"Have you no smile to welcome love with, Liebhaid?Why should you tremble?Prince, I am afraid!Afraid of my own heart, my unfathomed joy,A blasphemy against my father's grief,My people's agony!
"What good shall come, forswearing kith and God,To follow the allurements of the heart?"
asks the distracted maiden, torn between her love for he princely wooer and her devotion to the people among whom her lot has been cast.
"O God!How shall I pray for strength to love him lessThan mine own soul!No more of that,I am all Israel's now. Till this cloud pass,I have no thought, no passion, no desire,Save for my people."
Individuals perish, but great ideas survive,—fortitude and courage, and that exalted loyalty and devotion to principle which alone are worth living and dying for.
The Jews pass by in procession—men, women, and children—on their way to the flames, to the sound of music, and in festal array, carrying the gold and silver vessels, the roll of the law, the perpetual lamp and the seven branched silver candle-stick of the synagogue. The crowd hoot and jeer at them.
"The misers! they will take their gems and goldDown to the grave!"
"Let us rejoice"
sing the Jewish youths in chorus; and the maidens:—
"Our feet stand within thy gates, O Zion!Within thy portals, O Jerusalem!"
The flames rise and dart among them; their garments wave, their jewels flash, as they dance and sing in the crimson blaze. The music ceases, a sound of crashing boards is heard and a great cry,—"Hallelujah!" What a glory and consecration of the martyrdom! Where shall we find a more triumphant vindication and supreme victory of spirit over matter?
"I see, I see,How Israel's ever-crescent glory makesThese flames that would eclipse it dark as blotsOf candle-light against the blazing sun.We die a thousand deaths,—drown, bleed, and burn.Our ashes are dispersed unto the winds.Yet the wild winds cherish the sacred seed,The fire refuseth to consume.. . . . . . . . .Even as we die in honor, from our deathShall bloom a myriad heroic lives,Brave through our bright example, virtuousLest our great memory fall in disrepute."
The "Dance to Death" was published, along with other poems and translations from the Hebrew poets of mediaeval Spain, in a small column entitled "Songs of a Semite." The tragedy was dedicated, "In profound veneration and respect to the memory of George Eliot, the illustrious writer who did most among the artists of our day towards elevating and ennobling the spirit of Jewish nationality."
For this was the idea that had caught the imagination of Emma Lazarus, —a restored and independent nationality and repatriation in Palestine. In her article in "The Century" of February, 1883, on the "Jewish Problem," she says:—
"I am fully persuaded that all suggested solutions otherthan this are but temporary palliatives.... The ideaformulated by George Eliot has already sunk into the mindsof many Jewish enthusiasts, and it germinates with miraculousrapidity. 'The idea that I am possessed with,' says Deronda,'is that of restoring a political existence to my people;making them a nation again, giving them a national centre,such as the English have, though they, too, are scatteredover the face of the globe. That task which presents itselfto me as a duty.... I am resolved to devote my life toit. AT THE LEAST, I MAY AWAKEN A MOVEMENT IN OTHER MINDSSUCH HAS BEEN AWAKENED IN MY OWN.' Could the nobleprophetess who wrote the above words have lived but till to-day to see the ever-increasing necessity of adopting herinspired counsel,...she would have been herself astonishedat the flame enkindled by her seed of fire, and the practicalshape which the movement projected by her poetic vision isbeginning to assume."
In November of 1882 appeared her first "Epistle to the Hebrews,"—one of a series of articles written for the "American Hebrew," published weekly through several months. Addressing herself now to a Jewish audience, she sets forth without reserve her views and hopes for Judaism, now passionately holding up the mirror for the shortcomings and peculiarities of her race. She says:—
"Every student of the Hebrew language is aware that we havein the conjugation of our verbs a mode known as the 'intensivevoice,' which, by means of an almost imperceptible modificationof vowel-points, intensifies the meaning of the primitive root.A similar significance seems to attach to the Jews themselvesin connection with the people among whom they dwell. They arethe 'intensive form' of any nationality whose language andcustoms they adopt.... Influenced by the same causes, theyrepresent the same results; but the deeper lights and shadowsof the Oriental temperament throw their failings, as well astheir virtues, into more prominent relief."
