The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poems of Heine.

“If, Jerusalem, I ever
“Should forget thee, let my tongue
“To my mouth’s roof cleave, let also
“My right hand forget her cunning—”

Words and melody are whirling
In my head to-day unceasing,
And methinks I hear sweet voices
Singing psalms, sweet human voices.

Often to the light come also
Beards of shadowy-long proportions;
Say, ye phantoms, which amongst you
Is Jehuda ben Halevy?

But they quickly hustle by me;
Spirits ever shun with terror
Exhortations of the living—
But I recognized him well.

Well I knew him by his pallid,
Haughty, high, and thoughtful forehead,
By his eyes so sweetly staring,
Viewing me with piercing sorrow.

But I recognized him mostly
By the enigmatic smile which
O’er his fair rhymed lips was playing,
Such as none but poets boast of.

Years come on and years pass swiftly
Since Jehuda ben Halevy
Had his birth, have seven hundred
Years and fifty fleeted o’er us.

At Toledo in Castile he
For the first time saw the light,
And the golden Tagus lull’d him
In his cradle with its music.

His strict father the unfolding
Of his intellect full early
Cared for, and began his lessons
With the book of God, the Thora.

With his son he read this volume
In the’ original, whose beauteous
Picturesque and hieroglyphic
Old Chaldean quarto pages

Spring from out the childish ages
Of our world, and for that reason
Smile so trustingly and sweetly
On each childlike disposition.

And this genuine ancient text
By the boy was likewise chanted
In the ancient and establish’d
Sing-song fashion, known as Tropp.

And melodiously he gurgled
Those fat oily gutturals;
Like a very bird he warbled
That fine quaver, the Schalscheleth.

And the Targum Onkelos,
Which is written in the idiom,
The low-Hebrew sounding idiom
That we call the Aramæan,

And that to the prophet’s language
Has about the same relation
As the Swabian to the German,—
In this bastard Hebrew likewise

Was the youth betimes instructed
And the knowledge thus acquired
Proved extremely useful to him
In the study of the Talmud.

Yes, full early did his father
Lead him onward to the Talmud
And he then unfolded to him
The Halacha, that illustrious

Fighting school, where the expertest
Dialectic athletes both of
Babylon and Pumpeditha
Carry on their mental combats.

Here the boy could gain instruction
In the arts, too, of polemics;
Later, in the book Cosari
Was his mastership establish’d.

Yet the heavens pour down upon us
Lights of two distinct descriptions:
Glaring daylight of the sun,
And the moonlight’s softer lustre.

Thus two different lights the Talmud
Also sheds, and is divided
In Halacha and Hagada.—
Now the first’s a fighting school,

But the latter, the Hagada,
I should rather call a garden,
Yes, a garden, most fantastic,
Comparable to that other,

Which in days of yore was planted
In the town of Babylon,—
Great Semiramis’s garden,
That eighth wonder of the world.

’Tis said queen Semiramis,
Who had, when a child, been brought up
By the birds, and had contracted
Many a bird’s peculiar custom,

On the mere flat ground would never
Promenade, as human creatures
Mostly do, and so she planted
In the air a hanging garden.

High upon colossal pillars
Palms and cypresses were standing,
Golden oranges, fair flow’r-beds,
Marble statues, gushing fountains,—

Firmly, skilfully united
By unnumber’d hanging bridges
Which appear’d like climbing plants,
And whereon the birds were rocking,—

Solemn birds, large, many-colour’d,
All deep thinkers, never singing,
While around them finches flutter’d,
Keeping up a merry twitter,—

All things here were blest, and teeming
With a pure balsamic fragrance,
Which was free from all offensive
Earthly smells and hateful odours.

The Hagada is a garden
That this airy whim resembles,
And the youthful Talmud scholar,
When his heart was overpower’d

And was deafen’d by the squabbles
Of the’ Halacha, by disputes
All about the fatal egg
Laid one feast day by a pullet,—

Or about some other question
Of the same importance, straightway
Fled the boy to find refreshment
In the blossoming Hagada

Where the charming olden stories,
Tales of angels, famous legends,
Silent histories of martyrs,
Festal songs, and words of wisdom,

Hyperboles, far-fetch’d it may be,
But impress’d with deep conviction,
Full of glowing faith,—all glitter’d,
Bloom’d and sprung in such abundance.

