If the sudden news were known,That anigh the desert-placeWhere once blossomed Babylon,Scions of a mighty raceStill survived, of giant build,Huntsmen, warriors, priest and sage,Whose ancestral fame had filled,Trumpet-tongued, the earlier age,How at old Assyria's feetPilgrims from all lands would meet!
Yet when Egypt's self was young,And Assyria's bloom unworn,Ere the mythic Homer sung,Ere the gods of Greece were born,Lived the nation of one God,Priests of freedom, sons of Shem,Never quelled by yoke or rod,Founders of Jerusalem—Is there one abides to-day,Seeker of dead cities, say!
Answer, now as then, THEY ARE;Scattered broadcast o'er the lands,Knit in spirit nigh and far,With indissoluble bands.Half the world adores their God,They the living law proclaim,And their guerdon is—the rod,Stripes and scourgings, death and shame.Still on Israel's head forlorn,Every nation heaps its scorn.
Well-nigh two thousand years hath IsraelSuffered the scorn of man for love of God;Endured the outlaw's ban, the yoke, the rod,With perfect patience. Empires rose and fell,Around him Nebo was adored and Bel;Edom was drunk with victory, and trodOn his high places, while the sacred sodWas desecrated by the infidel.His faith proved steadfast, without breach or flaw,But now the last renouncement is required.His truth prevails, his God is God, his LawIs found the wisdom most to be desired.Not his the glory! He, maligned, misknown,Bows his meek head, and says, "Thy will be done!"
Kindle the taper like the steadfast starAblaze on evening's forehead o'er the earth,And add each night a lustre till afarAn eightfold splendor shine above thy hearth.Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,Blow the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn;Chant psalms of victory till the heart takes fire,The Maccabean spirit leap new-born.
Remember how from wintry dawn till night,Such songs were sung in Zion, when againOn the high altar flamed the sacred light,And, purified from every Syrian stain,The foam-white walls with golden shields were hung,With crowns and silken spoils, and at the shrine,Stood, midst their conqueror-tribe, five chieftains sprungFrom one heroic stock, one seed divine.
Five branches grown from Mattathias' stem,The Blessed John, the Keen-Eyed Jonathan,Simon the fair, the Burst-of Spring, the Gem,Eleazar, Help of-God; o'er all his clanJudas the Lion-Prince, the Avenging Rod,Towered in warrior-beauty, uncrowned king,Armed with the breastplate and the sword of God,Whose praise is: "He received the perishing."
They who had camped within the mountain-pass,Couched on the rock, and tented neath the sky,Who saw from Mizpah's heights the tangled grassChoke the wide Temple-courts, the altar lieDisfigured and polluted—who had flungTheir faces on the stones, and mourned aloudAnd rent their garments, wailing with one tongue,Crushed as a wind-swept bed of reeds is bowed,
Even they by one voice fired, one heart of flame,Though broken reeds, had risen, and were men,They rushed upon the spoiler and o'ercame,Each arm for freedom had the strength of ten.Now is their mourning into dancing turned,Their sackcloth doffed for garments of delight,Week-long the festive torches shall be burned,Music and revelry wed day with night.
Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm,The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word.Where is our Judas? Where our five-branched palm?Where are the lion-warriors of the Lord?Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre,Sound the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn,Chant hymns of victory till the heart take fire,The Maccabean spirit leap new-born!
"O World-God, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian cried.His prayer was granted. High as heaven, beholdPalace and Pyramid; the brimming tideOf lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined,Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.Seek Pharaoh's race to-day and ye shall findRust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.
"O World-God, give me beauty!" cried the Greek.His prayer was granted. All the earth becamePlastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.The lyre was his, and his the breathing mightOf the immortal marble, his the playOf diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue.Go seek the sun-shine race, ye find to-dayA broken column and a lute unstrung.