In drawing the epistles to a close, February 24, 1883, she thus summarizes the special objects she has had in view:—
"My chief aim has been to contribute my mite towards arousingthat spirit of Jewish enthusiasm which might manifest itself:First, in a return to varied pursuits and broad system ofphysical and intellectual education adopted by our ancestors;Second, in a more fraternal and practical movement towardsalleviating the sufferings of oppressed Jews in countries lessfavored than our own; Third, in a closer and wider study ofHebrew literature and history and finally, in a truer recognitionof the large principals of religion, liberty, and law uponwhich Judaism is founded, and which should draw into harmoniousunity Jews of every shade of opinion."
Her interest in Jewish affairs was at its height when she planned a visit abroad, which had been a long-cherished dream, and May 15, 1883, she sailed for England, accompanied by a younger sister. We have difficulty in recognizing the tragic priestess we have been portraying in the enthusiastic child of travel who seems new-born into a new world. From the very outset she is in a maze of wonder and delight. At sea she writes:—
"Our last day on board ship was a vision of beauty frommorning till night,—the sea like a mirror and the skydazzling with light. In the afternoon we passed a shipin full sail, near enough to exchange salutes and cheers.After tossing about for six days without seeing a humanbeing, except those on our vessel, even this was a sensation.Then an hour or two before sunset came the great sensationof—land! At first, nothing but a shadow on the far horizon,like the ghost of a ship; two or three widely scattered rockswhich were the promontories of Ireland, and sooner than weexpected we were steaming along low-lying purple hills."
The journey to Chester gives her "the first glimpse of mellow England,"—a surprise which is yet no surprise, so well known and familiar does it appear. Then Chester, with its quaint, picturesque streets, "like the scene of a Walter Scott novel, the cathedral planted in greenness, and the clear, gray river where a boatful of scarlet dragoons goes gliding by." Everything is a picture for her special benefit. She "drinks in, at every sense, the sights, sounds, and smells, and the unimaginable beauty of it all." Then the bewilderment of London, and a whirl of people, sights, and impressions. She was received with great distinction by the Jews, and many of the leading men among them warmly advocated her views. But it was not alone from her own people that she met with exceptional consideration. She had the privilege of seeing many of the most eminent personages of the day, all of whom honored her with special and personal regard. There was, no doubt, something that strongly attracted people to her at this time,—the force of her intellect at once made itself felt, while at the same time the unaltered simplicity and modesty of her character, and her readiness and freshness of enthusiasm, kept her still almost like a child.
She makes a flying visit to Paris, where she happens to be on the 14th of July, the anniversary of the storming of the Bastile, and of the beginning of the republic; she drives to Versailles, "that gorgeous shell of royalty, where the crowd who celebrate the birth of the republic wander freely through the halls and avenues, and into the most sacred rooms of the king.... There are ruins on every side in Paris," she says; "ruins of the Commune, or the Siege, or the Revolution; it is terrible—it seems as if the city were seared with fire and blood."
Such was Paris to her then, and she hastens back to her beloved London, starting from there on the tour through England that has been mapped out for her. "A Day in Surrey with William Morris," published in "The Century Magazine," describes her visit to Merton Abbey, the old Norman monastery, converted into a model factory by the poet-humanitarian, who himself received her as his guest, conducted her all over the picturesque building and garden, and explained to her his views of art and his aims for the people.
She drives through Kent, "where the fields, valleys, and slopes are garlanded with hops and ablaze with scarlet poppies." Then Canterbury, Windsor, and Oxford, Stratford, Warwick, the valley of the Wye, Wells, Exeter, and Salisbury,—cathedral after cathedral. Back to London, and then north through York, Durham, and Edinburgh, and on the 15th of September she sails for home. We have merely named the names, for it is impossible to convey an idea of the delight and importance of this trip, "a crescendo of enjoyment," as she herself calls it. Long after, in strange, dark hours of suffering, these pictures of travel arose before her, vivid and tragic even in their hold and spell upon her.
