“If, Jerusalem, I ever“Should forget thee, let my tongue“To my mouth’s roof cleave, let also“My right hand forget her cunning—”Words and melody are whirlingIn my head to-day unceasing,And methinks I hear sweet voicesSinging psalms, sweet human voices.Often to the light come alsoBeards of shadowy-long proportions;Say, ye phantoms, which amongst youIs Jehuda ben Halevy?But they quickly hustle by me;Spirits ever shun with terrorExhortations of the living—But I recognized him well.Well I knew him by his pallid,Haughty, high, and thoughtful forehead,By his eyes so sweetly staring,Viewing me with piercing sorrow.But I recognized him mostlyBy the enigmatic smile whichO’er his fair rhymed lips was playing,Such as none but poets boast of.Years come on and years pass swiftlySince Jehuda ben HalevyHad his birth, have seven hundredYears and fifty fleeted o’er us.At Toledo in Castile heFor the first time saw the light,And the golden Tagus lull’d himIn his cradle with its music.His strict father the unfoldingOf his intellect full earlyCared for, and began his lessonsWith the book of God, the Thora.With his son he read this volumeIn the’ original, whose beauteousPicturesque and hieroglyphicOld Chaldean quarto pagesSpring from out the childish agesOf our world, and for that reasonSmile so trustingly and sweetlyOn each childlike disposition.And this genuine ancient textBy the boy was likewise chantedIn the ancient and establish’dSing-song fashion, known as Tropp.And melodiously he gurgledThose fat oily gutturals;Like a very bird he warbledThat fine quaver, the Schalscheleth.And the Targum Onkelos,Which is written in the idiom,The low-Hebrew sounding idiomThat we call the Aramæan,And that to the prophet’s languageHas about the same relationAs the Swabian to the German,—In this bastard Hebrew likewiseWas the youth betimes instructedAnd the knowledge thus acquiredProved extremely useful to himIn the study of the Talmud.Yes, full early did his fatherLead him onward to the TalmudAnd he then unfolded to himThe Halacha, that illustriousFighting school, where the expertestDialectic athletes both ofBabylon and PumpedithaCarry on their mental combats.Here the boy could gain instructionIn the arts, too, of polemics;Later, in the book CosariWas his mastership establish’d.Yet the heavens pour down upon usLights of two distinct descriptions:Glaring daylight of the sun,And the moonlight’s softer lustre.Thus two different lights the TalmudAlso sheds, and is dividedIn Halacha and Hagada.—Now the first’s a fighting school,But the latter, the Hagada,I should rather call a garden,Yes, a garden, most fantastic,Comparable to that other,Which in days of yore was plantedIn the town of Babylon,—Great Semiramis’s garden,That eighth wonder of the world.’Tis said queen Semiramis,Who had, when a child, been brought upBy the birds, and had contractedMany a bird’s peculiar custom,On the mere flat ground would neverPromenade, as human creaturesMostly do, and so she plantedIn the air a hanging garden.High upon colossal pillarsPalms and cypresses were standing,Golden oranges, fair flow’r-beds,Marble statues, gushing fountains,—Firmly, skilfully unitedBy unnumber’d hanging bridgesWhich appear’d like climbing plants,And whereon the birds were rocking,—Solemn birds, large, many-colour’d,All deep thinkers, never singing,While around them finches flutter’d,Keeping up a merry twitter,—All things here were blest, and teemingWith a pure balsamic fragrance,Which was free from all offensiveEarthly smells and hateful odours.The Hagada is a gardenThat this airy whim resembles,And the youthful Talmud scholar,When his heart was overpower’dAnd was deafen’d by the squabblesOf the’ Halacha, by disputesAll about the fatal eggLaid one feast day by a pullet,—Or about some other questionOf the same importance, straightwayFled the boy to find refreshmentIn the blossoming HagadaWhere the charming olden stories,Tales of angels, famous legends,Silent histories of martyrs,Festal songs, and words of wisdom,Hyperboles, far-fetch’d it may be,But impress’d with deep conviction,Full of glowing faith,—all glitter’d,Bloom’d and sprung in such abundance.And the stripling’s noble bosomWas pervaded by the savageBut adventure-breathing sweetness,By the wondrous blissful anguishAnd the fabulous wild terrorsOf that blissful secret world,Of that mighty revelation,Known to us as Poesy.And the art of Poesy,Radiant knowledge, understanding,Which we call the art poetic,Open’d on the boy’s mind also.And Jehuda ben HalevyWas not merely skill’d in reading,But in poetry a master,And himself a first-rate poet.Yes, he was a first-rate poet,Star and torch of his own age,Light and beacon of his people,Yes, a very wondrous mightyFiery pillar of all song,That preceded Israel’s mournfulCaravan as it was marchingThrough the desert of sad exile.Pure and true alike, and spotlessWas his song, as was his spirit;When this spirit was createdBy its Maker, self-contented,He embraced the lovely spirit,And that kiss’s beauteous echoThrills through all the poet’s numbers,Which are hallow’d by this grace.As in life, in numbers alsoGrace is greatest good of all;He who has it, ne’er transgressesIn his prose or in his verses.Genius call we such a poetOf the mighty grace of God;He is undisputed monarchOf the boundless realms of fancy.He to God alone accounteth,Not to man, and, as in lifetime,So in art the mob have powerTo destroy, but not to judge us.