"O World-God, give me Power!" the Roman cried.His prayer was granted. The vast world was chainedA captive to the chariot of his pride.The blood of myriad provinces was drainedTo feed that fierce, insatiable red heart.Invulnerably bulwarked every partWith serried legions and with close-meshed Code,Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home,A roofless ruin stands where once abodeThe imperial race of everlasting Rome.
"O Godhead, give me Truth!" the Hebrew cried.His prayer was granted; he became the slaveOf the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save.The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.Seek him to-day, and find in every land.No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;Immortal through the lamp within his hand.
Weep, Israel! your tardy meed outpourOf grateful homage on his fallen head,That never coronal of triumph wore,Untombed, dishonored, and unchapleted.If Victory makes the hero, raw SuccessThe stamp of virtue, unrememberedBe then the desperate strife, the storm and stressOf the last Warrior Jew. But if the manWho dies for freedom, loving all things less,Against world-legions, mustering his poor clan;The weak, the wronged, the miserable, to sendTheir death-cry's protest through the ages' span—If such an one be worthy, ye shall lendEternal thanks to him, eternal praise.Nobler the conquered than the conqueror's end!
1492.
Thou two-faced year, Mother of Change and Fate,Didst weep when Spain cast forth with flaming sword,The children of the prophets of the Lord,Prince, priest, and people, spurned by zealot hate.Hounded from sea to sea, from state to state,The West refused them, and the East abhorred.No anchorage the known world could afford,Close-locked was every port, barred every gate.Then smiling, thou unveil'dst, O two-faced year,A virgin world where doors of sunset part,Saying, "Ho, all who weary, enter here!There falls each ancient barrier that the artOf race or creed or rank devised, to rearGrim bulwarked hatred between heart and heart!"1883.
A Legend of the Talmud.
I.
When angels visit earth, the messengersOf God's decree, they come as lightning, wind:Before the throne, they all are living fire.There stand four rows of angels—to the rightThe hosts of Michael, Gabriel's to the left,Before, the troop of Ariel, and behind,The ranks of Raphael; all, with one accord,Chanting the glory of the Everlasting.Upon the high and holy throne there rests,Invisible, the Majesty of God.About his brows the crown of mysteryWhereon the sacred letters are engravedOf the unutterable Name. He graspsA sceptre of keen fire; the universeIs compassed in His glance; at His right handLife stands, and at His left hand standeth Death.
II.
Lo, the divine idea of making manHad spread abroad among the heavenly hosts;And all at once before the immortal thronePressed troops of angels and of seraphim,With minds opposed, and contradicting cries:"Fulfill, great Father, thine exalted thought!Create and give unto the earth her king!""Cease, cease, Almighty God! create no more!"And suddenly upon the heavenly sphereDeep silence fell; before the immortal throneThe angel Mercy knelt, and thus he spoke:"Fulfill, great Father, thine exalted thought!Create the likeness of thyself on earth.In this new creature I will breathe the spiritOf a divine compassion; he shall beThy fairest image in the universe."But to his words the angel Peace replied,With heavy sobs: "My spirit was outspread,Oh God, on thy creation, and all thingsWere sweetly bound in gracious harmony.But man, this strange new being, everywhereShall bring confusion, trouble, discord, war.""Avenger of injustice and of crime,"Exclaimed the angel Justice, "he shall beSubject to me, and peace shall bloom again.Create, oh Lord, create!" "Father of truth,"Implored with tears the angel Truth, "Thou bring'stUpon the earth the father of all lies!"And over the celestial faces gloomedA cloud of grief, and stillness deep prevailed.Then from the midst of that abyss of lightWhence sprang the eternal throne, these words rang forth:"Be comforted, my daughter! Thee I sendTo be companion unto man on earth."And all the angels cried, lamenting loud:"Thou robbest heaven of her fairest gem.Truth! seal of all thy thoughts, Almighty God,The richest jewel that adorns thy crown."From the abyss of glory rang the voice:"From heaven to earth, from earth once more to heaven,Shall Truth, with constant interchange, alightAnd soar again, an everlasting linkBetween the world and sky."And man was born.