And the stripling’s noble bosom
Was pervaded by the savage
But adventure-breathing sweetness,
By the wondrous blissful anguish

And the fabulous wild terrors
Of that blissful secret world,
Of that mighty revelation,
Known to us as Poesy.

And the art of Poesy,
Radiant knowledge, understanding,
Which we call the art poetic,
Open’d on the boy’s mind also.

And Jehuda ben Halevy
Was not merely skill’d in reading,
But in poetry a master,
And himself a first-rate poet.

Yes, he was a first-rate poet,
Star and torch of his own age,
Light and beacon of his people,
Yes, a very wondrous mighty

Fiery pillar of all song,
That preceded Israel’s mournful
Caravan as it was marching
Through the desert of sad exile.

Pure and true alike, and spotless
Was his song, as was his spirit;
When this spirit was created
By its Maker, self-contented,

He embraced the lovely spirit,
And that kiss’s beauteous echo
Thrills through all the poet’s numbers,
Which are hallow’d by this grace.

As in life, in numbers also
Grace is greatest good of all;
He who has it, ne’er transgresses
In his prose or in his verses.

Genius call we such a poet
Of the mighty grace of God;
He is undisputed monarch
Of the boundless realms of fancy.

He to God alone accounteth,
Not to man, and, as in lifetime,
So in art the mob have power
To destroy, but not to judge us.

“By the streams of Babylon
“Sat we down and wept, we hangèd
“Our sad harps upon the willows—”
Know’st thou not the olden song?

Know’st thou not the olden tune,
Which begins with elegiac
Crying, humming like a kettle
That upon the hearth is boiling?

Long has it been boiling in me,
Thousand years. A gloomy anguish
And my wounds are lick’d by time,
As Job’s boils by dogs were lickèd.

Thank thee, dog, for thy saliva,—
Though it can but cool and soften—
Death alone can ever heal me,
But, alas, I am immortal!

Years come round and years then vanish—
Busily the spool is humming
As it in the loom is moving,—
What it weaves, no weaver knoweth.

Years come round and years then vanish,
Human tears are dripping, running
On the earth, and then the earth
Sucks them in with eager silence.

Seething mad! The cover leaps up—
“Happy he whose daring hand
“Taketh up thy little ones,
“Dashing them against the stones.”

God be praised! the seething slowly
In the pot evaporates,
Then is mute. My spleen is soften’d,
My west-eastern darksome spleen.

And my Pegasus is neighing
Once more gaily, and the nightmare
Seems to shake with vigour off him,
And his wise eyes thus are asking:

Are we riding back to Spain,
To the little Talmudist there,
Who was such a first-rate poet,—
To Jehuda ben Halevy?

Yes, he was a first-rate poet,
In the realm of dreams sole ruler
With the spirit-monarch’s crown,
By the grace of God a poet,

Who in all his sacred metres,
In his madrigals, terzinas,
Canzonets, and strange ghaselas
Pour’d out all the’ abundant fire

Of his noble god-kiss’d spirit!
Of a truth this troubadour
Was upon a par with all the
Best lute-players of Provence,

Of Poitou and of Guienne,
Roussillon and every other
Charming orange-growing region
Of gallant old Christendom.

Charming orange-growing regions
Of gallant old Christendom!
How they glitter, smell, and tingle
In the twilight of remembrance!

Beauteous world of nightingales!
Where we only in the place of
The true God, the false God worshipp’d
Of the Muses and of love.

Clergy, bearing wreaths of roses
On their bald pates, sang the psalms
In the charming langue d’oc;
Laity, all gallant knights,

On their high steeds proudly trotting,
Verse and rhyme were ever making
To the honour of the ladies
Whom their hearts to serve delighted.

There’s no love without a lady.
Therefore to a Minnesinger
Was a lady just as needful
As to bread-and-butter, butter.

