All's done!
PRINCE WILLIAM.
The fire! the fire! Liebhaid, I come to thee.
[He is about to spring forward, but is held back by guards.]
SCHNETZEN.
Oh cruel Christ! Is there no bolt in heaven
For the child murderer? Kill me, my friends! my breast
Is bare to all your swords.
[He tears open his jerkin, and falls unconscious.]
[Curtain falls.]
THE END.
Note:
The plot and incidents of this Tragedy are taken from a little
narrative entitled "Der Tanz zum Tode; ein Nachtstuck aus dem
vierzehnten Jahrhundert," (The Dance to Death--a Night-piece of
the fourteenth century). By Richard Reinhard. Compiled from
authentic documents communicated by Professor Franz Delitzsch.
The original narrative thus disposes, in conclusion, of the
principal characters:--
"The Knight Henry Schnetzen ended his curse-stricken life in a
cloister of the strictest order.
"Herr Nordmann was placed in close confinement, and during the
same year his head fell under the sword of the executioner.
"Prince William returned, broken down with sorrow, to Eisenach.
His princely father's heart found no comfort during the remainder
of his days. He died soon after the murder of the Jews--his last
words were, 'woe! the fire!'
"William reached an advanced age, but his life was joyless. He
never married, and at his death Meissen was inherited by his nephew.
"The Jewish cemetery in Nordhausen, the scene of this martyrdom,
lay for a long time waste. Nobody would build upon it. Now it
is a bleaching meadow, and where once the flames sprang up, to-day
rests peaceful sunshine."
TRANSLATIONS.
TRANSLATIONS FROM THE HEBREW POETS OF MEDAEVAL SPAIN.
SOLOMON BEN JUDAH GABIROL (Died Between 1070-80.)
"Am I sipping the honey of the lips?
Am I drunk with the wine of a kiss?
Have I culled the flowers of the cheek,
Have I sucked the fresh fragrance of the breath?
Nay, it is the Song of Gabirol that has revived me,
The perfume of his youthful, spring-tide breeze."
--MOSES BEN ESRA.
"I will engrave my songs indelibly upon the heart of
the world, so that no one can efface them."
--GABIROL.
NIGHT-PIECE.
Night, and the heavens beam serene with peace,
Like a pure heart benignly smiles the moon.
Oh, guard thy blessed beauty from mischance,
This I beseech thee in all tender love.
See where the Storm his cloudy mantle spreads,
An ashy curtain covereth the moon.
As if the tempest thirsted for the rain,
The clouds he presses, till they burst in streams.
Heaven wears a dusky raiment, and the moon
Appeareth dead--her tomb is yonder cloud,
And weeping shades come after, like the people
Who mourn with tearful grief a noble queen.
But look! the thunder pierced night's close-linked mail,
His keen-tipped lance of lightning brandishing;
He hovers like a seraph-conqueror.--
Dazed by the flaming splendor of his wings,
In rapid flight as in a whirling dance,
The black cloud-ravens hurry scared away.
So, though the powers of darkness chain my soul,
My heart, a hero, chafes and breaks its bonds.
NIGHT-THOUGHTS.
Will night already spread her wings and weave
Her dusky robe about the day's bright form,
Boldly the sun's fair countenance displacing,
And swathe it with her shadow in broad day?
So a green wreath of mist enrings the moon,
Till envious clouds do quite encompass her.
No wind! and yet the slender stem is stirred,
With faint, slight motion as from inward tremor.
Mine eyes are full of grief--who sees me, asks,
"Oh wherefore dost thou cling unto the ground?"
My friends discourse with sweet and soothing words;
They all are vain, they glide above my head.
I fain would check my tears; would fain enlarge
Unto infinity, my heart--in vain!
Grief presses hard my breast, therefore my tears
Have scarcely dried, ere they again spring forth.
For these are streams no furnace heat may quench,
Nebuchadnezzar's flames may dry them not.
What is the pleasure of the day for me,
If, in its crucible, I must renew
Incessantly the pangs of purifying?
Up, challenge, wrestle, and o'ercome! Be strong!
The late grapes cover all the vine with fruit.
I am not glad, though even the lion's pride
Content itself upon the field's poor grass.
My spirit sinks beneath the tide, soars not
With fluttering seamews on the moist, soft strand.
I follow Fortune not, where'er she lead.
Lord o'er myself, I banish her, compel,
And though her clouds should rain no blessed dew,
Though she withhold the crown, the heart's desire,
Though all deceive, though honey change to gall,
Still am I lord, and will in freedom strive.
MEDITATIONS.
Forget thine anguish,
Vexed heart, again.
Why shouldst thou languish,
With earthly pain?
The husk shall slumber,
Bedded in clay
Silent and sombre,
Oblivion's prey!
But, Spirit immortal,
Thou at Death's portal,
Tremblest with fear.
If he caress thee,
Curse thee or bless thee,
Thou must draw near,
From him the worth of thy works to hear.
Why full of terror,
Compassed with error,
Trouble thy heart,
For thy mortal part?
The soul flies home--
The corpse is dumb.
Of all thou didst have,
Follows naught to the grave.
Thou fliest thy nest,
Swift as a bird to thy place of rest.
What avail grief and fasting,
Where nothing is lasting?
Pomp, domination,
Become tribulation.
In a health-giving draught,
A death-dealing shaft.
Wealth--an illusion,
Power--a lie,
Over all, dissolution
Creeps silent and sly.
Unto others remain
The goods thou didst gain
With infinite pain.
Life is a vine-branch;
A vintager, Death.
He threatens and lowers
More near with each breath.
Then hasten, arise!
Seek God, O my soul!
For time quickly flies,
Still far is the goal.
Vain heart praying dumbly,
Learn to prize humbly,
The meanest of fare.
Forget all thy sorrow,
Behold, Death is there!
Dove-like lamenting,
Be full of repenting,
Lift vision supernal
To raptures eternal.
On ev'ry occasion
Seek lasting salvation.
Pour thy heart out in weeping,
While others are sleeping.
Pray to Him when all's still,
Performing his will.
And so shall the angel of peace be thy warden,
And guide thee at last to the heavenly garden.
HYMN.
Almighty! what is man?
But flesh and blood.
Like shadows flee his days,
He marks not how they vanish from his gaze,
Suddenly, he must die--
He droppeth, stunned, into nonentity.