Raschi of Troyes, the Moon of Israel,The authoritative Talmudist, returnedFrom his wide wanderings under many skies,To all the synagogues of the Orient,Through Spain and Italy, the isles of Greece,Beautiful, dolorous, sacred Palestine,Dead, obelisked Egypt, floral, musk-breathed Persia,Laughing with bloom, across the Caucasus,The interminable sameness of bare steppes,Through dark luxuriance of Bohemian woods,And issuing on the broad, bright Moldau vale,Entered the gates of Prague. Here, too, his fame,Being winged, preceded him. His people swarmedLike bees to gather the rich honey-dewOf learning from his lips. Amazement filledAll eyes beholding him. No hoary sage,He who had sat in Egypt at the feetOf Moses ben-Maimuni, called him friend;Raschi the scholiast, poet, and physician,Who bore the ponderous Bible's storied wisdom,The Mischna's tangled lore at tip of tongue,Light as a garland on a lance, appearedIn the just-ripened glory of a man.From his clear eye youth flamed magnificent;Force, masked by grace, moved in his balanced frame;An intellectual, virile beauty reignedDominant on domed brow, on fine, firm lips,An eagle profile cut in gilded bronze,Strong, delicate as a head upon a coin,While, as an aureole crowns a burning lamp,Above all beauty of the body and brainShone beauty of a soul benign with love.Even as a tawny flock of huddled sheep,Grazing each other's heels, urged by one will,With bleat and baa following the wether's lead,Or the wise shepherd, so o'er the Moldau bridgeTrotted the throng of yellow-caftaned Jews,Chattering, hustling, shuffling. At their headMarched Rabbi Jochanan ben-Eleazar,High priest in Prague, oldest and most revered,To greet the star of Israel. As a fatherYearns toward his son, so toward the noble RaschiLeapt at first sight the patriarch's fresh old heart."My home be thine in Prague! Be thou my son,Who have no offspring save one simple girl.See, glorious youth, who dost renew the daysOf David and of Samuel, early gracedWith God's anointing oil, how IsraelDelights to honor who hath honored him."Then Raschi, though he felt a ball of fireGlobe itself in his throat, maintained his calm,His cheek's opaque, swart pallor while he kissedSilent the Rabbi's withered hand, and bowedDivinely humble, his exalted headCraving the benison.For each who askedHe had the word of counsel, comfort, help;For all, rich eloquence of thanks. His voice,Even and grave, thrilled secret chords and setPlain speech to music. Certain folk were thereSick in the body, dragging painful limbs,To the physician. These he solaced first,With healing touch, with simples from his pouch,Warming and lulling, best with promisesOf constant service till their ills were cured.And some, gray-bearded, bald, and curved with age,Blear-eyed from poring over lines obscureAnd knotty riddles of the Talmud, broughtTheir problems to this youth, who cleared and solved,Yielding prompt answer to a lifetime's search.Then, followed, pushed by his obsequious tribe,Who fain had pedestaled him on their backs,Hemming his steps, choking the airs of heavenWith their oppressive honors, he advanced,Midst shouts, tumultuous welcomes, kisses showeredUpon his road-stained garments, through Prague's streets,Gaped at by Gentiles, hissed at and reviled,But no whit altering his majestic mienFor overwhelming plaudits or contempt.Glad tidings Raschi brought from West and EastOf thriving synagogues, of famous men,And flourishing academies. In RomeThe Papal treasurer was a pious Jew,Rabbi Jehiel, neath whose patronageProspered a noble school. Two hundred JewsDwelt free and paid no tributary mark.Three hundred lived in peace at