The winter of 1883-84 was not especially productive. She wrote a few reminiscences of her journey and occasional poems on the Jewish themes, which appeared in the "American Hebrew;" but for the most part gave herself up to quiet retrospect and enjoyment with her friends of the life she had had a glimpse of, and the experience she had stored,—a restful, happy period. In August of the same year she was stricken with a severe and dangerous malady, from which she slowly recovered, only to go through a terrible ordeal and affliction. Her father's health, which had long been failing, now broke down completely, and the whole winter was one long strain of acute anxiety, which culminated in his death, in March, 1885. The blow was a crushing one for Emma. Truly, the silver cord was loosed, and the golden bowl broken. Life lost its meaning and charm. Her father's sympathy and pride in her work had been her chief incentive and ambition, and had spurred her on when her own confidence and spirit failed. Never afterwards did she find complete and spontaneous expression. She decided to go abroad as the best means of regaining composure and strength and sailed once more in May for England, where she was welcomed now by the friends she had made, almost as to another home. She spent the summer very quietly at Richmond, an ideally beautiful spot in Yorkshire, where she soon felt the beneficial influence of her peaceful surroundings. "The very air seems to rest one here," she writes; and inspired by the romantic loveliness of the place, she even composed the first few chapters of a novel, begun with a good deal of dash and vigor, but soon abandoned, for she was still struggling with depression and gloom.
"I have neither ability, energy, nor purpose," she writes. "It is impossible to do anything, so I am forced to set it aside for the present; whether to take it up again or not in the future remains to be seen."
In the autumn she goes on the Continent, visiting the Hague, which "completely fascinates" her, and where she feels "stronger and more cheerful" than she has "for many a day." Then Paris, which this time amazes her "with its splendor and magnificence. All the ghosts of the Revolution are somehow laid," she writes, and she spends six weeks here enjoying to the full the gorgeous autumn weather, the sights, the picture galleries, the bookshops, the whole brilliant panorama of the life; and early in December she starts for Italy.
And now once more we come upon that keen zest of enjoyment, that pure desire and delight of the eyes, which are the prerogative of the poet,—Emma Lazarus was a poet. The beauty of the world,—what a rapture and intoxication it is, and how it bursts upon her in the very land of beauty, "where Dante and Petrarch trod!" A magic glow colours it all; no mere blues and greens anymore, but a splendor of purple and scarlet and emerald; "each tower, castle, and village shining like a jewel; the olive, the fig, and at your feet the roses, growing in mid-December." A day in Pisa seems like a week, so crowded is it with sensations and unforgettable pictures. Then a month in Florence, which is still more entrancing with its inexhaustible treasures of beauty and art; and finally Rome, the climax of it all,—
"wiping out all other places and impressions, and openinga whole new world of sensations. I am wild with theexcitement of this tremendous place. I have been here aweek, and have seen the Vatican and the Capitoline Museums,and the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter's, besides the ruinson the streets and on the hills, and the graves of Shelleyand Keats."It is all heart-breaking. I don't only mean those beautifulgraves, overgrown with acanthus and violets, but the mutilatedarches and columns and dumb appealing fragments looming up inthe glowing sunshine under the Roman blue sky."
True to her old attractions, it is pagan Rome that appeals to her most strongly,—
"and the far-away past, that seems so sad and strange andnear. I am even out of humor with pictures; a bit of brokenstone or a fragment of a bas-relief, or a Corinthian columnstanding out against this lapis-lazuli sky, or a tremendousarch, are the only things I can look at for the moment,—except the Sistine Chapel, which is as gigantic as the rest,and forces itself upon you with equal might."
Already, in February, spring is in the air; "the almond-trees are in bloom, violets cover the grass, and oh! the divine, the celestial, the unheard-of beauty of it all!" It is almost a pang for her, "with its strange mixture of longing and regret and delight," and in the midst of it she says, "I have to exert all my strength not to lose myself in morbidness and depression."