And the hero, whom we sing of,
Our Jehuda ben Halevy,
Also had his heart’s fair lady;
But she was of special kind.

She no Laura was, whose eyes,
Mortal constellations, kindled
On Good Friday the notorious
Fire within the famed Cathedral;

She was not a chatelaine
Who, attired in youthful graces,
Took the chair at tournaments,
And the laurel wreath presented.

Casuist in the laws of kisses
She was not, no doctrinaire,
Who within the learned college
Of a court of love gave lectures.

She the Rabbi was in love with
Was a poor and mournful loved one,
Woeful image of destruction,
And her name—Jerusalem!

In his early days of childhood
She his one sole love was always;
E’en the word Jerusalem
Made his youthful spirit quiver.

Purple flames were ever standing
On the boy’s cheek, and he hearken’d
When a pilgrim to Toledo
Came from out the far east country,

And recounted how deserted
And uncleanly was the city
Where upon the ground the traces
Of the prophets’ feet still glisten’d;

Where the air is still perfumed
By the’ undying breath of God—
“O the mournful sight!” a pilgrim
Once exclaim’d, whose beard was floating

White as silver, notwithstanding
That the hair which form’d its end
Once again grew black, appearing
As if getting young again.

And a very wondrous pilgrim
Might he be, his eyes were peering
As through centuries of sorrow,
And he sigh’d: “Jerusalem!

“She, the crowded holy city,
“Is converted to a desert,
“Where wood-devils, werewolves, jackals
“Their accursèd home have made.

“Serpents, birds of night, are dwelling
“In its weather-beaten ruins;
“From the window’s airy bow
“Peeps the fox with much contentment.

“Here and there a ragged fellow
“Comes sometimes from out the desert,
“And his hunch-back’d camel feedeth
“In the long grass growing round it.

“On the noble heights of Zion,
“Where stood up the golden fortress
“Whose great majesty bore witness
“To the mighty monarch’s glory,—

“There, with noisome weeds encumber’d,
“Nought now lies but gray old ruins,
“Gazing with such looks of sorrow
“One must fancy they are weeping.

“And ’tis said they wept in earnest,
“Once in each year, on the ninth day
“Of the month’s that known as Ab—
“With my own eyes, full of weeping,

“I the clammy drops have witness’d
“Down the large stones slowly trickling,
“And have heard the broken columns
“Of the temple sadly moaning.”

Such-like pious pilgrim-sayings
Waken’d in the youthful bosom
Of Jehuda ben Halevy
Yearnings for Jerusalem.

Poet’s yearnings! As foreboding,
Visionary, sad, as those
In the Château Blay experienced
Whilome by the noble Vidam,

Messer Geoffroy Rudello,
When the knights, returning homeward
From the Eastern land, asserted
Loudly, as they clash’d their goblets,

That the paragon of graces,
And the flower and pearl of women,
Was the beauteous Melisanda,
Margravine of Tripoli.

Each one knows that for this lady
Raved the troubadour thenceforward;
Her alone he sang, and shortly
Château Blay no more could hold him;

And he hasten’d thence. At Cette
Took he ship, but on the ocean
He fell ill, and sick and dying
He arriv’d at Tripoli.

Here at length, on Melisanda
He, too, gazed with eyes all-loving,
Which that self-same hour were cover’d
By the darksome shades of death.

Singing his last song of love,
He expired before the feet
Of his lady Melisanda,
Margravine of Tripoli.[84]

Wonderful was the resemblance
In the fate of these two poets!
Save that in old age the former
His great pilgrimage commenced.

And Jehuda ben Halevy
At his mistress’ feet expired,
And his dying head, it rested
On Jerusalem’s dear knees.

When the fight at Arabella
Had been won, great Alexander
Placed Darius’ land and people,
Court and harem, horses, women,

Elephants, and daric coins,
Crown and sceptre, golden lumber—
Placed them all inside his spacious
Macedonian pantaloons.

In the tent of great Darius,
Who himself had fled, because he
Fear’d he also might be placed there,
The young hero found a casket.

’Twas a little golden box,
Richly ornamented over
With incrusted stones and cameos,
And with miniature devices.