“If, Jerusalem, I ever“Should forget thee, let my tongue“To my mouth’s roof cleave, let also“My right hand forget her cunning—”Words and melody are whirlingIn my head to-day unceasing,And methinks I hear sweet voicesSinging psalms, sweet human voices.Often to the light come alsoBeards of shadowy-long proportions;Say, ye phantoms, which amongst youIs Jehuda ben Halevy?But they quickly hustle by me;Spirits ever shun with terrorExhortations of the living—But I recognized him well.Well I knew him by his pallid,Haughty, high, and thoughtful forehead,By his eyes so sweetly staring,Viewing me with piercing sorrow.But I recognized him mostlyBy the enigmatic smile whichO’er his fair rhymed lips was playing,Such as none but poets boast of.Years come on and years pass swiftlySince Jehuda ben HalevyHad his birth, have seven hundredYears and fifty fleeted o’er us.At Toledo in Castile heFor the first time saw the light,And the golden Tagus lull’d himIn his cradle with its music.His strict father the unfoldingOf his intellect full earlyCared for, and began his lessonsWith the book of God, the Thora.With his son he read this volumeIn the’ original, whose beauteousPicturesque and hieroglyphicOld Chaldean quarto pagesSpring from out the childish agesOf our world, and for that reasonSmile so trustingly and sweetlyOn each childlike disposition.And this genuine ancient textBy the boy was likewise chantedIn the ancient and establish’dSing-song fashion, known as Tropp.And melodiously he gurgledThose fat oily gutturals;Like a very bird he warbledThat fine quaver, the Schalscheleth.And the Targum Onkelos,Which is written in the idiom,The low-Hebrew sounding idiomThat we call the Aramæan,And that to the prophet’s languageHas about the same relationAs the Swabian to the German,—In this bastard Hebrew likewiseWas the youth betimes instructedAnd the knowledge thus acquiredProved extremely useful to himIn the study of the Talmud.Yes, full early did his fatherLead him onward to the TalmudAnd he then unfolded to himThe Halacha, that illustriousFighting school, where the expertestDialectic athletes both ofBabylon and PumpedithaCarry on their mental combats.Here the boy could gain instructionIn the arts, too, of polemics;Later, in the book CosariWas his mastership establish’d.Yet the heavens pour down upon usLights of two distinct descriptions:Glaring daylight of the sun,And the moonlight’s softer lustre.Thus two different lights the TalmudAlso sheds, and is dividedIn Halacha and Hagada.—Now the first’s a fighting school,But the latter, the Hagada,I should rather call a garden,Yes, a garden, most fantastic,Comparable to that other,Which in days of yore was plantedIn the town of Babylon,—Great Semiramis’s garden,That eighth wonder of the world.’Tis said queen Semiramis,Who had, when a child, been brought upBy the birds, and had contractedMany a bird’s peculiar custom,On the mere flat ground would neverPromenade, as human creaturesMostly do, and so she plantedIn the air a hanging garden.High upon colossal pillarsPalms and cypresses were standing,Golden oranges, fair flow’r-beds,Marble statues, gushing fountains,—Firmly, skilfully unitedBy unnumber’d hanging bridgesWhich appear’d like climbing plants,And whereon the birds were rocking,—Solemn birds, large, many-colour’d,All deep thinkers, never singing,While around them finches flutter’d,Keeping up a merry twitter,—All things here were blest, and teemingWith a pure balsamic fragrance,Which was free from all offensiveEarthly smells and hateful odours.The Hagada is a gardenThat this airy whim resembles,And the youthful Talmud scholar,When his heart was overpower’dAnd was deafen’d by the squabblesOf the’ Halacha, by disputesAll about the fatal eggLaid one feast day by a pullet,—Or about some other questionOf the same importance, straightwayFled the boy to find refreshmentIn the blossoming HagadaWhere the charming olden stories,Tales of angels, famous legends,Silent histories of martyrs,Festal songs, and words of wisdom,Hyperboles, far-fetch’d it may be,But impress’d with deep conviction,Full of glowing faith,—all glitter’d,Bloom’d and sprung in such abundance.And the stripling’s noble bosomWas pervaded by the savageBut adventure-breathing sweetness,By the wondrous blissful anguishAnd the fabulous wild terrorsOf that blissful secret world,Of that mighty revelation,Known to us as Poesy.And the art of Poesy,Radiant knowledge, understanding,Which we call the art poetic,Open’d on the boy’s mind also.And Jehuda ben HalevyWas not merely skill’d in reading,But in poetry a master,And himself a first-rate poet.Yes, he was a first-rate poet,Star and torch of his own age,Light and beacon of his people,Yes, a very wondrous mightyFiery pillar of all song,That preceded Israel’s mournfulCaravan as it was marchingThrough the desert of sad exile.Pure and true alike, and spotlessWas his song, as was his spirit;When this spirit was createdBy its Maker, self-contented,He embraced the lovely spirit,And that kiss’s beauteous echoThrills through all the poet’s numbers,Which are hallow’d by this grace.As in life, in numbers alsoGrace is greatest good of all;He who has it, ne’er transgressesIn his prose or in his verses.Genius call we such a poetOf the mighty grace of God;He is undisputed monarchOf the boundless realms of fancy.He to God alone accounteth,Not to man, and, as in lifetime,So in art the mob have powerTo destroy, but not to judge us.