Almighty! what is man?
A body frail and weak,
Full of deceit and lies,
Of vile hypocrisies.
Now like a flower blowing,
Now scorched by sunbeams glowing.
And wilt thou of his trespasses inquire?
How may he ever bear
Thine anger just, thy vengeance dire?
Punish him not, but spare,
For he is void of power and strength!
Almighty! what is man?
By filthy lust possessed,
Whirled in a round of lies,
Fond frenzy swells his breast.
The pure man sinks in mire and slime,
The noble shrinketh not from crime,
Wilt thou resent on him the charms of sin?
Like fading grass,
So shall he pass.
Like chaff that blows
Where the wind goes.
Then spare him, be thou merciful, O King,
Upon the dreaded day of reckoning!
Almighty! what is man?
The haughty son of time
Drinks deep of sin,
And feeds on crime
Seething like waves that roll,
Hot as a glowing coal.
And wilt thou punish him for sins inborn?
Lost and forlorn,
Then like the weakling he must fall,
Who some great hero strives withal.
Oh, spare him, therefore! let him win
Grace for his sin!
Almighty! what is man?
Spotted in guilty wise,
A stranger unto faith,
Whose tongue is stained with lies,
And shalt thou count his sins--so is he lost,
Uprooted by thy breath.
Like to a stream by tempest tossed,
His life falls from him like a cloak,
He passes into nothingness, like smoke.
Then spare him, punish not, be kind, I pray,
To him who dwelleth in the dust, an image wrought in clay!
Almighty! what is man?
A withered bough!
When he is awe-struck by approaching doom,
Like a dried blade of grass, so weak, so low
The pleasure of his life is changed to gloom.
He crumbles like a garment spoiled with moth;
According to his sins wilt thou be wroth?
He melts like wax before the candle's breath,
Yea, like thin water, so he vanisheth,
Oh, spare him therefore, for thy gracious name,
And be not too severe upon his shame!
Almighty! what is man?
A faded leaf!
If thou dost weigh him in the balance--lo!
He disappears--a breath that thou dost blow.
His heart is ever filled
With lust of lies unstilled.
Wilt thou bear in mind his crime
Unto all time?
He fades away like clouds sun-kissed,
Dissolves like mist.
Then spare him! let him love and mercy win,
According to thy grace, and not according to his sin!
TO A DETRACTOR.
The Autumn promised, and he keeps
His word unto the meadow-rose.
The pure, bright lightnings herald Spring,
Serene and glad the fresh earth shows.
The rain has quenched her children's thirst,
Her cheeks, but now so cold and dry,
Are soft and fair, a laughing face;
With clouds of purple shines the sky,
Though filled with light, yet veiled with haze.
Hark! hark! the turtle's mocking note
Outsings the valley-pigeon's lays.
Her wings are gemmed, and from her throat,
When the clear sun gleams back again,
It seems to me as though she wore
About her neck a jewelled chain.
Say, wilt thou darken such a light,
Wilt drag the clouds from heaven's height?
Although thy heart with anger swell,
Yet firm as marble mine doth dwell.
Therein no fear thy wrath begets.
It is not shaken by thy threats.
Yea, hurl thy darts, thy weapons wield,
The strength of youth is still my shield.
My winged steed toward the heights doth bound,
The dust whiffs upward from the ground;
My song is scanty, dost thou deem
Thine eloquence a mighty stream?
Only the blameless offering.
Not the profusion man may bring,
Prevaileth with our Lord and King.
The long days out of minutes grow,
And out of months the years arise,
Wilt thou be master of the wise,
Then learn the hidden stream to know,
That from the inmost heart doth flow.
FRAGMENT.
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.
STANZAS.
"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.
WINE AND GRIEF.
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.
MOSES BEN ESRA (About 1100).
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.
IN THE NIGHT.
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."
FROM THE "DIVAN."
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.
LOVE SONG OF ALCHARISI.
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.
NACHUM.
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!
A TRANSLATION AND TWO IMITATIONS.
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."
"The ensemble of the romance is a scene of my own life--only the Park of
Berlin has become the Alcalde's garden, the Baroness a Senora, and
myself a St. George, or even an Apollo. This was only to be the first
part of a trilogy, the second of which shows the hero jeered at by his
own child, who does not know him, whilst the third discovers this child,
who has become a Dominican, and is torturing to the death his Jewish
brethren. The refrain of these two pieces corresponds with that of the
first. Indeed this little poem was not intended to excite laughter,
still less to denote a mocking spirit. I merely wished, without any
definite purpose, to render with epic impartiality in this poem an
individual circumstance, and, at the same time, something general and
universal--a moment in the world's history which was distinctly
reflected in my experience, and I had conceived the whole idea in a
spirit which was anything rather than smiling but serious and painful,
so much so, that it was to form the first part of a tragic trilogy."--
Heine's Correspondence.
Guided by these hints, I have endeavored to carry out in the two
following original Ballads the Poet's first conception.
Emma Lazarus.
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."
Very gently spoke the Rabbi,
"Have a care, my son Pedrillo,
Thou art orphaned, and who knoweth
But thy father loved this people?"
"Think you words like these will touch me?
Such I laugh to scorn, sir Rabbi,
From high heaven, my sainted father
On my deeds will smile in blessing.
"Loyal knight was he and noble,
And my mother oft assures me,
Ne'er she saw so pure a Christian,
'T is from him my zeal deriveth."
"What if he were such another
As myself who stand before thee?"
"I should curse the hour that bore me,
I should die of shame and horror."
"Harsher is thy creed than ours;
For had I a son as comely
As Pedrillo, I would love him,
Love him were he thrice a Christian.
"In his youth my youth renewing
Pamper, fondle, die to serve him,
Only breathing through his spirit--
Couldst thou not love such a father?"
Faltering spoke the deep-voiced Rabbi,
With white lips and twitching fingers,
Then in clear, young, steady treble,
Answered him the boy Pedrillo:
"At the thought my heart revolteth,
All your tribe offend my senses,
They're an eyesore to my vision,
And a stench unto my nostrils.
"When I meet these unbelievers,
With thick lips and eagle noses,
Thus I scorn them, thus revile them,
Thus I spit upon their garment."
And the haughty youth passed onward,
Bearing on his wrist his parrot,
And the yellow-skirted Rabbi
With bowed head sought Donna Clara.