Early in March she leaves Rome, consoled with the thought of returning the following winter. In June she was in England again, and spent the summer at Malvern. Disease was no doubt already beginning to prey upon her, for she was oppressed at times by a languor and heaviness amounting almost to lethargy. When she returned to London, however, in September, she felt quite well again, and started for another tour in Holland, which she enjoyed as much as before. She then settled in Paris, to await the time when she could return to Italy. But she was attacked at once with grave and alarming symptoms, that betokened a fatal end to her malady. Entirely ignorant, however, of the danger that threatened her, she kept up courage and hope, made plans for the journey, and looked forward to setting out at any moment. But the weeks passed and the months also; slowly and gradually the hope faded. The journey to Italy must be given up; she was not in condition to be brought home, and she reluctantly resigned herself to remain where she was and "convalesce," as she confidently believed, in the spring. Once again came the analogy, which she herself pointed out now, to Heine on his mattress-grave in Paris. She, too, the last time she went out, dragged herself to the Louvre, to the feet of the Venus, "the goddess without arms, who could not help." Only her indomitable will and intense desire to live seemed to keep her alive. She sunk to a very low ebb, but, as she herself expressed it, she "seemed to have always one little window looking out into life," and in the spring she rallied sufficiently to take a few drives and to sit on the balcony of her apartment. She came back to life with a feverish sort of thirst and avidity. "No such cure for pessimism," she says, "as a severe illness; the simplest pleasures are enough,—to breathe the air and see the sun."
Many plans were made for leaving Paris, but it was finally decided to risk the ocean voyage and bring her home, and accordingly she sailed July 23rd, arriving in New York on the last day of that month.
She did not rally after this; and now began her long agony, full of every kind of suffering, mental and physical. Only her intellect seemed kindled anew, and none but those who saw her during the last supreme ordeal can realize that wonderful flash and fire of the spirit before its extinction. Never did she appear so brilliant. Wasted to a shadow, and between acute attacks of pain, she talked about art, poetry, the scenes of travel, of which her brain was so full, and the phases of her own condition, with an eloquence for which even those who knew her best were quite unprepared. Every faculty seemed sharpened and every sense quickened as the "strong deliveress" approached, and the ardent soul was released from the frame that could no longer contain it.
We cannot restrain a feeling of suddenness and incompleteness and a natural pang of wonder and regret for a life so richly and so vitally endowed thus cut off in its prime. But for us it is not fitting to question or repine, but rather to rejoice in the rare possession that we hold. What is any life, even the most rounded and complete, but a fragment and a hint? What Emma Lazarus might have accomplished, had she been spared, it is idle and even ungrateful to speculate. What she did accomplish has real and peculiar significance. It is the privilege of a favored few that every fact and circumstance of their individuality shall add lustre and value to what they achieve. To be born a Jewess was a distinction for Emma Lazarus, and she in turn conferred distinction upon her race. To be born a woman also lends a grace and a subtle magnetism to her influence. Nowhere is there contradiction or incongruity. Her works bear the imprint of her character, and her character of her works; the same directness and honesty, the same limpid purity of tone, and the same atmosphere of things refined and beautiful. The vulgar, the false, and the ignoble,—she scarcely comprehended them, while on every side she was open and ready to take in and respond to whatever can adorn and enrich life. Literature was no mere "profession" for her, which shut out other possibilities; it was only a free, wide horizon and background for culture. She was passionately devoted to music, which inspired some of her best poems; and during the last years of her life, in hours of intense physical suffering, she found relief and consolation in listening to the strains of Bach and Beethoven. When she went abroad, painting was revealed to her, and she threw herself with the same ardor and enthusiasm into the study of the great masters; her last work (left unfinished) was a critical analysis of the genius and personality of Rembrandt.
And now, at the end, we ask, Has the grave really closed over all these gifts? Has that eager, passionate striving ceased, and "is the rest silence?"
Who knows? But would we break, if we could, that repose, that silence and mystery and peace everlasting?
ROSH-HASHANAH, 5643.
Not while the snow-shroud round dead earth is rolled,And naked branches point to frozen skies,—When orchards burn their lamps of fiery gold,The grape glows like a jewel, and the cornA sea of beauty and abundance lies,Then the new year is born.
Look where the mother of the months upliftsIn the green clearness of the unsunned West,Her ivory horn of plenty, dropping gifts,Cool, harvest-feeding dews, fine-winnowed light;Tired labor with fruition, joy and restProfusely to requite.
Blow, Israel, the sacred cornet! CallBack to thy courts whatever faint heart throbWith thine ancestral blood, thy need craves all.The red, dark year is dead, the year just bornLeads on from anguish wrought by priest and mob,To what undreamed-of morn?
For never yet, since on the holy height,The Temple's marble walls of white and greenCarved like the sea-waves, fell, and the world's lightWent out in darkness,—never was the yearGreater with portent and with promise seen,Than this eve now and here.