“If, Jerusalem, I ever“Should forget thee, let my tongue“To my mouth’s roof cleave, let also“My right hand forget her cunning—”
Words and melody are whirlingIn my head to-day unceasing,And methinks I hear sweet voicesSinging psalms, sweet human voices.
Often to the light come alsoBeards of shadowy-long proportions;Say, ye phantoms, which amongst youIs Jehuda ben Halevy?
But they quickly hustle by me;Spirits ever shun with terrorExhortations of the living—But I recognized him well.
Well I knew him by his pallid,Haughty, high, and thoughtful forehead,By his eyes so sweetly staring,Viewing me with piercing sorrow.
But I recognized him mostlyBy the enigmatic smile whichO’er his fair rhymed lips was playing,Such as none but poets boast of.
Years come on and years pass swiftlySince Jehuda ben HalevyHad his birth, have seven hundredYears and fifty fleeted o’er us.
At Toledo in Castile heFor the first time saw the light,And the golden Tagus lull’d himIn his cradle with its music.
His strict father the unfoldingOf his intellect full earlyCared for, and began his lessonsWith the book of God, the Thora.
With his son he read this volumeIn the’ original, whose beauteousPicturesque and hieroglyphicOld Chaldean quarto pages
Spring from out the childish agesOf our world, and for that reasonSmile so trustingly and sweetlyOn each childlike disposition.
And this genuine ancient textBy the boy was likewise chantedIn the ancient and establish’dSing-song fashion, known as Tropp.
And melodiously he gurgledThose fat oily gutturals;Like a very bird he warbledThat fine quaver, the Schalscheleth.
And the Targum Onkelos,Which is written in the idiom,The low-Hebrew sounding idiomThat we call the Aramæan,
And that to the prophet’s languageHas about the same relationAs the Swabian to the German,—In this bastard Hebrew likewise
Was the youth betimes instructedAnd the knowledge thus acquiredProved extremely useful to himIn the study of the Talmud.
Yes, full early did his fatherLead him onward to the TalmudAnd he then unfolded to himThe Halacha, that illustrious
Fighting school, where the expertestDialectic athletes both ofBabylon and PumpedithaCarry on their mental combats.
Here the boy could gain instructionIn the arts, too, of polemics;Later, in the book CosariWas his mastership establish’d.
Yet the heavens pour down upon usLights of two distinct descriptions:Glaring daylight of the sun,And the moonlight’s softer lustre.
Thus two different lights the TalmudAlso sheds, and is dividedIn Halacha and Hagada.—Now the first’s a fighting school,
But the latter, the Hagada,I should rather call a garden,Yes, a garden, most fantastic,Comparable to that other,
Which in days of yore was plantedIn the town of Babylon,—Great Semiramis’s garden,That eighth wonder of the world.
’Tis said queen Semiramis,Who had, when a child, been brought upBy the birds, and had contractedMany a bird’s peculiar custom,
On the mere flat ground would neverPromenade, as human creaturesMostly do, and so she plantedIn the air a hanging garden.
High upon colossal pillarsPalms and cypresses were standing,Golden oranges, fair flow’r-beds,Marble statues, gushing fountains,—
Firmly, skilfully unitedBy unnumber’d hanging bridgesWhich appear’d like climbing plants,And whereon the birds were rocking,—
Solemn birds, large, many-colour’d,All deep thinkers, never singing,While around them finches flutter’d,Keeping up a merry twitter,—
All things here were blest, and teemingWith a pure balsamic fragrance,Which was free from all offensiveEarthly smells and hateful odours.