Capua,Shepherded by the learned Rabbi David,A prince of Israel. In BabylonThe Jews established their Academy.Another still in Bagdad, from whose chairPreached the great rabbi, Samuel Ha-levi,Versed in the written and the oral law,Who blindfold could repeat the whole vast textOf Mischna and Gemara. On the banksOf Eden-born Euphrates, one day's rideFrom Bagdad, Raschi found in the wilderness,Which once was Babylon, Ezekiel's tomb.Thrice ten perpetual lamps starred the dim shrine,Two hundred sentinels held the sleepless vigil,Receiving offerings. At the Feast of BoothsHere crowded Jews by thousands, out of Persia,From all the neighboring lands, to celebrateThe glorious memories of the golden days.Ten thousand Jews with their AcademyDamascus boasted, while in Cairo shoneThe pearl, the crown of Israel, ben-Maimuni,Physician at the Court of Saladin,The second Moses, gathering at his feetSages from all the world.As Raschi spake,Forgetting or ignoring the chief shrine,The Exile's Home, whereunto yearned all hearts,All ears were strained for tidings. Some one asked:"What of Jerusalem? Speak to us of Zion."The light died from his eyes. From depths profoundIssued his grave, great voice: "Alas for Zion!Verily is she fallen! Where our raceDictated to the nations, not a handful,Nay, not a score, not ten, not two abide!One, only one, one solitary Jew,The Rabbi Abraham Haceba, flitsGhostlike amid the ruins; every yearBeggars himself to pay the idolatersThe costly tax for leave to hold a-gapeHis heart's live wound; to weep, a mendicant,Amidst the crumbled stones of palacesWhere reigned his ancestors, upon the gravesWhere sleep the priests, the prophets, and the kingsWho were his forefathers. Ask me no more!"
Now, when the French Jew's advent was proclaimed,And his tumultuous greeting, envious growlsAnd ominous eyebeams threatened storm in Prague."Who may this miracle of learning be?The Anti-Christ! The century-long-awaited,The hourly-hoped Messiah, come at last!Else dared they never wax so arrogant,Flaunting their monstrous joy in Christian eyes,And strutting peacock-like, with hideous screams,Who are wont to crawl, mute reptiles underfoot."A stone or two flung at some servile form,Liveried in the yellow gaberdine(With secret happiness but half suppressedOn features cast for misery), served at firstFor chance expression of the rabble's hate;But, swelling like a snow-ball rolled alongBy mischief-plotting boys, the rage increased,Grew to a mighty mass, until it reachedThe palace of Duke Vladislaw. He heardWith righteous wrath his injured subjects' chargeAgainst presumptuous aliens: how these blockedHis avenues, his bridges; bared to the sunThe canker-taint of Prague's obscurest coigne;Paraded past the churches of the LordOne who denied Him, one by them hailed Christ.Enough! This cloud, no bigger than one's hand,Gains overweening bulk. Prague harbored, first,Out of contemptuous ruth, a wretched bandOf outcast paupers, gave them leave to plyTheir money-lending trade, and leased them landOn all too facile terms. Behold! to-day,Like leeches bloated with the people's blood,They batten on Bohemia's poverty;They breed and grow; like adders, spit back hateAnd venomed perfidy for Christian love.Thereat the Duke, urged by wise counsellors—Narzerad the statesman (half whose wealth was pledgedTo the usurers), abetted by the priest,Bishop of Olmutz, who had visitedThe Holy Sepulchre, whose long, full lifeWas one clean record of pure piety—The Duke, I say, by these persuasive tongues,Coaxed to his darling aim, forbade his guardsTo hinder the just anger of his town,And ordered to be led in chains to himThe pilgrim and his host.