III.
FRA PEDRO.
Golden lights and lengthening shadows,
Flings the splendid sun declining,
O'er the monastery garden
Rich in flower, fruit and foliage.
Through the avenue of nut trees,
Pace two grave and ghostly friars,
Snowy white their gowns and girdles,
Black as night their cowls and mantles.
Lithe and ferret-eyed the younger,
Black his scapular denoting
A lay brother; his companion
Large, imperious, towers above him.
'T is the abbot, great Fra Pedro,
Famous through all Saragossa
For his quenchless zeal in crushing
Heresy amidst his townfolk.
Handsome still with hood and tonsure,
E'en as when the boy Pedrillo,
Insolent with youth and beauty,
Who reviled the gentle Rabbi.
Lo, the level sun strikes sparkles
From his dark eyes brightly flashing.
Stern his voice: "These too shall perish.
I have vowed extermination.
"Tell not me of skill or virtue,
Filial love or woman's beauty--
Jews are Jews, as serpents serpents,
In themselves abomination."
Earnestly the other pleaded,
"If my zeal, thrice reverend master,
E'er afforded thee assistance,
Serving thee as flesh serves spirit,
"Hounding, scourging, flaying, burning,
Casting into chains or exile,
At thy bidding these vile wretches,
Hear and heed me now, my master.
"These be nowise like their brethren,
Ben Jehudah is accounted
Saragossa's first physician,
Loved by colleague as by patient.
"And his daughter Donna Zara
Is our city's pearl of beauty,
Like the clusters of the vineyard
Droop the ringlets o'er her temples.
"Like the moon in starry heavens
Shines her face among her people,
And her form hath all the languor,
Grace and glamour of the palm-tree.
"Well thou knowest, thrice reverend master,
This is not their first affliction,
Was it not our Holy Office
Whose bribed menials fired their dwelling?
"Ere dawn broke, the smoke ascended,
Choked the stairways, filled the chambers,
Waked the household to the terror
Of the flaming death that threatened.
"Then the poor bed-ridden mother
Knew her hour had come; two daughters,
Twinned in form, and mind, and spirit,
And their father--who would save them?
"Towards her door sprang Ben Jehudah,
Donna Zara flew behind him
Round his neck her white arms wreathing,
Drew him from the burning chamber.
"There within, her sister Zillah
Stirred no limb to shun her torture,
Held her mother's hand and kissed her,
Saying, 'We will go together.'
"This the outer throng could witness,
As the flames enwound the dwelling,
Like a glory they illumined
Awfully the martyred daughter.
"Closer, fiercer, round they gathered,
Not a natural cry escaped her,
Helpless clung to her her mother,
Hand in hand they went together.
"Since that 'Act of Faith' three winters
Have rolled by, yet on the forehead
Of Jehudah is imprinted
Still the horror of that morning.
"Saragossa hath respected
His false creed; a man of sorrows,
He hath walked secure among us,
And his art repays our sufferance."
Thus he spoke and ceased. The Abbot
Lent him an impatient hearing,
Then outbroke with angry accent,
"We have borne three years, thou sayest?
"'T is enough; my vow is sacred.
These shall perish with their brethren.
Hark ye! In my veins' pure current
Were a single drop found Jewish,
"I would shrink not from outpouring
All my life blood, but to purge it.
Shall I gentler prove to others?
Mercy would be sacrilegious.
"Ne'er again at thy soul's peril,
Speak to me of Jewish beauty,
Jewish skill, or Jewish virtue.
I have said. Do thou remember."
Down behind the purple hillside
Dropped the sun; above the garden
Rang the Angelus' clear cadence
Summoning the monks to vespers.
TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH.
IN VITA. LXVII.
Since thou and I have proven many a time
That all our hope betrays us and deceives,
To that consummate good which never grieves
Uplift thy heart, towards a happier clime.
This life is like a field of flowering thyme,
Amidst the herbs and grass the serpent lives;
If aught unto the sight brief pleasure gives,
'T is but to snare the soul with treacherous lime.
So, wouldst thou keep thy spirit free from cloud,
A tranquil habit to thy latest day,
Follow the few, and not the vulgar crowd.
Yet mayest thou urge, "Brother, the very way
Thou showest us, wherefrom thy footsteps proud
(And never more than now) so oft did stray."
IN VITA. LXXVI.
Sennuccio, I would have thee know the shame
That's dealt to me, and what a life is mine.
Even as of yore, I struggle, burn and pine.
Laura transports me, I am still the same.
All meekness here, all pride she there became,
Now harsh, now kind, now cruel, now benign;
Here honor clothed her, there a grace divine;
Now gentle, now disdainful of my flame.
Here sweetly did she sing; there sat awhile;
There she turned back, she lingered in this spot.
Here with her splendid eyes my heart she clove.
She uttered there a word, and here did smile.
Here she changed color. Ah, in such fond thought,
Holds me by day and night, our master Love.
IN VITA. CV.
I saw on earth angelic graces beam,
Celestial beauty in our world below,
Whose mere remembrance thrills with grief and woe;
All I see now seems shadow, smoke and dream.
I saw in those twin-lights the tear-drops gleam,
Those lights that made the sun with envy glow,
And from those lips such sighs and words did flow,
As made revolve the hills, stand still the stream.
Love, courage, wit, pity and pain in one,
Wept in more dulcet and harmonious strain,
Than any other that the world has known.
So rapt was heaven in the dear refrain,
That not a leaf upon the branch was blown,
Such utter sweetness filled the aerial plain.
IN VITA. CIX.
The God of Love and I in wonder stared,
(Ne'er having gazed on miracles ere now,)
Upon my lady's smiling lips and brow,
Who only with herself may be compared.
Neath the calm beauty of her forehead bared,
Those twin stars of my love did burn and flow,
No lesser lamps again the path might show
To the proud lover who by these had fared.
Oh miracle, when on the grass at rest,
Herself a flower, she would clasp and hold
A leafy branch against her snow-white breast.
What joy to see her, in the autumn cold,
Wander alone, with maiden thoughts possess'd,
Weaving a garland of dry, crispy gold!
IN MORTE. II. ON THE DEATH OF CARDINAL
COLONNA AND LAURA.
The noble Column, the green Laurel-tree
Are fall'n, that shaded once my weary mind.