The Hagada is a gardenThat this airy whim resembles,And the youthful Talmud scholar,When his heart was overpower’d
And was deafen’d by the squabblesOf the’ Halacha, by disputesAll about the fatal eggLaid one feast day by a pullet,—
Or about some other questionOf the same importance, straightwayFled the boy to find refreshmentIn the blossoming Hagada
Where the charming olden stories,Tales of angels, famous legends,Silent histories of martyrs,Festal songs, and words of wisdom,
Hyperboles, far-fetch’d it may be,But impress’d with deep conviction,Full of glowing faith,—all glitter’d,Bloom’d and sprung in such abundance.
And the stripling’s noble bosomWas pervaded by the savageBut adventure-breathing sweetness,By the wondrous blissful anguish
And the fabulous wild terrorsOf that blissful secret world,Of that mighty revelation,Known to us as Poesy.
And the art of Poesy,Radiant knowledge, understanding,Which we call the art poetic,Open’d on the boy’s mind also.
And Jehuda ben HalevyWas not merely skill’d in reading,But in poetry a master,And himself a first-rate poet.
Yes, he was a first-rate poet,Star and torch of his own age,Light and beacon of his people,Yes, a very wondrous mighty
Fiery pillar of all song,That preceded Israel’s mournfulCaravan as it was marchingThrough the desert of sad exile.
Pure and true alike, and spotlessWas his song, as was his spirit;When this spirit was createdBy its Maker, self-contented,
He embraced the lovely spirit,And that kiss’s beauteous echoThrills through all the poet’s numbers,Which are hallow’d by this grace.
As in life, in numbers alsoGrace is greatest good of all;He who has it, ne’er transgressesIn his prose or in his verses.
Genius call we such a poetOf the mighty grace of God;He is undisputed monarchOf the boundless realms of fancy.
He to God alone accounteth,Not to man, and, as in lifetime,So in art the mob have powerTo destroy, but not to judge us.
“By the streams of Babylon“Sat we down and wept, we hangèd“Our sad harps upon the willows—”Know’st thou not the olden song?Know’st thou not the olden tune,Which begins with elegiacCrying, humming like a kettleThat upon the hearth is boiling?Long has it been boiling in me,Thousand years. A gloomy anguishAnd my wounds are lick’d by time,As Job’s boils by dogs were lickèd.Thank thee, dog, for thy saliva,—Though it can but cool and soften—Death alone can ever heal me,But, alas, I am immortal!Years come round and years then vanish—Busily the spool is hummingAs it in the loom is moving,—What it weaves, no weaver knoweth.Years come round and years then vanish,Human tears are dripping, runningOn the earth, and then the earthSucks them in with eager silence.Seething mad! The cover leaps up—“Happy he whose daring hand“Taketh up thy little ones,“Dashing them against the stones.”God be praised! the seething slowlyIn the pot evaporates,Then is mute. My spleen is soften’d,My west-eastern darksome spleen.And my Pegasus is neighingOnce more gaily, and the nightmareSeems to shake with vigour off him,And his wise eyes thus are asking:Are we riding back to Spain,To the little Talmudist there,Who was such a first-rate poet,—To Jehuda ben Halevy?Yes, he was a first-rate poet,In the realm of dreams sole rulerWith the spirit-monarch’s crown,By the grace of God a poet,Who in all his sacred metres,In his madrigals, terzinas,Canzonets, and strange ghaselasPour’d out all the’ abundant fireOf his noble god-kiss’d spirit!Of a truth this troubadourWas upon a par with all theBest lute-players of Provence,Of Poitou and of Guienne,Roussillon and every otherCharming orange-growing regionOf gallant old Christendom.Charming orange-growing regionsOf gallant old Christendom!How they glitter, smell, and tingleIn the twilight of remembrance!Beauteous world of nightingales!Where we only in the place ofThe true God, the false God worshipp’dOf the Muses and of love.Clergy, bearing wreaths of rosesOn their bald pates, sang the psalmsIn the charming langue d’oc;Laity, all gallant knights,On their high steeds proudly trotting,Verse and rhyme were ever makingTo the honour of the ladiesWhom their hearts to serve delighted.There’s no love without a lady.Therefore to a MinnesingerWas a lady just as needfulAs to bread-and-butter, butter.And the hero, whom we sing of,Our Jehuda ben Halevy,Also had his heart’s fair lady;But she was of special kind.She no Laura was, whose eyes,Mortal constellations, kindledOn Good Friday the notoriousFire within the famed Cathedral;She was not a chatelaineWho, attired in youthful graces,Took the chair at tournaments,And the laurel wreath presented.Casuist in the laws of kissesShe was not, no doctrinaire,Who within the learned collegeOf a court of love gave lectures.She the Rabbi was in love withWas a poor and mournful loved one,Woeful