the burden of my sins I pray,
     Oh, wherefore shunned I not the evil way?
     Deep are my sighs, I weep the livelong day,
     And wet my couch with tears night after night.

     My spirit stirs, my streaming tears still run,
     Like to the wild birds' notes my sorrows' tone,
     In the hushed silence loud resounds my groan,
     My soul arises moaning in the night.

     Within her narrow cell oppressed with dread,
     Bare of adornment and with grief-bowed head
     Lamenting, many a tear her sad eyes shed,
     She weeps with anguish in the gloomy night.

     For tears my burden seem to lighten best,
     Could I but weep my heart's blood, I might rest.
     My spirit bows with mighty grief oppressed,
     I utter forth my prayer within the night.

     Youth's charm has like a fleeting shadow gone,
     With eagle wings the hours of life have flown.
     Alas! the time when pleasure I have known,
     I may not now recall by day or night.

     The haughty scorn pursues me of my foe,
     Evil his thought, yet soft his speech and low.
     Forget it not, but bear his purpose so
     Forever in thy mind by day and night.

     Observe a pious fast, be whole again,
     Hasten to purge thy heart of every stain.
     No more from prayer and penitence refrain,
     But turn unto thy God by day and night.

     HE SPEAKS: "My son, yea, I will send thee aid,
     Bend thou thy steps to me, be not afraid.
     No nearer friend than I am, hast thou made,
     Possess thy soul in patience one more night."

     My thoughts impelled me to the resting-place
     Where sleep my parents, many a friend and brother.
     I asked them (no one heard and none replied):
     "Do ye forsake me, too, oh father, mother?"
     Then from the grave, without a tongue, these cried,
     And showed my own place waiting by their side.

                                   I.

     The long-closed door, oh open it again, send me back once more my
          fawn that had fled.
     On the day of our reunion, thou shalt rest by my side, there wilt
          thou shed over me the streams of thy delicious perfume.
     Oh beautiful bride, what is the form of thy friend, that thou say
          to me, Release him, send him away?
     He is the beautiful-eyed one of ruddy glorious aspect—that is my
          friend, him do thou detain.

     II.

     Hail to thee, Son of my friend, the ruddy, the bright-colored one!
          Hail to thee whose temples are like a pomegranate.
     Hasten to the refuge of thy sister, and protect the son of Isaiah
          against the troops of the Ammonites.
     What art thou, O Beauty, that thou shouldst inspire love? that thy
          voice should ring like the voices of the bells upon the priestly
          garments?
     The hour wherein thou desireth my love, I shall hasten to meet thee.
          Softly will I drop beside thee like the dew upon Hermon.

     SPRING SONGS.

                     I.

     Now the dreary winter's over,
       Fled with him are grief and pain,
     When the trees their bloom recover,
       Then the soul is born again.
     Spikenard blossoms shaking,
       Perfume all the air,
     And in bud and flower breaking,
       Stands my garden fair.
     While with swelling gladness blest,
     Heaves my friend's rejoicing breast.
     Oh, come home, lost friend of mine,
     Scared from out my tent and land.
       Drink from me the spicy wine,
       Milk and must from out my hand.

     Cares which hovered round my brow,
     Vanish, while the garden now
     Girds itself with myrtle hedges,
               Bright-hued edges
               Round it lie.
                 Suddenly
     All my sorrows die.
     See the breathing myrrh-trees blow,
       Aromatic airs enfold me.
     While the splendor and the glow
       Of the walnut-branches hold me.

     And a balsam-breath is flowing,
       Through the leafy shadows green,
     On the left the cassia's growing,
       On the right the aloe's seen.
     Lo, the clear cup crystalline,
       In itself a gem of art,
     Ruby-red foams up with wine,
     Sparkling rich with froth and bubble.
     I forget the want and trouble,
               Buried deep within my heart.