At noontide mealRaschi sat, full of peace, with Jochanan,And the sole daughter of the house, Rebekah,Young, beautiful as her namesake when she broughtHer firm, frail pitcher balanced on her neckUnto the well, and gave the stranger drink,And gave his camels drink. The servant setThe sparkling jar's refreshment from his lips,And saw the virgin's face, bright as the moon,Beam from the curled luxuriance of black locks,And cast-back linen veil's soft-folded cloud,Then put the golden ear-ring by her cheek,The bracelets on her hands, his master's pledge,Isaac's betrothal gift, whom she should wed,And be the mother of millions—one whose seedDwells in the gates of those which hate them.SoYearned Raschi to adorn the radiant girlWho sat at board before him, nor dared liftShy, heavy lids from pupils black as grapesThat dart the imprisoned sunshine from their core.But in her ears keen sense was born to catch,And in her heart strange power to hold, each toneO' the low-keyed, vibrant voice, each syllableO' the eloquent discourse, enriched with talesOf venturous travel, brilliant with fine pointsOf delicate humor, or illustratedWith living portraits of world-famoused men,Jews, Saracens, Crusaders, Islamites,Whose hand he had grasped—the iron warrior,Godfrey of Bouillon, the wise infidelWho in all strength, wit, courtesy excelledThe kings his foes—imperial Saladin.But even as Raschi spake an abrupt noiseOf angry shouts, of battering staves that shookThe oaken portal, stopped the enchanted voice,The uplifted wine spilled from the nerveless handOf Rabbi Jochanan. "God pity us!Our enemies are upon us once again.Hie thee, Rebekah, to the inmost chamber,Far from their wanton eyes' polluting gaze,Their desecrating touch! Kiss me! Begone!Raschi, my guest, my son"—But no word moreUttered the reverend man. With one huge crashThe strong doors split asunder, pouring inA stream of soldiers, ruffians, armed with pikes,Lances, and clubs—the unchained beast, the mob."Behold the town's new guest!" jeered one who tossedThe half-filled golden wine-cup's contents straightIn the noble pure young face. "What, master Jew!Must your good friends of Prague break bolts and barsTo gain a peep at this prodigious pearlYou bury in your shell? Forth to the day!Our Duke himself claims share of your new wealth;Summons to court the Jew philosopher!"Then, while some stuffed their pokes with baubles snatchedFrom board and shelf, or with malignant swordSlashed the rich Orient rugs, the pictured woofThat clothed the wall; others had seized and bound,And gagged from speech, the helpless, aged man;Still others outraged, with coarse, violent hands,The marble-pale, rigid as stone, strange youth,Whose eye like struck flint flashed, whose nether lipWas threaded with a scarlet line of blood,Where the compressed teeth fixed it to forced calm.He struggled not while his free limbs were tied,His beard plucked, torn and spat upon his robe—Seemed scarce to know these insults were for him;But never swerved his gaze from Jochanan.Then, in God's language, sealed from these dumb brutes,Swiftly and low he spake: "Be of good cheer,Reverend old man. I deign not treat with these.If one dare offer bodily hurt to thee,By the ineffable Name! I snap my chainsLike gossamer, and in his blood, to the hilt,Bathe the prompt knife hid in my girdle's folds.The Duke shall hear me. Patience. Trust in me."Somewhat the authoritative voice abashed,Even hoarse and changed, the miscreants, who fearedSome strong curse lurked in this mysterious tongue,Armed with this evil eye. But brief the spell.With gibe and scoff they dragged their victims forth,The abused old man, the proud, insulted youth,O'er the late path of his triumphal march,Befouled with mud, with raiment torn, wild hairAnd ragged beard, to Vladislaw. He satExpectant in his cabinet. On one sideHis secular adviser, Narzerad,Quick-eyed, sharp-nosed, red-whiskered as a fox;On the other hand his spiritual guide,Bishop of Olmutz, unctuous, large, and bland."So these twain are chief culprits!" sneered the Duke,Measuring with the noble's ignorant scornHis masters of a lesser caste. "Stand forth!Rash, stubborn, vain old man, whose impudenceHath choked the public highways with thy broodOf nasty vermin, by our sufferance hidIn lanes obscure, who hailed this charlatanWith sky-flung caps, bent