image of destruction,And her name—Jerusalem!In his early days of childhoodShe his one sole love was always;E’en the word JerusalemMade his youthful spirit quiver.Purple flames were ever standingOn the boy’s cheek, and he hearken’dWhen a pilgrim to ToledoCame from out the far east country,And recounted how desertedAnd uncleanly was the cityWhere upon the ground the tracesOf the prophets’ feet still glisten’d;Where the air is still perfumedBy the’ undying breath of God—“O the mournful sight!” a pilgrimOnce exclaim’d, whose beard was floatingWhite as silver, notwithstandingThat the hair which form’d its endOnce again grew black, appearingAs if getting young again.And a very wondrous pilgrimMight he be, his eyes were peeringAs through centuries of sorrow,And he sigh’d: “Jerusalem!“She, the crowded holy city,“Is converted to a desert,“Where wood-devils, werewolves, jackals“Their accursèd home have made.“Serpents, birds of night, are dwelling“In its weather-beaten ruins;“From the window’s airy bow“Peeps the fox with much contentment.“Here and there a ragged fellow“Comes sometimes from out the desert,“And his hunch-back’d camel feedeth“In the long grass growing round it.“On the noble heights of Zion,“Where stood up the golden fortress“Whose great majesty bore witness“To the mighty monarch’s glory,—“There, with noisome weeds encumber’d,“Nought now lies but gray old ruins,“Gazing with such looks of sorrow“One must fancy they are weeping.“And ’tis said they wept in earnest,“Once in each year, on the ninth day“Of the month’s that known as Ab—“With my own eyes, full of weeping,“I the clammy drops have witness’d“Down the large stones slowly trickling,“And have heard the broken columns“Of the temple sadly moaning.”Such-like pious pilgrim-sayingsWaken’d in the youthful bosomOf Jehuda ben HalevyYearnings for Jerusalem.Poet’s yearnings! As foreboding,Visionary, sad, as thoseIn the Château Blay experiencedWhilome by the noble Vidam,Messer Geoffroy Rudello,When the knights, returning homewardFrom the Eastern land, assertedLoudly, as they clash’d their goblets,That the paragon of graces,And the flower and pearl of women,Was the beauteous Melisanda,Margravine of Tripoli.Each one knows that for this ladyRaved the troubadour thenceforward;Her alone he sang, and shortlyChâteau Blay no more could hold him;And he hasten’d thence. At CetteTook he ship, but on the oceanHe fell ill, and sick and dyingHe arriv’d at Tripoli.Here at length, on MelisandaHe, too, gazed with eyes all-loving,Which that self-same hour were cover’dBy the darksome shades of death.Singing his last song of love,He expired before the feetOf his lady Melisanda,Margravine of Tripoli.[84]Wonderful was the resemblanceIn the fate of these two poets!Save that in old age the formerHis great pilgrimage commenced.And Jehuda ben HalevyAt his mistress’ feet expired,And his dying head, it restedOn Jerusalem’s dear knees.
“By the streams of Babylon“Sat we down and wept, we hangèd“Our sad harps upon the willows—”Know’st thou not the olden song?Know’st thou not the olden tune,Which begins with elegiacCrying, humming like a kettleThat upon the hearth is boiling?Long has it been boiling in me,Thousand years. A gloomy anguishAnd my wounds are lick’d by time,As Job’s boils by dogs were lickèd.Thank thee, dog, for thy saliva,—Though it can but cool and soften—Death alone can ever heal me,But, alas, I am immortal!Years come round and years then vanish—Busily the spool is hummingAs it in the loom is moving,—What it weaves, no weaver knoweth.Years come round and years then vanish,Human tears are dripping, runningOn the earth, and then the earthSucks them in with eager silence.Seething mad! The cover leaps up—“Happy he whose daring hand“Taketh up thy little ones,“Dashing them against the stones.”God be praised! the seething slowlyIn the pot evaporates,Then is mute. My spleen is soften’d,My west-eastern darksome spleen.And my Pegasus is neighingOnce more gaily, and the nightmareSeems to shake with vigour off him,And his wise eyes thus are asking:Are we riding back to Spain,To the little Talmudist there,Who was such a first-rate poet,—To Jehuda ben Halevy?Yes, he was a first-rate poet,In the realm of dreams sole rulerWith the spirit-monarch’s crown,By the grace of God a poet,Who in all his sacred metres,In his madrigals, terzinas,Canzonets, and strange ghaselasPour’d out all the’ abundant fireOf his noble god-kiss’d spirit!Of a truth this troubadourWas upon a par with all theBest lute-players of Provence,Of Poitou and of Guienne,Roussillon and every otherCharming orange-growing regionOf gallant old Christendom.Charming orange-growing regionsOf gallant old Christendom!How they glitter, smell, and tingleIn the twilight of remembrance!Beauteous world of nightingales!Where we