Now this casket, in itself
Of inestimable value,
Served to hold the priceless treasures
Of the monarch’s body-jewels.

All the latter Alexander
On his brave commanders lavish’d,
Smiling at the thought of men
Childlike loving colour’d pebbles.

One fair valuable gem he
To his mother dear presented;
’Twas the signet ring of Cyrus,
Turn’d into a brooch henceforward.

To his famous old preceptor
Aristotle he presented
A fine onyx for his splendid
Cabinet of natural history.

In the casket were some pearls too,
Forming quite a wondrous string,
Which were once to Queen Atossa
Given by the false knave Smerdis;

But the pearls were all quite real,
And the merry victor gave them
To a pretty dancer whom he
Brought from Corinth, named Miss Thais.

In her hair the latter wore them,
In bacchantic fashion streaming,
On that night when she was dancing
At Persepolis, and wildly

In the regal castle hurl’d her
Impious torch, till, loudly crackling,
Soon the flames obtain’d the mastery,
And the fortress laid in ruins.

On the death of beauteous Thais
Who of some bad Babylonian
Illness died at Babylon,
All her pearls were sold by auction

At the public auction-rooms there;
Purchased by a priest from Memphis,
He to Egypt took them with him,
Where they on the toilet table

Of fair Cleopatra glisten’d;
She the finest pearl amongst them
Crush’d and mix’d with wine and swallow’d,
Her friend Antony to banter.

With the final Ommiad monarch
Came the string of pearls to Spain,
And they twined around the turban
Worn at Cord’va, by the Caliph.

Abderam the Third he wore them
As his breast-knot at the tourney
Where he pierced through thirty golden
Rings, and fair Zuleima’s bosom.

When the Moorish race was vanquish’d,
Then the Christians gain’d possession
Of the pearls, which rank’d thenceforward
As crown-jewels of Castile.

Their most Cath’lic Majesties,
Queens of Spain, were wont to wear them
On all court and state occasions,
At all bullfights, grand processions,

And at each auto da fé,
When they took their pleasure, sitting
At the balcony, in sniffing
Up the smell of burnt old Jews.

Later still, old Mendizabel,
Satan’s grandson, pawn’d these jewels,
Vainly hoping thus to meet the
Deficit in the finances.

At the Tuileries the jewels
Finally appear’d again,
Glittering on the neck of Madame
Salomon, the Baroness.

With the fair pearls thus it happened.—
Less adventurous the fortune
Of the casket, Alexander
Keeping it for his own use.

He the songs enclosed within it
Of ambrosia-scented Homer,
His great fav’rite, and the casket
All night long was wont to stand

At his bed’s head; when the monarch
Slept, the heroes’ airy figures
Came from out it, o’er his visions
Creeping in fantastic fashion.

Other times and other birds too—
I myself have erst delighted
In the stories of the actions
Of Pelides, of Odysseus.

All then seem’d so sunny-golden
And so purple to my spirit,
Vine-leaves twined around my forehead,
And the trumpets flourish’d loudly.

Hush, no more! All broken lieth
Now my haughty victor-chariot,
And the panthers, who once drew it,
Now are dead, as are the women

Who, to sound of drum and cymbal,
Danced around, and I myself
Writhe upon the ground in anguish.
Weak and crippled—hush, no more!

Hush, no more! we now are speaking
Of the casket of Darius,
And within myself thus thought I:
Should I e’er possess the casket,

And not be obliged to change it
Into cash, for want of money,
I would then enclose within it
All the poems of our Rabbi,—

All Jehuda ben Halevy’s
Festal songs and lamentations,
And Ghaselas, the description
Of his pilgrimage—the whole I

Would have written on the cleanest
Parchment by the best of scribes,
And the manuscript deposit
In the little golden casket.