Now I have lost what I shall never find,
From North to South, from Red to Indian Sea.
My double treasure Death has filched from me,
Which made me proud and happy midst my kind.
Nor may all empires of the world combined,
Nor Orient gems, nor gold restore the key.
But if this be according to Fate's will,
What may I do, but wander heavy-souled,
With ever downcast head, eyes weeping still?
O life of ours, so lovely to behold,
In one brief morn how easily dost thou spill
That which we toiled for years to gain and hold!
IN MORTE. XLIII.
Yon nightingale who mourns so plaintively
Perchance his fledglings or his darling mate,
Fills sky and earth with sweetness, warbling late,
Prophetic notes of melting melody.
All night, he, as it were, companions me,
Reminding me of my so cruel fate,
Mourning no other grief save mine own state,
Who knew not Death reigned o'er divinity.
How easy 't is to dupe the soul secure!
Those two fair lamps, even than the sun more bright,
Who ever dreamed to see turn clay obscure?
But Fortune has ordained, I now am sure,
That I, midst lifelong tears, should learn aright,
Naught here can make us happy, or endure.
IN VITA. CANZONE XI.
O waters fresh and sweet and clear,
Where bathed her lovely frame,
Who seems the only lady unto me;
O gentle branch and dear,
(Sighing I speak thy name,)
Thou column for her shapely thighs, her supple knee;
O grass, O flowers, which she
Swept with her gown that veiled
The angelic breast unseen;
O sacred air serene,
Whence the divine-eyed Love my heart assailed,
By all of ye be heard
This my supreme lament, my dying word.
Oh, if it be my fate
(As Heaven shall so decree)
That Love shall close for me my weeping eyes,
Some courteous friend I supplicate
Midst these to bury me,
Whilst my enfranchised spirit homeward flies;
Less dreadful death shall rise,
If I may bear this hope
To that mysterious goal.
For ne'er did weary soul
Find a more restful spot in all Earth's scope,
Nor in a grave more tranquil could win free
From outworn flesh and weary limbs to flee.
Perchance the time shall be
When to my place of rest,
With milder grace my wild fawn shall return
Here where she looked on me
Upon that day thrice blest:
Then she shall bend her radiant eyes that yearn
In search of me, and (piteous sight!) shall learn
That I, amidst the stones, am clay.
May love inspire her in such wise,
With gentlest breath of sighs,
That I, a stony corpse, shall hear her pray,
And force the very skies,
That I may wipe the tears from her dear eyes.
From the fair boughs descended
(Thrice precious memory!)
Upon her lap a shower of fragrant bloom
Amidst that glory splendid,
Humbly reposed she,
Attired as with an aureole's golden gloom.
Some blossoms edged her skirt, and some
Fell on her yellow curls,
Like burnished gold and pearls,
Even so they looked to me upon that day.
Some on the ground, some on the river lay,
Some lightly fluttering above,
Encircling her, seemed whispering: "Here reigns Love."
How many times I cried,
As holy fear o'ercame,
"Surely this creature sprang from Paradise,"
Forgetting all beside
Her goddess mien, her frame,
Her face, her words, her lovely smile, her eyes.
All these did so devise
To win me from the truth, alas!
That I did say and sigh,
"How came I hither, when and why?"
Deeming myself in heaven, not where I was.
Henceforth this grassy spot
I love so much, peace elsewhere find I not.
My Song, wert thou adorned to thy desire,
Thou couldst go boldly forth
And wander from my lips o'er all the earth.
FRAGMENT. CANZONE XII. 5.
I never see, after nocturnal rain,
The wandering stars move through the air serene,
And flame forth 'twixt the dew-fall and the rime,
But I behold her radiant eyes wherein
My weary spirit findeth rest from pain;
As dimmed by her rich veil, I saw her the first time;
The very heaven beamed with the light sublime
Of their celestial beauty; dewy-wet
Still do they shine, and I am burning yet.
Now if the rising sun I see,
I feel the light that hath enamored me.
Or if he sets, I follow him, when he
Bears elsewhere his eternal light,
Leaving behind the shadowy waves of night.
FRAGMENT. TRIONFO D' AMORE.
I know how well Love shoots, how swift his flight,
How now by force and now by stealth he steals,
How he will threaten now, anon will smite,
And how unstable are his chariot wheels.
How doubtful are his hopes, how sure his pain,
And how his faithful promise he repeals.
How in one's marrow, in one's vital vein,
His smouldering fire quickens a hidden wound,
Where death is manifest, destruction plain.
In sum, how erring, fickle and unsound,
How timid and how bold are lovers' days,
Where with scant sweetness bitter draughts abound.
I know their songs, their sighs, their usual ways,
Their broken speech, their sudden silences.
Their passing laughter and their grief that stays,
I know how mixed with gall their honey is.
FRAGMENT.
TRIONFO DELLA MORTE.
Now since nor grief nor fear was longer there,
Each thought on her fair face was clear to see,
Composed into the calmness of despair--
Not like a flame extinguished violently,
But one consuming of its proper light.
Even so, in peace, serene of soul, passed she.
Even as a lamp, so lucid, softly-bright,
Whose sustenance doth fail by slow degrees,
Wearing unto the end, its wonted plight.
Not pale, but whiter than the snow one sees
Flaking a hillside through the windless air.
Like one o'erwearied, she reposed in peace
As 't were a sweet sleep filled each lovely eye,
The soul already having fled from there.
And this is what dull fools have named to die.
Upon her fair face death itself seemed fair.
TRANSLATIONS FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET.
THE MAY NIGHT.
MUSE.
Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre;
The buds are bursting on the wild sweet-briar.
To-night the Spring is born--the breeze takes fire.
Expectant of the dawn behold the thrush,
Perched on the fresh branch of the first green bush;
Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre.
POET.
How black it looks within the vale!
I thought a muffled form did sail
Above the tree-tops, through the air.
It seemed from yonder field to pass,
Its foot just grazed the tender grass;
A vision strange and fair it was.
It melts and is no longer there.
MUSE.
My poet, take thy lyre; upon the lawn
Night rocks the zephyr on her veiled, soft breast.
The rose, still virgin, holds herself withdrawn
From the winged, irised wasp with love possessed.
Hark, all is hushed. Now of thy sweetheart dream;
To-day the sunset, with a lingering beam,
Caressed the dusky-foliaged linden-grove.