only in the place ofThe true God, the false God worshipp’dOf the Muses and of love.Clergy, bearing wreaths of rosesOn their bald pates, sang the psalmsIn the charming langue d’oc;Laity, all gallant knights,On their high steeds proudly trotting,Verse and rhyme were ever makingTo the honour of the ladiesWhom their hearts to serve delighted.There’s no love without a lady.Therefore to a MinnesingerWas a lady just as needfulAs to bread-and-butter, butter.And the hero, whom we sing of,Our Jehuda ben Halevy,Also had his heart’s fair lady;But she was of special kind.She no Laura was, whose eyes,Mortal constellations, kindledOn Good Friday the notoriousFire within the famed Cathedral;She was not a chatelaineWho, attired in youthful graces,Took the chair at tournaments,And the laurel wreath presented.Casuist in the laws of kissesShe was not, no doctrinaire,Who within the learned collegeOf a court of love gave lectures.She the Rabbi was in love withWas a poor and mournful loved one,Woeful image of destruction,And her name—Jerusalem!In his early days of childhoodShe his one sole love was always;E’en the word JerusalemMade his youthful spirit quiver.Purple flames were ever standingOn the boy’s cheek, and he hearken’dWhen a pilgrim to ToledoCame from out the far east country,And recounted how desertedAnd uncleanly was the cityWhere upon the ground the tracesOf the prophets’ feet still glisten’d;Where the air is still perfumedBy the’ undying breath of God—“O the mournful sight!” a pilgrimOnce exclaim’d, whose beard was floatingWhite as silver, notwithstandingThat the hair which form’d its endOnce again grew black, appearingAs if getting young again.And a very wondrous pilgrimMight he be, his eyes were peeringAs through centuries of sorrow,And he sigh’d: “Jerusalem!“She, the crowded holy city,“Is converted to a desert,“Where wood-devils, werewolves, jackals“Their accursèd home have made.“Serpents, birds of night, are dwelling“In its weather-beaten ruins;“From the window’s airy bow“Peeps the fox with much contentment.“Here and there a ragged fellow“Comes sometimes from out the desert,“And his hunch-back’d camel feedeth“In the long grass growing round it.“On the noble heights of Zion,“Where stood up the golden fortress“Whose great majesty bore witness“To the mighty monarch’s glory,—“There, with noisome weeds encumber’d,“Nought now lies but gray old ruins,“Gazing with such looks of sorrow“One must fancy they are weeping.“And ’tis said they wept in earnest,“Once in each year, on the ninth day“Of the month’s that known as Ab—“With my own eyes, full of weeping,“I the clammy drops have witness’d“Down the large stones slowly trickling,“And have heard the broken columns“Of the temple sadly moaning.”Such-like pious pilgrim-sayingsWaken’d in the youthful bosomOf Jehuda ben HalevyYearnings for Jerusalem.Poet’s yearnings! As foreboding,Visionary, sad, as thoseIn the Château Blay experiencedWhilome by the noble Vidam,Messer Geoffroy Rudello,When the knights, returning homewardFrom the Eastern land, assertedLoudly, as they clash’d their goblets,That the paragon of graces,And the flower and pearl of women,Was the beauteous Melisanda,Margravine of Tripoli.Each one knows that for this ladyRaved the troubadour thenceforward;Her alone he sang, and shortlyChâteau Blay no more could hold him;And he hasten’d thence. At CetteTook he ship, but on the oceanHe fell ill, and sick and dyingHe arriv’d at Tripoli.Here at length, on MelisandaHe, too, gazed with eyes all-loving,Which that self-same hour were cover’dBy the darksome shades of death.Singing his last song of love,He expired before the feetOf his lady Melisanda,Margravine of Tripoli.[84]Wonderful was the resemblanceIn the fate of these two poets!Save that in old age the formerHis great pilgrimage commenced.And Jehuda ben HalevyAt his mistress’ feet expired,And his dying head, it restedOn Jerusalem’s dear knees.
“By the streams of Babylon“Sat we down and wept, we hangèd“Our sad harps upon the willows—”Know’st thou not the olden song?
Know’st thou not the olden tune,Which begins with elegiacCrying, humming like a kettleThat upon the hearth is boiling?
Long has it been boiling in me,Thousand years. A gloomy anguishAnd my wounds are lick’d by time,As Job’s boils by dogs were lickèd.
Thank thee, dog, for thy saliva,—Though it can but cool and soften—Death alone can ever heal me,But, alas, I am immortal!
Years come round and years then vanish—Busily the spool is hummingAs it in the loom is moving,—What it weaves, no weaver knoweth.
Years come round and years then vanish,Human tears are dripping, runningOn the earth, and then the earthSucks them in with eager silence.
Seething mad! The cover leaps up—“Happy he whose daring hand“Taketh up thy little ones,“Dashing them against the stones.”