This should stand upon the table
Near my bed, and then, whenever
Friends appear’d and were astonish’d
At the beauty of the trinket,—

At the wondrous bas-reliefs,
Small in size, and yet so perfect
Notwithstanding,—at the jewels
Of such size incrusted on it,—

I should smilingly address them:
That is but the vulgar covering
That contains a nobler treasure—
In this casket there are lying

Diamonds, whose light doth mirror
And reflect the light of heaven,
Rubies glowing as the heart’s blood,
Turquoises of spotless beauty,

And fair emeralds of promise,
Likewise pearls of greater value
Than the pearls to Queen Atossa
Given by the false knave Smerdis,

And that afterwards were worn by
All the notabilities
Who this mundane earth have dwelt in,
Thais first, then Cleopatra,

Priests of Isis, Moorish princes,
And the queens of old Hispania,
And at last the worthy Madame
Salomon, the Baroness.—

For those pearls of world-wide glory
After all are but the mucus
Of a poor unhappy oyster
Lying sickly in the ocean;

But the pearls within this casket
Are the offspring of a beauteous
Human spirit, far far deeper
Than the ocean’s deepest depths,—

For they are the pearly tears
Of Jehuda ben Halevy,
That he over the destruction
Of Jerusalem let fall.

Pearly tears, which, join’d together
By the golden threads of rhythm,
As a song from poesy’s
Golden smithy have proceeded.

And this song of pearly tears
Is the famous lamentation
That is sung in all the scatter’d
And far-distant tents of Jacob

On the ninth day of the month Ab,
That sad anniversary
Of Jerusalem’s destruction
By the Emperor Vespasian.

Yes, it is the song of Zion
That Jehuda ben Halevy
Sang when dying on the holy
Ruins of Jerusalem.

Barefoot and in lowly garments
Sat he there upon the fragment
Of a pillar that had fallen,
Till upon his breast there fell

Like a gray old wood his hair,
Shading over in strange fashion
His afflicted pallid features,
With his eyes so like a spectre’s.

In this manner sat he, singing,
In appearance like a minstrel
From the times of old, like ancient
Jeremiah, grave-arisen.

Soon the birds around the ruins
By his numbers’ mournful cadence
All were tamed, and e’en the vulture
Drew near list’ning, almost pitying,—

But an impious Saracen
Came one day in that direction,
On his charger in his stirrups
Balancing, his bright lance wielding.

And the breast of our poor singer
With this deadly spear transfix’d he,
And then gallop’d off instanter
Wing’d as though a shadowy figure.

Calmly flow’d the Rabbi’s life-blood,
Calmly to its termination
Sang he his sweet song,—his dying
Sigh was still—Jerusalem!

It is said in olden legend
That the Saracen was really
Not a wicked cruel mortal,
But an angel in disguise,

Sent from the bright realms of heaven
To remove God’s favourite
From the earth, and to advance him
Painlessly to those blest regions.

There, ’tis said, there waited for him
A reception highly flatt’ring
In its nature to the poet,
Quite a heavenly surprise.

Solemnly with strains of music
Came the’ angelic choir to meet him,
And instead of hymns, he heard them
Singing his own lovely verses,

Synagoguish Wedding-Carmen,
Hymeneal Sabbath numbers,
With their well-known and exulting
Melodies—what notes enthralling!

While some angels play’d the hautboy,
Others play’d upon the fiddle;
Others handled the bass-viol,
Others beat the drum and cymbal.

Sweetly all the music sounded.
Sweetly through the far-extending
Vaults of heaven these strains re-echoed
Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!

My good wife is not contented
With the chapter just concluded,
And especially the portion
Speaking of Darius’ casket.

Almost bitterly observes she,
That a husband with pretensions
To religion, into money
Straightway would convert the casket,

That he with it might be able
For his poor and lawful spouse
That nice Cashmere shawl to purchase
That she stands so much in need of.

That Jehuda ben Halevy
Would, she fancies, with sufficient
Honour be preserved, if guarded
In a pretty box of pasteboard,

Deck’d with Chinese elegant
Arabesques, like those enchanting
Sweetmeat-boxes of Marquis
In the Passage Panorama.

“Very strange it is,”—she added,—
“That I never heard the name of
“This remarkable old poet,
“This Jehuda ben Halevy.”