All things shall bloom to-night; great Nature thrills,
Her couch with perfume, passion, sighs, she fills,
Like to the nuptial bed of youthful love.
POET.
Why throbs my heart so fast, so low?
What sets my seething blood aglow,
And fills my sense with vague affright?
Who raps upon my chamber-door?
My lamp's spent ray upon the floor,
Why does it dazzle me with light?
Great God! my limbs sink under me!
Who enters? who is calling? none!
The clock strikes--I am all alone--
ÊÊÊÊÊO solitude! O poverty!
MUSE.
My poet, take thy lyre. Youth's living wine
Ferments to-night within the veins divine.
My breast is troubled, stifling with desire,
The panting breeze has set my lips afire;
O listless child, behold me, I am fair!
Our first embrace dost thou so soon forget?
How pale thou wast, when my wing grazed thy hair.
Into mine arms thou fell'st, with eyelids wet!
Oh, in thy bitter grief, I solaced thee,
Dying of love, thy youthful strength outworn.
Now I shall die of hope--oh comfort me!
I need thy prayers to live until the morn.
POET.
Is it thy voice my spirit knows,
O darling Muse! And canst thou be
My own immortal one? my rose,
Sole pure and faithful heart where glows
A lingering spark of love for me?
Yes, it is thou, with tresses bright,
'T is thou, my sister and my bride.
I feel amidst the shadowy night,
From thy gold gown the rays of light
Within my heart's recesses glide.
MUSE.
My poet, take thy lyre. 'T is I, undying,
Who seeing thee to-night so sad and dumb,
Like to the mother-bird whose brood is crying,
From utmost heaven to weep with thee have come.
My friend, thou sufferest; a secret woe
Gnaws at thy life, thou sighest in the night.
Love visits thee, such love as mortals know,
Shadow of gladness, semblance of delight.
Rise, sing to God the thoughts that fill thy brain,
Thy buried pleasures and thy long-past pain.
Come, with a kiss, where unknown regions gleam,
Awake the mingling echoes of thy days,
Sing of thy folly, glory, joy and praise,
Be all an unpremeditated dream!
Let us invent a realm where one forgets,
Come, we are all alone, the world is ours.
Green Scotland tawny Italy offsets;
Lo, Greece my mother, with her honeyed flowers,
Argos and Pteleon with its shrines and groves,
Celestial Messa populous with doves;
And Pelion with his shaggy, changing brow,
Blue Titaresus, and the gulf of steel,
Whose waves that glass the floating swan, reveal
Snowy Camyre to Oloossone's snow.
Tell me what golden dreams shall charm our sleep,
Whence shall be drawn the tears that we shall weep?
This morning when thy lids were touched with light,
What pensive seraph, bending kindly near,
Dropped lilacs from his airy robe of white,
And whispered beams of love within thine ear?
Say, shall we sing of sadness, joy or hope?
Or bathe in blood the settled, steel-clad ranks?
See lovers mount the ladder's silken rope?
Or fleck the wind with coursers' foaming flanks?
Or shall we tell whose hand the lamps above,
In the celestial mansions, year by year,
Kindles with sacred oil of life and love?
With Tarquin shall we cry, "Come, night is here!"
Or shall we dive for pearls beneath the seas,
Or find the wild goats by the alpine trees?
Bid melancholy gaze upon the skies?
Follow the huntsman on the upland lawns?
The roe uplifts her tearful, suppliant eyes,
Her heath awaits her, and her suckling fawns;
He stoops, he slaughters her, he flings her heart
Still warm amidst his panting hounds apart.
Or shall we paint a maid with vermeil cheek,
Who, with her page behind, to vespers fares,
Beside her mother, dreamy-eyed and meek,
And on her half-oped lips forgets her prayers,
Trembles midst echoing columns, hearkening
To hear her bold knight's clanging spurs outring.
Or shall we bid the heroes of old France
Scale full equipped the battlemented wall,
And so revive the simple-strained romance
Their fame inspired our troubadours withal?
Or shall we clothe soft elegies in white?
Or bid the man of Waterloo recite
His story, and the crop mown by his art,
Or ere the herald of eternal night
On his green mound with fatal wing did smite
And cross his hands above his iron heart?
Or shall we gibbet on some satire here
The name thrice-bought of some pale pamphleteer,
Who, hunger-goaded, from his haunts obscure,
Dared, quivering with impotence and spite,
Insult the hope on Genius' brow of light,
And gnaw the wreath his breath had made impure?
The lyre! the lyre! I can be still no more.
Upon the breath of spring my pinions fly.
The air supports me--from the earth I soar,
Thou weepest--God has heard--the hour is nigh!
POET.
Dear sister, if thou ask but this,
From friendly lips a gentle kiss,
Or one soft tear from kindly eyes,
These will I gladly give to thee.
Our love remember tenderly,
If thou remountest to the skies.
No longer I of hope shall sing,
Of fame or joy, of love or art,
Alas, not even of suffering,
My lips are locked--I lean and cling,
To hear the whisper of my heart.
MUSE.
What! am I like the autumn breeze for you,
Which feeds on tears even to the very grave,
For whom all grief is but a drop of dew?
O poet, but one kiss--'t was I who gave.
The weed I fain would root from out this sod
Is thine own sloth--thy grief belongs to God.
Whatever sorrow thy young heart have found,
Open it well, this ever-sacred wound
Dealt by dark angels--give thy soul relief.
Naught makes us nobler than a noble grief.
Yet deem not, poet, though this pain have come,
That therefore, here below, thou mayst be dumb.
Best are the songs most desperate in their woe--
Immortal ones, which are pure sobs I know.
When the wave-weary pelican once more,
Midst evening-vapors, gains his nest of reeds,
His famished brood run forward on the shore
To see where high above the surge he speeds.
As though even now their prey they could destroy,
They hasten to their sire with screams of joy,
On swollen necks wagging their beaks, they cry;
He slowly wins at last a lofty rock,
Shelters beneath his drooping wing his flock,
And, a sad fisher, gazes on the sky.
Adown his open breast the blood flows there;
Vainly he searched the ocean's deepest part,
The sea was empty and the shore was bare,
And for all nourishment he brings his heart.
Sad, silent, on the stone, he gives his brood
His father-entrails and his father-blood,
Lulls with his love sublime his cruel pain,
And, watching on his breast the ruddy stain,
Swoons at the fatal banquet from excess
Of horror and voluptuous tenderness.