Even as the Prophet promised, so your tentHath been enlarged unto earth's farthest rim.To snow-capped Sierras from vast steppes ye went,Through fire and blood and tempest-tossing wave,For freedom to proclaim and worship Him,Mighty to slay and save.
High above flood and fire ye held the scroll,Out of the depths ye published still the Word.No bodily pang had power to swerve your soul:Ye, in a cynic age of crumbling faiths,Lived to bear witness to the living Lord,Or died a thousand deaths.
In two divided streams the exiles part,One rolling homeward to its ancient source,One rushing sunward with fresh will, new heart.By each the truth is spread, the law unfurled,Each separate soul contains the nation's force,And both embrace the world.
Kindle the silver candle's seven rays,Offer the first fruits of the clustered bowers,The garnered spoil of bees. With prayer and praiseRejoice that once more tried, once more we proveHow strength of supreme suffering still is oursFor Truth and Law and Love.
Across the Eastern sky has glowedThe flicker of a blood-red dawn,Once more the clarion cock has crowed,Once more the sword of Christ is drawn.A million burning rooftrees lightThe world-wide path of Israel's flight.
Where is the Hebrew's fatherland?The folk of Christ is sore bestead;The Son of Man is bruised and banned,Nor finds whereon to lay his head.His cup is gall, his meat is tears,His passion lasts a thousand years.
Each crime that wakes in man the beast,Is visited upon his kind.The lust of mobs, the greed of priest,The tyranny of kings, combinedTo root his seed from earth again,His record is one cry of pain.
When the long roll of Christian guiltAgainst his sires and kin is known,The flood of tears, the life-blood spiltThe agony of ages shown,What oceans can the stain remove,From Christian law and Christian love?
Nay, close the book; not now, not here,The hideous tale of sin narrate,Reechoing in the martyr's ear,Even he might nurse revengeful hate,Even he might turn in wrath sublime,With blood for blood and crime for crime.
Coward? Not he, who faces death,Who singly against worlds has fought,For what? A name he may not breathe,For liberty of prayer and thought.The angry sword he will not whet,His nobler task is—to forget.
"Since that day till now our life is one unbroken paradise. Welive a true brotherly life. Every evening after supper we takea seat under the mighty oak and sing our songs."—Extract froma letter of a Russian refugee in Texas.
Twilight is here, soft breezes bow the grass,Day's sounds of various toil break slowly off,The yoke-freed oxen low, the patient assDips his dry nostril in the cool, deep trough.Up from the prairie the tanned herdsmen passWith frothy pails, guiding with voices roughTheir udder-lightened kine. Fresh smells of earth,The rich, black furrows of the glebe send forth.
After the Southern day of heavy toil,How good to lie, with limbs relaxed, brows bareTo evening's fan, and watch the smoke-wreaths coilUp from one's pipe-stem through the rayless air.So deem these unused tillers of the soil,Who stretched beneath the shadowing oak tree, starePeacefully on the star-unfolding skies,And name their life unbroken paradise.
The hounded stag that has escaped the pack,And pants at ease within a thick-leaved dell;The unimprisoned bird that finds the trackThrough sun-bathed space, to where his fellows dwell;The martyr, granted respite from the rack,The death-doomed victim pardoned from his cell,—Such only know the joy these exiles gain,—Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.
Strange faces theirs, wherethrough the Orient sunGleams from the eyes and glows athwart the skin.Grave lines of studious thought and purpose runFrom curl-crowned forehead to dark-bearded chin.And over all the seal is stamped thereonOf anguish branded by a world of sin,In fire and blood through ages on their name,Their seal of glory and the Gentiles' shame.
Freedom to love the law that Moses brought,To sing the songs of David, and to thinkThe thoughts Gabirol to Spinoza taught,Freedom to dig the common earth, to drinkThe universal air—for this they soughtRefuge o'er wave and continent, to linkEgypt with Texas in their mystic chain,And truth's perpetual lamp forbid to wane.
Hark! through the quiet evening air, their songFloats forth with wild sweet rhythm and glad refrain.They sing the conquest of the spirit strong,The soul that wrests the victory from pain;The noble joys of manhood that belongTo comrades and to brothers. In their strainRustle of palms and Eastern streams one hears,And the broad prairie melts in mist of tears.
ROSH-HASHANAH, 5638.