Darling little wife, I answer’d,
Your delightful ignorance
But too well the gaps discloses
In the education given

In the boarding schools of Paris,
Where the girls, the future mothers
Of a proud and freeborn nation,
Learn the elements of knowledge.

All about the dry old mummies,
And embalm’d Egyptian Pharaohs
Merovingian shadowy monarchs,
With perukes devoid of powder,

And the pig-tail’d kings of China,
Lords of porcelain and pagodas,—
This they know by heart and fully,
Clever girls,—but, O, good heavens

If you ask for any great names
From the glorious golden ages
Of Arabian-ancient-Spanish
Jewish schools of poetry,—

If you ask for those three worthies,
For Jehuda ben Halevy,
For great Solomon Gabirol,
Or for Moses Iben Esra,

If you ask for these or suchlike,
Then the children stare upon us
With a look of stupid wonder,
And in fact seem quite dumb-founded.

Let me then advise you, dearest,
These neglected points to study,
And to take to learning Hebrew
Leaving theatres and concerts.

When a few years to these studies
Have been given, you’ll be able
In the’ original to read them,
Iben Esra and Gabirol,

And Halevy in addition,
That triumvirate poetic,
Who evoked the sweetest music
From the instrument of David.

Alcharisi, who, I’ll wager,
Is to you unknown, although he
A Voltairian was, six hundred
Years before Voltaire’s time, spoke thus:

“In his thoughts excels Gabirol,
“And the thinker most he pleases;
“Iben Esra shines in art, and
“Is the fav’rite of the artist.

“But Jehuda ben Halevy
“Is in both a perfect master,
“And at once a famous poet
“And a universal fav’rite.”

Iben Esra was a friend,
And I rather think, a cousin
Of Jehuda ben Halevy,
Who in his famed book of travels

Bitterly complains how vainly
He had sought through all Granada
For his friend, and only found there
His friend’s brother, the physician,

Rabbi Meyer, poet likewise,
And the father of the beauty
Who in Iben Esra’s bosom
Kindled such a hopeless passion.

That he might forget his niece, he
Took in hand his pilgrim’s staff,
Like so many of his colleagues,
Living restlessly and homeless.

Tow’rd Jerusalem he wander’d,
When some Tartars fell upon him,
Fasten’d him upon a steed’s back,
And to their wild deserts took him.

Duties there devolved upon him
Quite unworthy of a Rabbi,
Still less fitted for a poet—
He was made to milk the cows.

Once, as he beneath the belly
Of a cow was sitting squatting,
Fing’ring hastily her udder,
While the milk the tub was filling,—

A position quite unworthy
Of a Rabbi, of a poet,—
Melancholy came across him,
And to sing a song began he.

And he sang so well and sweetly,
That the Khan, the horde’s old chieftain,
Who was passing by, was melted,
And he gave the slave his freedom.

And he likewise gave him presents,
Gave a fox-skin, and a lengthy
Saracenic mandoline,
And some money for his journey.

Poets’ fate! an evil star ’tis,
Which the offspring of Apollo
Worried unto death, and even
Did not spare their noble father,

When he, after Daphne lurking,
In the fair nymph’s snowy body’s
Stead, embraced the laurel only,—
He, the great divine Schlemihl!

Yes, the glorious Delphic god is
A Schlemihl, and e’en the laurel
That so proudly crowns his forehead
Is a sign of his Schlemihldom.

What the word Schlemihl betokens
Well we know. Long since Chamisso
Rights of German citizenship
Gain’d it (of the word I’m speaking).

But its origin has ever,
Like the holy Nile’s far sources,
Been unknown. Upon this subject
Many a night have I been poring.

Many a year ago I travell’d
To Berlin, to see Chamisso
On this point, and from the dean sought
Information of Schlemihl.

But he could not satisfy me,
And referr’d me on to Hitzig,
Who had made the first suggestion
Of the family name of Peter

Shadowless. I straightway hired
The first cab, and quickly hasten’d
To the magistrate Herr Hitzig,
Who was formerly call’d Itzig.

When he still was known as Itzig,
In a vision saw he written
His own name high in the heavens,
And in front the letter H.