Sudden amidst the sacrifice divine,
Outworn with such protracted suffering,
He fears his flock may let him live and pine;
Then up he starts, expands his mighty wing,
Beating his heart, and with a savage cry
Bids a farewell of such funereal tone
That the scared seabirds from their rock-nests fly,
And the late traveller on the beach alone
Commends his soul to God--for death floats by.
Even such, O poet, is the poet's fate.
His life sustains the creatures of a day.
The banquets served upon his feasts of state
Are like the pelican's--sublime as they.
And when he tells the world of hopes betrayed,
Forgetfulness and grief, of love and hate,
His music does not make the heart dilate,
His eloquence is as an unsheathed blade,
Tracing a glittering circle in mid-air,
While blood drips from the edges keen and bare.
POET.
O Muse, insatiate soul, demand
No more than lies in human power.
Man writes no word upon the sand
Even at the furious whirlwind's hour.
There was a time when joyous youth
Forever fluttered at my mouth,
A merry, singing bird, just freed.
Strange martyrdom has since been mine,
Should I revive its slightest sign,
At the first note, my lyre and thine
Would snap asunder like a reed.
THE OCTOBER NIGHT.
POET.
My haunting grief has vanished like a dream,
Its floating fading memory seems one
With those frail mists born of the dawn's first beam,
Dissolving as the dew melts in the sun.
MUSE.
What ailed thee then, O poet mine;
What secret misery was thine,
Which set a bar 'twixt thee and me?
Alas, I suffer from it still;
What was this grief, this unknown ill,
Which I have wept so bitterly?
POET.
'T was but a common grief, well known of men.
But, look you, when our heavy heart is sore,
Fond wretches that we are! we fancy then
That sorrow never has been felt before.
MUSE.
There cannot be a common grief,
Save that of common souls; my friend,
Speak out, and give thy heart relief,
Of this grim secret make an end.
Confide in me, and have no fear.
The God of silence, pale, austere,
Is younger brother unto death.
Even as we mourn we're comforted,
And oft a single word is said
Which from remorse delivereth.
POET.
If I were bound this day to tell my woe,
I know not by what name to call my pain,
Love, folly, pride, experience--neither know
If one in all the world might thereby gain.
Yet ne'ertheless I'll voice the tale to thee,
Alone here by the hearth. But do thou take
This lyre--come nearer--so; my memory
Shall gently with the harmonies awake.
MUSE.
But first, or ere thy grief thou say,
My poet, art thou healed thereof?
Bethink thee, thou must speak to-day,
As free from hatred as from love.
For man has given the holy name
Of consolation unto me.
Make me no partner of thy shame,
In passions that have ruined thee.
POET.
Of my old wounds I am so sound and whole,
Almost I doubt they were, nor find their trace;
And in the passes where I risked my soul,
In mine own stead I see a stranger's face.
Muse, have no fear, we both may yield awhile
To this first inspiration of regret.
Oh, it is good to weep, 't is good to smile,
Remembering sorrows we might else forget.
MUSE.
As the watchful mother stoops
O'er her infant's cradled rest,
So my trembling spirit droops
O'er this long-closed, silent breast.
Speak! I touch the lyre's sweet strings,
Feebly, plaintively it sings,
With thy voice set free at last.
While athwart a radiant beam,
Like a light, enchanted dream,
Float the shadows of the past.
POET.
My days of work! sole days whereon I lived!
O thrice-beloved solitude!
Now God be praised, once more I have arrived
In this old study bare and rude.
These oft-deserted walls, this shabby den,
My faithful lamp, my dusty chair,
My palace, my small world I greet again,
My Muse, immortal, young and fair.
Thank God! we twain may sing here side by side,
I will reveal to thee my thought.
Thou shalt know all, to thee I will confide
The evil by a woman wrought.
A woman, yes! (mayhap, poor friends, ye guess,
Or ever I have said the word!)
To such a one my soul was bound, no less
Than is the vassal to his lord.
Detested yoke! within me to destroy
The vigor and the bloom of youth!
Yet only through my love I caught, in sooth,
A fleeting glimpse of joy.
When by the brook, beneath the evening-star,
On silver sands we twain would stray,
The white wraith of the aspen tree afar
Pointed for us the dusky way.
Once more within the moonlight do I see
That fair form sink upon my breast;
No more of that! Alas, I never guessed
Whither my fate was leading me.
The angry gods some victim craved, I fear,
At that ill-omened time,
Since they have punished me as for a crime,
For trying to be happy here!
MUSE.
A vision of remembered joy
Reveals itself to thee once more;
Why fearest thou to live it o'er,
Retracing it without annoy?
Wouldst thou confide the truth to me,
And yet those golden days disprove?
If fate has been unkind to thee,
Do thou no less, my friend, than she,
And smile upon thine early love.
POET.
Rather I dare to smile upon my woe.
Muse, I have said it, I would fain review
My crosses, visions, frenzy,--calmly show
The hour, place, circumstance, in order due.
'T was an autumnal evening, I recall,
Chill, gloomy; this one brings it back again.
The murmuring wind's monotonous rise and fall
Lulled sombre care within my weary brain.
I waited at the casement for my love,
And listening in the darkness black as death,
Such melancholy did my spirit move
That all at once I doubted of her faith.
The street wherein I dwelt was lonely, poor,
Lantern in hand, at times, a shade passed by,
When the gale whistled through the half-oped door.
One seemed to hear afar a human sigh.
I know not to what omen, sooth to say,
My superstitious spirit fell a prey.
Vainly I summoned courage--coward-like
I shuddered when the clock began to strike.
She did not come! Alone, with downcast head,
I stared at street and walls like one possessed.
How may I tell the insensate passion bred
By that inconstant woman in my breast!
I loved but her in all the world. One day
Apart from her seemed worse than death to me.
Yet I remember how I did essay
That cruel night to snap my chain, go free.
I named her traitress, serpent, o'er and o'er,
Recalled the anguish suffered for her sake,
Alas! her fatal beauty rose once more,
What grief, what torture in my heart to wake!
At last morn broke; with waiting vain outworn,
I fell asleep against the casement there.
I oped my lids upon the day new born,
My dazzled glance swam in the radiant air.