The golden harvest-tide is here, the cornBows its proud tops beneath the reaper's hand.Ripe orchards' plenteous yields enrich the land;Bring the first fruits and offer them this morn,With the stored sweetness of all summer hours,The amber honey sucked from myriad flowers,And sacrifice your best first fruits to-day,With fainting hearts and hands forespent with toil,Offer the mellow harvest's splendid spoil,To Him who gives and Him who takes away.
Bring timbrels, bring the harp of sweet accord,And in a pleasant psalm your voice attune,And blow the cornet greeting the new moon.Sing, holy, holy, holy, is the Lord,Who killeth and who quickeneth again,Who woundeth and who healeth mortal pain,Whose hand afflicts us, and who sends us peace.Hail thou slim arc of promise in the West,Thou pledge of certain plenty, peace, and rest.With the spent year, may the year's sorrows cease.
For there is mourning now in Israel,The crown, the garland of the branching treeIs plucked and withered. Ripe of years was he.The priest, the good old man who wrought so wellUpon his chosen globe. For he was oneWho at his seed-plot toiled through rain and sun.Morn found him not as one who slumbereth,Noon saw him faithful, and the restful nightStole o'er him at his labors to requiteThe just man's service with the just man's death.
What shall be said when such as he do pass?Go to the hill-side, neath the cypress-trees,Fall midst that peopled silence on your knees,And weep that man must wither as the grass.But mourn him not, whose blameless life completeRounded its perfect orb, whose sleep is sweet,Whom we must follow, but may not recall.Salute with solemn trumpets the New Year,And offer honeyed fruits as were he here,Though ye be sick with wormwood and with gall.
PSALM LXXXIV.
A brackish lake is there with bitter poolsAnigh its margin, brushed by heavy trees.A piping wind the narrow valley cools,Fretting the willows and the cypresses.Gray skies above, and in the gloomy spaceAn awful presence hath its dwelling-place.
I saw a youth pass down that vale of tears;His head was circled with a crown of thorn,His form was bowed as by the weight of years,His wayworn feet by stones were cut and torn.His eyes were such as have beheld the swordOf terror of the angel of the Lord.
He passed, and clouds and shadows and thick hazeFell and encompassed him. I might not seeWhat hand upheld him in those dismal ways,Wherethrough he staggered with his misery.The creeping mists that trooped and spread around,The smitten head and writhing form enwound.
Then slow and gradual but sure they rose,Those clinging vapors blotting out the sky.The youth had fallen not, his viewless foesDiscomfited, had left the victoryUnto the heart that fainted not nor failed,But from the hill-tops its salvation hailed.
I looked at him in dread lest I should see,The anguish of the struggle in his eyes;And lo, great peace was there! TriumphantlyThe sunshine crowned him from the sacred skies."From strength to strength he goes," he leaves beneathThe valley of the shadow and of death.
"Thrice blest who passing through that vale of Tears,Makes it a well,"—and draws life-nourishmentFrom those death-bitter drops. No grief, no fearsAssail him further, he may scorn the event.For naught hath power to swerve the steadfast soulWithin that valley broken and made whole.
Wake, Israel, wake! Recall to-dayThe glorious Maccabean rage,The sire heroic, hoary-gray,His five-fold lion-lineage:The Wise, the Elect, the Help-of-God,The Burst-of-Spring, the Avenging Rod.*
From Mizpeh's mountain-ridge they sawJerusalem's empty streets, her shrineLaid waste where Greeks profaned the Law,With idol and with pagan sign.Mourners in tattered black were there,With ashes sprinkled on their hair.
Then from the stony peak there rangA blast to ope the graves: down pouredThe Maccabean clan, who sangTheir battle-anthem to the Lord.Five heroes lead, and following, see,Ten thousand rush to victory!
Oh for Jerusalem's trumpet now,To blow a blast of shattering power,To wake the sleepers high and low,And rouse them to the urgent hour!No hand for vengeance—but to save,A million naked swords should wave.
Oh deem not dead that martial fire,Say not the mystic flame is spent!With Moses' law and David's lyre,Your ancient strength remains unbent.Let but an Ezra rise anew,To lift the BANNER OF THE JEW!