God be praised! the seething slowlyIn the pot evaporates,Then is mute. My spleen is soften’d,My west-eastern darksome spleen.
And my Pegasus is neighingOnce more gaily, and the nightmareSeems to shake with vigour off him,And his wise eyes thus are asking:
Are we riding back to Spain,To the little Talmudist there,Who was such a first-rate poet,—To Jehuda ben Halevy?
Yes, he was a first-rate poet,In the realm of dreams sole rulerWith the spirit-monarch’s crown,By the grace of God a poet,
Who in all his sacred metres,In his madrigals, terzinas,Canzonets, and strange ghaselasPour’d out all the’ abundant fire
Of his noble god-kiss’d spirit!Of a truth this troubadourWas upon a par with all theBest lute-players of Provence,
Of Poitou and of Guienne,Roussillon and every otherCharming orange-growing regionOf gallant old Christendom.
Charming orange-growing regionsOf gallant old Christendom!How they glitter, smell, and tingleIn the twilight of remembrance!
Beauteous world of nightingales!Where we only in the place ofThe true God, the false God worshipp’dOf the Muses and of love.
Clergy, bearing wreaths of rosesOn their bald pates, sang the psalmsIn the charming langue d’oc;Laity, all gallant knights,
On their high steeds proudly trotting,Verse and rhyme were ever makingTo the honour of the ladiesWhom their hearts to serve delighted.
There’s no love without a lady.Therefore to a MinnesingerWas a lady just as needfulAs to bread-and-butter, butter.
And the hero, whom we sing of,Our Jehuda ben Halevy,Also had his heart’s fair lady;But she was of special kind.
She no Laura was, whose eyes,Mortal constellations, kindledOn Good Friday the notoriousFire within the famed Cathedral;
She was not a chatelaineWho, attired in youthful graces,Took the chair at tournaments,And the laurel wreath presented.
Casuist in the laws of kissesShe was not, no doctrinaire,Who within the learned collegeOf a court of love gave lectures.
She the Rabbi was in love withWas a poor and mournful loved one,Woeful image of destruction,And her name—Jerusalem!
In his early days of childhoodShe his one sole love was always;E’en the word JerusalemMade his youthful spirit quiver.
Purple flames were ever standingOn the boy’s cheek, and he hearken’dWhen a pilgrim to ToledoCame from out the far east country,
And recounted how desertedAnd uncleanly was the cityWhere upon the ground the tracesOf the prophets’ feet still glisten’d;
Where the air is still perfumedBy the’ undying breath of God—“O the mournful sight!” a pilgrimOnce exclaim’d, whose beard was floating
White as silver, notwithstandingThat the hair which form’d its endOnce again grew black, appearingAs if getting young again.
And a very wondrous pilgrimMight he be, his eyes were peeringAs through centuries of sorrow,And he sigh’d: “Jerusalem!
“She, the crowded holy city,“Is converted to a desert,“Where wood-devils, werewolves, jackals“Their accursèd home have made.
“Serpents, birds of night, are dwelling“In its weather-beaten ruins;“From the window’s airy bow“Peeps the fox with much contentment.
“Here and there a ragged fellow“Comes sometimes from out the desert,“And his hunch-back’d camel feedeth“In the long grass growing round it.
“On the noble heights of Zion,“Where stood up the golden fortress“Whose great majesty bore witness“To the mighty monarch’s glory,—
“There, with noisome weeds encumber’d,“Nought now lies but gray old ruins,“Gazing with such looks of sorrow“One must fancy they are weeping.
“And ’tis said they wept in earnest,“Once in each year, on the ninth day“Of the month’s that known as Ab—“With my own eyes, full of weeping,
“I the clammy drops have witness’d“Down the large stones slowly trickling,“And have heard the broken columns“Of the temple sadly moaning.”
Such-like pious pilgrim-sayingsWaken’d in the youthful bosomOf Jehuda ben HalevyYearnings for Jerusalem.
Poet’s yearnings! As foreboding,Visionary, sad, as thoseIn the Château Blay experiencedWhilome by the noble Vidam,
Messer Geoffroy Rudello,When the knights, returning homewardFrom the Eastern land, assertedLoudly, as they clash’d their goblets,
That the paragon of graces,And the flower and pearl of women,Was the beauteous Melisanda,Margravine of Tripoli.
Each one knows that for this ladyRaved the troubadour thenceforward;Her alone he sang, and shortlyChâteau Blay no more could hold him;
And he hasten’d thence. At CetteTook he ship, but on the oceanHe fell ill, and sick and dyingHe arriv’d at Tripoli.
Here at length, on MelisandaHe, too, gazed with eyes all-loving,Which that self-same hour were cover’dBy the darksome shades of death.