       Where is he who lingered here,
         But a little while agone?
       From my homestead he has flown,
       From the city sped alone,
       Dwelling in the forest drear.
     Oh come again, to those who wait thee long,
     And who will greet thee with a choral song!
               Beloved, kindle bright
       Once more thine everlasting light.
     Through thee, oh cherub with protecting wings,
     My glory out of darkness springs.

     II.

     Crocus and spikenard blossom on my lawn,
     The brier fades, the thistle is withdrawn.
     Behold, where glass-clear brooks are flowing,
     The splendor of the myrtle blowing!
     The garden-tree has doffed her widow's veil,
     And shines in festal garb, in verdure pale.
          The turtle-dove is cooing, hark!
          Is that the warble of the lark!
     Unto their perches they return again.
     Oh brothers, carol forth your joyous strain,
     Pour out full-throated ecstasy of mirth,
     Proclaiming the Lord's glory to the earth.
          One with a low, sweet song,
          One echoing loud and long,
     Chanting the music of a spirit strong.
     In varied tints the landscape glows.

     In rich array appears the rose.
     While the pomegranate's wreath of green,
     The gauzy red and snow-white blossoms screen.
     Who loves it, now rejoices for its sake,
     And those are glad who sleep, and those who wake.
     When cool-breathed evening visiteth the world,
     In flower and leaf the beaded dew is pearled,
          Reviving all that droops at length,
          And to the languid giving strength.

     Now in the east the shining light behold!
     The sun has oped a lustrous path of gold.
     Within my narrow garden's greenery,
     Shot forth a branch, sprang to a splendid tree,
     Then in mine ear the joyous words did ring,
     "From Jesse's root a verdant branch shall spring."
     My Friend has cast His eyes upon my grief,
     According to His mercy, sends relief.
     Hark! the redemption hour's resounding stroke,
     For him who bore with patient heart the yoke!

                       I.

     DONNA CLARA.

           (From the German of Heine)

     In the evening through her garden
       Wanders the Alcalde's daughter,
     Festal sounds of drum and trumpet
       Ring out hither from the Castle.

     "I am weary of the dances,
       Honeyed words of adulation
     From the knights who still compare me
       To the sun with dainty phrases.

     "Yes, of all things I am weary,
       Since I first beheld by moonlight
     Him, my cavalier, whose zither
       Nightly draws me to my casement.

     "As he stands so slim and daring,
       With his flaming eyes that sparkle,
     And with nobly pallid features,
       Truly, he St. George resembles."

     Thus went Donna Clara dreaming,
       On the ground her eyes were fastened.
     When she raised them, lo! before her
       Stood the handsome knightly stranger.

     Pressing hands and whispering passion,
       These twain wander in the moonlight,
     Gently doth the breeze caress them,
       The enchanted roses greet them.

     The enchanted roses greet them,
       And they glow like Love's own heralds.
     "Tell me, tell me, my beloved,
       Wherefore all at once thou blushest?"

     "Gnats were stinging me, my darling,
       And I hate these gnats in summer
     E'en as though they were a rabble
       Of vile Jews with long, hooked noses."

     "Heed not gnats nor Jews, beloved,"
       Spake the knight with fond endearments.
     From the almond-trees dropped downward
       Myriad snowy flakes of blossoms.

     Myriad snowy flakes of blossoms
       Shed around them fragrant odors.
     "Tell me, tell me, my beloved,
       Looks thy heart on me with favor?"

     "Yes, I love thee, O my darling,
       And I swear it by our Saviour,
     Whom the accursed Jews did murder,
       Long ago with wicked malice."

     "Heed thou neither Jews nor Saviour,"
       Spake the knight with fond endearments.
     Far off waved, as in a vision,
       Gleaming lilies bathed in moonlight.

     Gleaming lilies bathed in moonlight
       Seemed to watch the stars above them.
     "Tell me, tell me, my beloved,
       Didst thou not erewhile swear falsely?"

     "Naught is false in me, my darling,
       E'en as in my veins there floweth
     Not a drop of blood that's Moorish,
       Neither of foul Jewish current."