knees, and echoing shouts,Due to ourselves alone in Prague; yea, worse,Who offered worship even ourselves disclaim,Our Lord Christ's meed, to this blaspheming Jew—Thy crimes have murdered patience. Thou hast wreckedThy people's fortune with thy own. But first(For even in anger we are just) recountWith how great compensation from thy storeOf hoarded gold and jewels thou wilt buyRemission of the penalty. Be wise.Hark how my subjects, storming through the streets,Vent on thy tribe accursed their well-based wrath."And, truly, through closed casements roared the noiseOf mighty surging crowds, derisive cries,And victims' screams of anguish and affright.Then Raschi, royal in his rags, began:"Hear me, my liege!" At that commanding voice,The Bishop, who with dazed eyes had perusedThe grieved, wise, beautiful, pale face, sprang up,Quick recognition in his glance, warm joyAflame on his broad cheeks. "No more! No more!Thou art the man! Give me the hand to kissThat raised me from the shadow of the graveIn Jaffa's lazar-house! Listen, my liege!During my pilgrimage to PalestineI, sickened with the plague and nigh to death,Languished 'midst strangers, all my crumbling fleshOne rotten mass of sores, a thing for dogsTo shy from, shunned by Christian as by Turk,When lo! this clean-breathed, pure-souled, blessed youth,Whom I, not knowing for an infidel,Seeing featured like the Christ, believed a saint,Sat by my pillow, charmed the sting from pain,Quenched the fierce fever's heat, defeated Death;And when I was made whole, had disappeared,No man knew whither, leaving no more traceThan a re-risen angel. This is he!"Then Raschi, who had stood erect, nor quailedFrom glances of hot hate or crazy wrath,Now sank his eagle gaze, stooped his high head,Veiling his glowing brow, returned the kissOf brother-love upon the Christian's hand,And dropping on his knees implored the three,"Grace for my tribe! They are what ye have made.If any be among them fawning, false,Insatiable, revengeful, ignorant, mean—And there are many such—ask your own heartsWhat virtues ye would yield for planted hate,Ribald contempt, forced, menial servitude,Slow centuries of vengeance for a crimeYe never did commit? Mercy for these!Who bear on back and breast the scathing brandOf scarlet degradation, who are clothedIn ignominious livery, whose bowed necksAre broken with the yoke. Change these to men!That were a noble witchcraft simply wrought,God's alchemy transforming clods to gold.If there be one among them strong and wise,Whose lips anoint breathe poetry and love,Whose brain and heart served ever Christian need—And there are many such—for his dear sake,Lest ye chance murder one of God's high priests,Spare his thrice-wretched tribe! Believe me, sirs,Who have seen various lands, searched various hearts,I have yet to touch that undiscovered shore,Have yet to fathom that impossible soul,Where a true benefit's forgot; where oneSlight deed of common kindness sown yields notAs now, as here, abundant crop of love.Every good act of man, our Talmud says,Creates an angel, hovering by his side.Oh! what a shining host, great Duke, shall guardThy consecrated throne, for all the livesThy mercy spares, for all the tears thy ruthStops at the source. Behold this poor old man,Last of a line of princes, stricken in years,As thy dead father would have been to-day.Was that white beard a rag for obscene handsTo tear? a weed for lumpish clowns to pluck?Was that benignant, venerable faceFit target for their foul throats' voided rheum?That wrinkled flesh made to be pulled and pricked,Wounded by flinty pebbles and keen steel?Behold the prostrate, patriarchal form,Bruised, silent, chained. Duke, such is Israel!""Unbind these men!" commanded Vladislaw."Go forth and still the tumult of my town.Let no Jew suffer violence. Raschi, rise!Thou who hast served the Christ—with this priest's life,Who is my spirit's counselor—Christ serves thee.Return among thy people with my seal,The talisman of safety. Let them knowThe Duke's their friend. Go, publish the glad news!"Raschi the Saviour, Raschi the Messiah,Back to the Jewry carried peace and love.But Narzerad fed his venomed heart with gall,Vowing to give his fatal hatred vent,Despite a world of weak fantastic DukesAnd heretic bishops. He fulfilled his vow.
[Aaron Ben Mier "loquitur."]