A rag, a mock at first—erelong,When men have bled and women wept,To guard its precious folds from wrong,Even they who shrunk, even they who slept,Shall leap to bless it, and to save.Strike! for the brave revere the brave!*The sons of Mattathias—Jonanthan, John, Eleazer,Simon (also called the Jewel), and Jonas, the Prince
Spoken by a Citizen of Malta—1300.
A curious title held in high repute,One among many honors, thickly strewnOn my lord Bishop's head, his grace of Malta.Nobly he bears them all,—with tact, skill, zeal,Fulfills each special office, vast or slight,Nor slurs the least minutia,—therewithalWears such a stately aspect of command,Broad-checked, broad-chested, reverend, sanctified,Haloed with white about the tonsure's rim,With dropped lids o'er the piercing Spanish eyes(Lynx-keen, I warrant, to spy out heresy);Tall, massive form, o'ertowering all in presence,Or ere they kneel to kiss the large white hand.His looks sustain his deeds,—the perfect prelate,Whose void chair shall be taken, but not filled.You know not, who are foreign to the isle,Haply, what this Red Disk may be, he guards.'T is the bright blotch, big as the Royal seal,Branded beneath the beard of every Jew.These vermin so infest the isle, so slideInto all byways, highways that may leadDirect or roundabout to wealth or power,Some plain, plump mark was needed, to protectFrom the degrading contact Christian folk.
The evil had grown monstrous: certain JewsWore such a haughty air, had so refined,With super-subtile arts, strict, monkish lives,And studious habit, the coarse Hebrew type,One might have elbowed in the public martIscariot,—nor suspected one's soul-peril.Christ's blood! it sets my flesh a-creep to think!We may breathe freely now, not fearing taint,Praise be our good Lord Bishop! He keeps countOf every Jew, and prints on cheek or chinThe scarlet stamp of separateness, of shame.
No beard, blue-black, grizzled or Judas-colored,May hide that damning little wafer-flame.When one appears therewith, the urchins knowGood sport's at hand; they fling their stones and mud,Sure of their game. But most the wisdom showsUpon the unbelievers' selves; they learnTheir proper rank; crouch, cringe, and hide,—lay byTheir insolence of self-esteem; no moreFlaunt forth in rich attire, but in dull weeds,Slovenly donned, would slink past unobserved;Bow servile necks and crook obsequious knees,Chin sunk in hollow chest, eyes fixed on earthOr blinking sidewise, but to apprehendWhether or not the hated spot be spied.I warrant my Lord Bishop has full hands,Guarding the Red Disk—lest one rogue escape!
What, can these dead bones live, whose sap is driedBy twenty scorching centuries of wrong?Is this the House of Israel, whose prideIs as a tale that's told, an ancient song?Are these ignoble relics all that liveOf psalmist, priest, and prophet? Can the breathOf very heaven bid these Bones revive,Open the graves and clothe the ribs of death?
Yea, Prophesy, the Lord hath said. AgainSay to the wind, Come forth and breathe afresh,Even that they may live upon these slain,And bone to bone shall leap, and flesh to flesh.The Spirit is not dead, proclaim the word,Where lay dead bones, a host of armed men stand!I ope your graves, my people, saith the Lord,And I shall place you living in your land.
I saw in dream the spirits unbegot,Veiled, floating phantoms, lost in twilight space;For one the hour had struck, he paused; the placeRang with an awful Voice:"Soul, choose thy lot!Two paths are offered; that, in velvet-flower,Slopes easily to every earthly prize.Follow the multitude and bind thine eyes,Thou and thy sons' sons shall have peace with power.This narrow track skirts the abysmal verge,Here shalt thou stumble, totter, weep and bleed,All men shall hate and hound thee and thy seed,Thy portion be the wound, the stripe, the scourge.But in thy hand I place my lamp for light,Thy blood shall be the witness of my Law,Choose now for all the ages!"Then I sawThe unveiled spirit, grown divinely bright,Choose the grim path. He turned, I knew full wellThe pale, great martyr-forehead shadowy-curled,The glowing eyes that had renounced the world,Disgraced, despised, immortal Israel.
If the sudden tidings cameThat on some far, foreign coast,Buried ages long from fame,Had been found a remnant lostOf that hoary race who dweltBy the golden Nile divine,Spake the Pharaoh's tongue and kneltAt the moon-crowned Isis' shrine—How at reverend Egypt's feet,Pilgrims from all lands would meet!