Then on the outer staircase, suddenly,
I heard soft steps ascend the narrow flight.
Save me, Great God! I see her--it is she!
Whence com'st thou? speak, where hast thou been this night?
What dost thou seek? who brings thee here thus late?
Where has this lovely form reclined till day,
While I alone must watch and weep and wait?
Where, and on whom hast thou been smiling, say!
Out, insolent traitress! canst thou come accurst,
And offer to my kiss thy lips' ripe charms?
What cravest thou? By what unhallowed thirst
Darest thou allure me to thy jaded arms?
Avaunt, begone! ghost of my mistress dead,
Back to thy grave! avoid the morning's beam!
Be my lost youth no more remembered!
And when I think of thee, I'll know it was a dream!
MUSE.
Be calm! I beg thee, I implore!
I shudder, hearing of thy pain.
O dearest friend, thy wound once more
Is opening to bleed again.
Is it so very deep, alas!
How slowly do the traces pass
Of this world's troubles! Thou, my son,
Forget her! let thy memory shun
Even to this woman's very name,
My pitying lips refuse to frame.
POET.
Shame upon her, who first
Treason and falsehood taught!
With grief and wrath accurst,
Who set my brain distraught.
Shame, woman baleful-eyed,
Whose fatal love entombed
In shadows of thy pride
My April ere it bloomed.
It was thy voice, thy smile,
Thy poisoned glances bright,
Which taught me to revile
The semblance of delight.
Thy grace of girlish years
Murdered my peace, my sleep.
If I lose faith in tears,
'T is that I saw thee weep.
I yielded to thy power
A child's simplicity.
As to the dawn the flower,
So oped my heart to thee.
Doubtless this helpless heart
Was thine without defence.
Were 't not the better part
To spare its innocence?
Shame! thou who didst beget
My earliest, youngest woe.
The tears are streaming yet
Which first thou madest flow.
Quenchless this source is found
Which thou hast first unsealed.
It issues from a wound
That never may be healed.
But in the bitter wave
I shall be clean restored,
And from my soul shall lave
Thy memory abhorred!
MUSE.
Poet, enough! Though but one single day
Lasted thy dream of her who faithless proved,
That day insult not; whatsoe'er thou say,
Respect thy love, if thou would be beloved.
If human weakness find the task too great
Of pardoning the wrongs by others done,
At least the torture spare thyself of hate,
In place of pardon seek oblivion.
The dead lie peaceful in the earth asleep,
So our extinguished passions too, should rest.
Dust are those relics also; let us keep
Our hands from violence to their ashes blest.
Why, in this story of keen pain, my friend,
Wilt thou refuse naught but a dream to see?
Does Nature causeless act, to no wise end?
Think'st thou a heedless God afflicted thee?
Mayhap the blow thou weepest was to save.
Child, it has oped thy heart to seek relief;
Sorrow is lord to man, and man a slave,
None knows himself till he has walked with grief,--
A cruel law, but none the less supreme,
Old as the world, yea, old as destiny.
Sorrow baptizes us, a fatal scheme;
All things at this sad price we still must buy.
The harvest needs the dew to make it ripe,
And man to live, to feel, has need of tears.
Joy chooses a bruised plant to be her type,
That, drenched with rain, still many a blossom bears.
Didst thou not say this folly long had slept?
Art thou not happy, young, a welcome guest?
And those light pleasures that give life its zest,
How wouldst thou value if thou hadst not wept?
When, lying in the sunlight on the grass,
Freely thou drink'st with some old friend--confess,
Wouldst thou so cordially uplift thy glass,
Hadst thou not weighed the worth of cheerfulness?
Would flowers be so dear unto thy heart,
The verse of Petrarch, warblings of the bird,
Shakespeare and Nature, Angelo and Art,
But that thine ancient sobs therein thou heard?
Couldst thou conceive the ineffable peace of heaven,
Night's silence, murmurs of the wave that flows,
If sleeplessness and fever had not driven
Thy thought to yearn for infinite repose?
By a fair woman's love art thou not blest?
When thou dost hold and clasp her hand in thine,
Does not the thought of woes that once possessed,
Make all the sweeter now her smile divine?
Wander ye not together, thou and she,
Midst blooming woods, on sands like silver bright?
Does not the white wraith of the aspen-tree
In that green palace, mark the path at night?
And seest thou not, within the moon's pale ray,
Her lovely form sink on thy breast again?
If thou shouldst meet with Fortune on thy way,
Wouldst thou not follow singing, in her train?
What hast thou to regret? Immortal Hope
Is shaped anew in thee by Sorrow's hand.
Why hate experience that enlarged thy scope?
Why curse the pain that made thy soul expand?
Oh pity her! so false, so fair to see,
Who from thine eyes such bitter tears did press,
She was a woman. God revealed to thee,
Through her, the secret of all happiness.
Her task was hard; she loved thee, it may be,
Yet must she break thy heart, so fate decreed.
She knew the world, she taught it unto thee,
Another reaps the fruit of her misdeed.
Pity her! dreamlike did her love disperse,
She saw thy wound--nor could thy pain remove.
All was not falsehood in those tears of hers--
Pity her, though it were,--for thou canst love!
POET.
True! Hate is blasphemy.
With horror's thrill, I start,
This sleeping snake to see,
Uncoil within my heart.
Oh Goddess, hear my cries,
My vow to thee is given,
By my beloved's blue eyes,
And by the azure heaven,
By yonder spark of flame,
Yon trembling pearl, the star
That beareth Venus' name,
And glistens from afar,
By Nature's glorious scheme,
The infinite grace of God,
The planet's tranquil beam
That cheers the traveler's road,
The grass, the water-course,
Woods, fields with dew impearled,
The quenchless vital force,
The sap of all the world,--
I banish from my heart
This reckless passion's ghost,
Mysterious shade, depart!
In the dark past be lost!
And thou whom once I met
As friend, while thou didst live,
The hour when I forget,
I likewise should forgive.
Let me forgive! I break
The long-uniting spell.
With a last tear, oh take,
Take thou, a last farewell.
Now, gold-haired, pensive Muse,
On to our pleasures! Sing--
Some joyous carol choose,
As in the dear old Spring.
Mark, how the dew-drenched lawn
Scents the auroral hour.
Waken my love with dawn,
And pluck her garden's flower.
Immortal nature, see!
Casts slumber's veil away.