If I remember Raschi? An I live,Grandson, to bless thy grandchild, I'll forgetNever that youth and what he did for Prague.Aye, aye, I know! he slurred a certain verseIn such and such a prayer; omitted quiteTo stand erect there where the ritualCommands us rise and bow towards the East;Therefore, the ingrates brand him heterodox,Neglect his memory whose virtue savedEach knave of us alive. Not I forget,No more does God, who wrought a miracleFor his dear sake. The Passover was here.Raschi, just wedded with the fair Rebekah,Bode but the lapsing of the holy weekFor homeward journey with his bride to France.The sacred meal was spread. All sat at boardWithin the house of Rabbi Jochanan:The kind old priest; his noble, new-found son,Whose name was wrung in every key of praise,By every voice in Prague, from Duke to serf(Save the vindictive bigot, Narzerad);The beautiful young wife, whose cup of joySparkled at brim; next her the vacant chairAwaited the Messiah, who, unannounced,In God's good time shall take his place with us.Now when the Rabbi reached the verse where oneShall rise from table, flinging wide the door,To give the Prophet entrance, if so beThe glorious hour have sounded, Raschi rose,Pale, grave, yet glad with great expectancy,Crossed the hushed room, and, with a joyous smileTo greet the Saviour, opened the door.A curse!A cry, "Revenged!" a thrust, a stifled moan,The sheathing of a poniard—that was all!In the dark vestibule a fleeing form,Masked, gowned in black; and in the room of prayer,Raschi, face downward on the stone-cold floor,Bleeding his life out. Oh! what a cry was that(Folk shuddered, hearing, roods off in the street)Wherewith Rebekah rushed to raise her lord,Kneeling beside him, striving in vain to quenchWith turban, veil, torn shreds of gown, stained hands,The black blood's sickening gush. He never spoke,Never rewarded with one glance of lifeThe passion in her eyes. He met his endEven as beneath the sickle the full earBows to its death—so beautiful, silent, ripe.
Well, we poor Jews must gulp our injuries,Howe'er they choke us. What redress in PragueFor the inhuman murder? A strange JewThe victim; the suspected criminalThe ducal counselor! Such odds forbadeRevenge or justice. We forbore to seek.The priest, discrowned o' the glory of his age,The widow-bride, mourned as though smitten of God,Gave forth they would with solemn obsequiesBury their dead, and crave no help from man.Now of what chanced betwixt the night of murderAnd the appointed burial I can giveOnly the sum of gossip—servants' tales,Neighbors' reports, close confidences leakedFrom friends and kindred. Night and day, folk said,Rebekah wept, prayed, fasted by the corpse,Three mortal days. Upon the third, her eyes,Sunk in their pits, glimmered with wild, strange fire.She started from her place beside the dead,Kissed clay-cold brow, cheeks, lids, and lips once more,And with a maniac's wan, heart-breaking smile,Veiled, hooded, glided through the twilight streets,A sable shadow. From the willow-grove,Close by the Moldau's brink, beyond the bridge,Her trace was lost. 'T was evening and mild May,Air full of spring, skies perfect as a pearl;Yet one who saw her pass amidst the shadesO' the blue-gray branches swears a sudden flame,As of miraculous lightning, thrilled through heaven.One hour thereafter she reentered Prague,Slid swiftly through the streets, as though borne onBy ankle-wings or floating on soft cloud,Smiling no more, but with illumined eyes,Transfigured brow, grave lips, and faltering limbs,So came into the room where Raschi layStretched 'twixt tall tapers lit at head and foot.She held in both hands leafy, flowerless plants,Some she had fastened in her twisted hair,Stuck others in her girdle, and from allIssued a racy odor, pungent-sweet,The living soul of Spring. Death's chamber seemedAs though clear sunshine and a singing birdTherein had entered. From the precious herbShe poured into a golden bowl the sap,Sparkling like wine; then with a soundless prayer,White as the dead herself, she held the cupTo Raschi's mouth. A quick, small flame sprang upFrom the enchanted balsam, died away,And lo! the color dawned in cheek and lips,The life returned, the sealed, blind lids were raised,And in the glorious eyes love reawoke,And, looking up, met love.So runs the tale,Mocked by the worldly-wise; but I believe,Knowing the miracles the Lord hath wroughtIn every age for Jacob's seed. Moreover,I, with the highest and meanest Jew in Prague,Was at the burial. No man saw the dead.Sealed was the coffin ere the rites began,And none could swear it went not empty downInto the hollow earth. Too shrewd our priestTo publish such a wonder, and exposeThat consecrated life to second death.Scarce were the thirty days of mourning sped,When we awoke to find his home left bare,Rebekah and her father fled from Prague.God grant they had glad meeting otherwhere!