     "Heed not Moors nor Jews, beloved,"
       Spake the knight with fond endearments.
     Then towards a grove of myrtles

       Leads he the Alcalde's daughter.

     And with Love's slight subtile meshes,
       He has trapped her and entangled.
     Brief their words, but long their kisses,
       For their hearts are overflowing.

     What a melting bridal carol
       Sings the nightingale, the pure one.
     How the fire-flies in the grasses
       Trip their sparkling torchlight dances!

     In the grove the silence deepens,
       Naught is heard save furtive rustling
     Of the swaying myrtle branches,
       And the breathing of the flowers.

     But the sound of drum and trumpet
       Burst forth sudden from the castle.
     Rudely they awaken Clara,
       Pillowed on her lover's bosom.

     "Hark! they summon me, my darling!
       But before we part, oh tell me,
     Tell me what thy precious name is,
       Which so closely thou hast hidden."

     Then the knight with gentle laughter,
       Kissed the fingers of his Donna,
     Kissed her lips and kissed her forehead,
       And at last these words he uttered:

     "I, Senora, your beloved,
       Am the son of the respected,
     Worthy, erudite Grand Rabbi,
         Israel of Saragossa."

     II.

     DON PEDRILLO.

     Not a lad in Saragossa
       Nobler-featured, haughtier-tempered,
     Than the Alcalde's youthful grandson,
       Donna Clara's boy Pedrillo.

     Handsome as the Prince of Evil,
       And devout as St. Ignatius.
     Deft at fence, unmatched with zither,
       Miniature of knightly virtues.

     Truly an unfailing blessing
       To his pious, widowed mother,
     To the beautiful, lone matron
       Who forswore the world to rear him.

     For her beauty hath but ripened
       In such wise as the pomegranate
     Putteth by her crown of blossoms,
       For her richer crown of fruitage.

     Still her hand is claimed and courted,
       Still she spurns her proudest suitors,
     Doting on a phantom passion,
       And upon her boy Pedrillo.

     Like a saint lives Donna Clara,
       First at matins, last at vespers,
     Half her fortune she expendeth
       Buying masses for the needy.

     Visiting the poor afflicted,
       Infinite is her compassion,
     Scorning not the Moorish beggar,
       Nor the wretched Jew despising.

     And—a scandal to the faithful,
       E'en she hath been known to welcome
     To her castle the young Rabbi,
       Offering to his tribe her bounty.

     Rarely hath he crossed the threshold,
       Yet the thought that he hath crossed it,
     Burns like poison in the marrow
       Of the zealous youth Pedrillo.

     By the blessed Saint Iago,
       He hath vowed immortal hatred
     To these circumcised intruders
       Who pollute the soil of Spaniards.

     Seated in his mother's garden,
       At high noon the boy Pedrillo
     Playeth with his favorite parrot,
       Golden-green with streaks of scarlet.

     "Pretty Dodo, speak thy lesson,"
       Coaxed Pedrillo—"thief and traitor"—
     "Thief and traitor"—croaked the parrot,
       "Is the yellow-skirted Rabbi."

     And the boy with peals of laughter,
       Stroked his favorite's head of emerald,
     Raised his eyes, and lo! before him
       Stood the yellow-skirted Rabbi.

     In his dark eyes gleamed no anger,
       No hot flush o'erspread his features.
     'Neath his beard his pale lips quivered,
       And a shadow crossed his forehead.

     Very gentle was his aspect,
       And his voice was mild and friendly,
     "Evil words, my son, thou speakest,
       Teaching to the fowls of heaven.

     "In our Talmud it stands written,
       Thrice curst is the tongue of slander,
     Poisoning also with its victim,
       Him who speaks and him who listens."

     But no whit abashed, Pedrillo,
       "What care I for curse of Talmud?
     'T is no slander to speak evil
       Of the murderers of our Saviour.

     "To your beard I will repeat it,
       That I only bide my manhood,
     To wreak all my lawful hatred,
       On thyself and on thy people."