New born with her are we
In morning's earliest ray.
NOTES TO "EPISTLE" OF JOSHUA IBN VIVES OF ALLORQUI.
The life and character of Paulus de Santa Maria are thus described by
Dr. Graetz:--
"Among the Jews baptized in 1391, no other wrought so much harm to his
race as the Rabbi Solomon Levi of Burgos, known to Christians as Paulus
Burgensis, or de Santa Maria (born about 1351-52, died 1435) who rose to
very high ecclesiastical and political rank.... He had no philosophical
culture; on the contrary, as a Jew, he had been extremely devout,
observing scrupulously all the rites, and regarded as a pillar of
Judaism in his own circle.... Possessed by ambition and vanity, the
synagogue where he had passed a short time in giving and receiving
instruction, appeared to him too narrow and restricted a sphere.
He longed for a bustling activity, aimed at a position at court,
in whatever capacity, began to live on a grand scale, maintained a
sumptuous equipage, a spirited team, and a numerous retinue of servants.
As his affairs brought him into daily contact with Christians and
entangled him in religious discussions, he studied ecclesiastical
literature in order to display his erudition. The bloody massacre
of 1391 robbed him of all hope of reaching eminence as a Jew, in his
fortieth year, and he abruptly resolved to be baptized. The lofty degree
of dignity which he afterwards attained in Church and State, may even
then have floated alluringly before his mind. In order to profit by
his apostasy, the convert Paulus de Santa Maria gave out that he had
voluntarily embraced Christianity, the theological writings of the
Scholiast Thomas of Aquinas having taken hold of his inmost convictions.
The Jews, however, mistrusted his credulity, and knowing him well, they
ascribed this step to his ambition and his thirst for fame. His family,
consisting of a wife and son, renounced him when he changed his
faith.... He studied theology in the University of Paris, and then
visited the papal court of Avignon, where Cardinal Pedro de Juna had
been elected papal antagonist to Benedict XIII. of Rome. The church feud
and the schism between the two Popes offered the most favorable
opportunity for intrigues and claims. Paulus, by his cleverness, his
zeal, and his eloquence, won the favor of the Pope, who discerned in him
a useful tool. Thus he became successively Archdeacon of Trevinjo, Canon
of Seville, Bishop of Cartagena, Chancellor of Castile, and Privy
Councillor to King Henry III. of Spain. With tongue and pen he attacked
Judaism, and Jewish literature provided him with the necessary weapons.
Intelligent Jews rightly divined in this convert to Christianity their
bitterest enemy, and entered into a contest with him....
"The campaign against the malignity of Paul de Santa Maria was opened
by a young man who had formerly sat at his feet, Joshua ben Joseph
Ibn Vives, from the town of Lorca or Allorqui, a physician and Arabic
scholar. In an epistle written in a tone of humility as from a docile
pupil to a revered master, he deals his apostate teacher heavy blows,
and under the show of doubt he shatters the foundations of Christianity.
He begins by saying that the apostasy of his beloved teacher to whom
his loyal spirit had formerly clung, has amazed him beyond measure
and aroused in him many serious reflections. He can only conceive four
possible motives for such a surprising step. Either Paulus has been
actuated by ambition, love of wealth, pomp, and the satisfaction of
the senses, or else by doubt of the truth of Judaism upon philosophic
grounds, and has renounced therefore the religion which afforded him so
little freedom and security; or else he has foreseen through the latest
cruel persecutions of the Jews in Spain, the total extinction of
the race; or, finally, he may have become convinced of the truth of
Christianity. The writer enters therefore into an examination based upon
his acquaintance with the character of his former master, as to which of
these four motives is most likely to have occasioned the act. He cannot
believe that ambition and covetousness prompted it, "For I remember
when you used to be surrounded by wealth and attendants, you sighed
regretfully for your previous humble station, for your retired life and
communion with wisdom, and regarded your actual brilliant position as
an unsatisfactory sham happiness. Neither can Allorqui admit that Paulus
had been disturbed by philosophic scepticism, for to the day of his
baptism he had observed all the Jewish customs and had only accepted
that little kernel of philosophy which accords with faith, always
rejecting the pernicious outward shell. He must also discard the theory
that the sanguinary persecution of the Jews could have made Paulus
despair of the possible continuation of the Jewish race, for only a
small portion of the Jews dwelt among Christians, while the majority
lived in Asia and enjoyed a certain independence. There remains only
the conclusion that Paulus has tested the new dogmas and found
them sufficient.... Allorqui therefore begs him to communicate his
convictions and vanquish his pupil's doubts concerning Christianity.
Instead of the general spread of divine doctrine and everlasting peace
which the prophets had associated with the advent of the Messiah, only
dissension and war reigned on earth. Indeed, after Jesus' appearance,
frightful wars had but increased.... And even if Allorqui conceded the
Messiahship of Jesus, the Immaculate Conception, the Resurrection, and
all incomprehensible miracles, he could not reconcile himself to the
idea of God becoming a man. Every enlightened conception of the Deity
was at variance with it."
[Page 77 et seq. Volume 8, Second half, Graetz' History of the Jews.]
Marrano..--See Verse xix., Line 7th of "Epistle."
The enforced recipients of baptism who remained in Spain formed a
peculiar class, outwardly Christians, inwardly Jews. They might have
been called Jewish-Christians. They were looked upon with suspicion by
the Christian population, and shunned with a still more intense hatred
by the loyal Jews who gave them the name of Marranos, the accursed.
[Page 73.]
"Master, if thou to thy prides' goal should come, Where wouldst thou
throne--at Avignon or Rome?" Verse xxviii. 7, 8.
This sentence occurs in another Epistle to Paulus by Profiat Duran.
Verses 29 and 30 are paraphrases from an epistle to Paulus by Chasdai
Crescas.
"These are burning questions, from which the fire of the stake may be
kindled. Christianity gives itself out as a new revelation in a certain
sense completing and improving Judaism. But the revelation has so little
efficacy, that in the prolonged schism in the Church, a new divine
message is already needed to scatter the dangerous errors. Two Popes and
their partisans fulminate against each other bulls of excommunication
and condemn each other to profoundest hell. Where is the truth and
certainty of revelation?" [Graetz' History of the Jews.]
End of Project Gutenberg's The Poems of Emma Lazarus, by Emma Lazarus