From Joshua Ibn Vives of Allorqui to his Former Master, SolomonLevi-Paul, de Santa-Maria, Bishop of Cartegna Chancellor ofCastile, and Privy Councillor to King Henry III. of Spain.
[In this poem I have done little more than elaborateand versify the account given in Graetz's History of theJews (Vol. VIII., page 77), of an Epistle actually writtenin the beginning of the 15th century by Joshua ben JosephIbn Vives to Paulus de Santa Maria—E.L.]
I.
Master and Sage, greetings and health to thee,From thy most meek disciple! Deign once moreEndure me at thy feet, enlighten me,As when upon my boyish head of yore,Midst the rapt circle gathered round thy kneeThy sacred vials of learning thou didst pour.By the large lustre of thy wisdom orbedBe my black doubts illumined and absorbed.
II.
Oft I recall that golden time when thou,Born for no second station, heldst with usThe Rabbi's chair, who art priest and bishop now;And we, the youth of Israel, curious,Hung on thy counsels, lifted reverent browUnto thy sanctity, would fain discussWith thee our Talmud problems good and evil,Till startled by the risen stars o'er Seville.
III.
For on the Synagogue's high-pillared porchThou didst hold session, till the sudden sunBeyond day's purple limit dropped his torch.Then we, as dreamers, woke, to find outrunTime's rapid sands. The flame that may not scorch,Our hearts caught from thine eyes, thou Shining One.I scent not yet sweet lemon-groves in flower,But I re-breathe the peace of that deep hour.
IV.
We kissed the sacred borders of thy gown,Brow-aureoled with thy blessing, we went forthThrough the hushed byways of the twilight town.Then in all life but one thing seemed of worth,To seek, find, love the Truth. She set her crownUpon thy head, our Master, at thy birth;She bade thy lips drop honey, fired thine eyesWith the unclouded glow of sun-steeped skies.
V.
Forgive me, if I dwell on that which, viewedFrom thy new vantage-ground, must seem a mistOf error, by auroral youth enduedWith alien lustre. Still in me subsistThose reeking vapors; faith and gratitudeStill lead me to the hand my boy-lips kissedFor benison and guidance. Not in wrath,Master, but in wise patience, point my path.
VI.
For I, thy servant, gather in one sheafThe venomed shafts of slander, which thy wordShall shrivel to small dust. If haply grief,Or momentary pain, I deal, my LordBlame not thy servant's zeal, nor be thou deafUnto my soul's blind cry for light. Accord—Pitying my love, if too superb to careFor hate-soiled name—an answer to my prayer.
VII.
To me, who, vine to stone, clung close to thee,The very base of life appeared to quakeWhen first I knew thee fallen from us, to beA tower of strength among our foes, to make'Twixt Jew and Jew deep-cloven enmity.I have wept gall and blood for thy dear sake.But now with temperate soul I calmly searchMotive and cause that bound thee to the Church.
VIII.
Four motives possible therefor I reach—Ambition, doubt, fear, or mayhap—conviction.I hear in turn ascribed thee all and eachBy ignorant folk who part not truth from fiction.But I, whom even thyself didst stoop to teach,May poise the scales, weigh this with that confliction,Yea, sift the hid grain motive from the dense,Dusty, eye-blinding chaff of consequence.