“What’s the meaning of this H?”
Ask’d he of himself. “Herr Itzig
“Or the Holy Itzig? Holy
“Is a pretty title. Not, though,

“Suited for Berlin.” At length he,
Tired of thinking, took the name of
Hitzig, and his best friends only
Knew that Hitzig stood for Holy.

“Holy Hitzig!” said I therefore
When I saw him, “have the goodness
“To explain the derivation
“Of the word Schlemihl, I pray you.”

Many circumbendibuses
Took the holy one—he could not
Recollect,—and made excuses
In succession like a Christian,

Till at length I burst the buttons
In the breeches of my patience,
And began to swear so fiercely,
In such very impious fashion,

That the worthy pietist,
Pale as death, with trembling knees,
Forthwith gratified my wishes,
And the following story told me:

“In the Bible it is written
“How, while wandering in the desert,
“Israel oft committed whoredom
“With the daughters fair of Canaan.

“Then it came to pass that Phinehas
“Chanced to see the noble Zimri
“Thus engaged in an intrigue
“With a Canaanitish woman.

“Straightway in his fury seized he
“On his spear, and put to death
“Zimri on the very spot.—Thus
“In the Bible ’tis recounted.

“But, according to an oral
“Old tradition ’mongst the people,
“’Twas not Zimri that was really
“Stricken by the spear of Phinehas;

“But the latter, blind with fury,
“In the sinner’s place, by ill-luck
“Chanced to kill a guiltless person,
“Named Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.”—

He, then, this Schlemihl the First,
Was the ancestor of all the
Race Schlemihlian. We’re descended
From Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.

Certainly no wondrous actions
Are preserved of his; we only
Know his name, and in addition
Know that he was a Schlemihl.

But a pedigree is valued
Not according to its fruits, but
Its antiquity alone—
Ours three thousand years can reckon.

Years come round, and years then vanish—
Full three thousand years have fleeted
Since the death of our forefather
This Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.

Phinehas, too, has long been dead,
But his spear is in existence,
And incessantly we hear it
Whizzing through the air above us.

And the noblest hearts it pierces—
Both Jehuda ben Halevy,
Also Moses Iben Esra,
And it likewise struck Gabirol,

Yes, Gabirol, that truehearted
God-devoted Minnesinger,
That sweet nightingale, who sang to
God instead of to a rose,—

That sweet nightingale who caroll’d
Tenderly his loving numbers
In the darkness of the Gothic
Mediæval night of earth!

Undismay’d and caring nothing
For grimaces or for spirits,
Or the chaos of delirium
And of death those ages haunting,

Our sweet nightingale thought only
Of the Godlike One he loved so,
Unto Whom he sobb’d his love,
Whom his hymns were glorifying.

Thirty springs Gabirol witness’d
On this earth, but loud-tongued Fama
Trumpeted abroad the glory
Of his name through every country.

Now at Cordova, his home, he
Had a Moor as nextdoor neighbour,
Who wrote verses, like the other,
And the poet’s glory envied.

When he heard the poet singing,
Then the Moor’s bile straight flow’d over,
And the sweetness of the songs was
Bitter wormwood to this base one.

He enticed his hated rival
To his house one night, and slew him
There, and then the body buried
In the garden in its rear.

But behold! from out the spot
Where the body had been hidden,
Presently there grew a fig-tree
Of the most enchanting beauty.

All its fruit was long in figure,
And of strange and spicy sweetness;
He who tasted it, sank into
Quite a dreamy state of rapture.

’Mongst the people on the subject
Much was said aloud or whisper’d,
Till at length the rumour came to
The illustrious Caliph’s ears.

He with his own tongue first tasted
This strange fig-phenomenon,
And then form’d a strict commission
Of inquiry on the matter.

Summarily they proceeded;
On the owner of the tree’s soles
Sixty strokes of the bamboo they
Gave, and then his crime confess’d he.

Thereupon they tore the tree up
By its roots from out the ground,
And the body of the murder’d
Man Gabirol was discover’d.

He was buried with due honour,
And lamented by his brethren;
And the selfsame day they also
Hang’d the Moor at Cordova.

2.

3.

4.

DISPUTATION.