Singing his last song of love,He expired before the feetOf his lady Melisanda,Margravine of Tripoli.[84]
Wonderful was the resemblanceIn the fate of these two poets!Save that in old age the formerHis great pilgrimage commenced.
And Jehuda ben HalevyAt his mistress’ feet expired,And his dying head, it restedOn Jerusalem’s dear knees.
When the fight at ArabellaHad been won, great AlexanderPlaced Darius’ land and people,Court and harem, horses, women,Elephants, and daric coins,Crown and sceptre, golden lumber—Placed them all inside his spaciousMacedonian pantaloons.In the tent of great Darius,Who himself had fled, because heFear’d he also might be placed there,The young hero found a casket.’Twas a little golden box,Richly ornamented overWith incrusted stones and cameos,And with miniature devices.Now this casket, in itselfOf inestimable value,Served to hold the priceless treasuresOf the monarch’s body-jewels.All the latter AlexanderOn his brave commanders lavish’d,Smiling at the thought of menChildlike loving colour’d pebbles.One fair valuable gem heTo his mother dear presented;’Twas the signet ring of Cyrus,Turn’d into a brooch henceforward.To his famous old preceptorAristotle he presentedA fine onyx for his splendidCabinet of natural history.In the casket were some pearls too,Forming quite a wondrous string,Which were once to Queen AtossaGiven by the false knave Smerdis;But the pearls were all quite real,And the merry victor gave themTo a pretty dancer whom heBrought from Corinth, named Miss Thais.In her hair the latter wore them,In bacchantic fashion streaming,On that night when she was dancingAt Persepolis, and wildlyIn the regal castle hurl’d herImpious torch, till, loudly crackling,Soon the flames obtain’d the mastery,And the fortress laid in ruins.On the death of beauteous ThaisWho of some bad BabylonianIllness died at Babylon,All her pearls were sold by auctionAt the public auction-rooms there;Purchased by a priest from Memphis,He to Egypt took them with him,Where they on the toilet tableOf fair Cleopatra glisten’d;She the finest pearl amongst themCrush’d and mix’d with wine and swallow’d,Her friend Antony to banter.With the final Ommiad monarchCame the string of pearls to Spain,And they twined around the turbanWorn at Cord’va, by the Caliph.Abderam the Third he wore themAs his breast-knot at the tourneyWhere he pierced through thirty goldenRings, and fair Zuleima’s bosom.When the Moorish race was vanquish’d,Then the Christians gain’d possessionOf the pearls, which rank’d thenceforwardAs crown-jewels of Castile.Their most Cath’lic Majesties,Queens of Spain, were wont to wear themOn all court and state occasions,At all bullfights, grand processions,And at each auto da fé,When they took their pleasure, sittingAt the balcony, in sniffingUp the smell of burnt old Jews.Later still, old Mendizabel,Satan’s grandson, pawn’d these jewels,Vainly hoping thus to meet theDeficit in the finances.At the Tuileries the jewelsFinally appear’d again,Glittering on the neck of MadameSalomon, the Baroness.With the fair pearls thus it happened.—Less adventurous the fortuneOf the casket, AlexanderKeeping it for his own use.He the songs enclosed within itOf ambrosia-scented Homer,His great fav’rite, and the casketAll night long was wont to standAt his bed’s head; when the monarchSlept, the heroes’ airy figuresCame from out it, o’er his visionsCreeping in fantastic fashion.Other times and other birds too—I myself have erst delightedIn the stories of the actionsOf Pelides, of Odysseus.All then seem’d so sunny-goldenAnd so purple to my spirit,Vine-leaves twined around my forehead,And the trumpets flourish’d loudly.Hush, no more! All broken liethNow my haughty victor-chariot,And the panthers, who once drew it,Now are dead, as are the womenWho, to sound of drum and cymbal,Danced around, and I myselfWrithe upon the ground in anguish.Weak and crippled—hush, no more!Hush, no more! we now are speakingOf the casket of Darius,And within myself thus thought I:Should I e’er possess the casket,And not be obliged to change itInto cash, for want of money,I would then enclose within itAll the poems of our Rabbi,—All Jehuda ben Halevy’sFestal songs and lamentations,And Ghaselas, the descriptionOf his pilgrimage—the whole IWould have written on the cleanestParchment by the best of scribes,And the manuscript depositIn the little golden casket.This should stand upon the tableNear my bed, and then, wheneverFriends appear’d and were astonish’dAt the beauty of the trinket,—At the wondrous bas-reliefs,Small in size, and yet so perfectNotwithstanding,—at the jewelsOf such size incrusted on it,—I should smilingly address them:That is but the vulgar coveringThat contains a nobler treasure—In this casket there are lyingDiamonds, whose light doth mirrorAnd reflect the light of heaven,Rubies glowing as the heart’s blood,Turquoises of spotless beauty,And fair emeralds of promise,Likewise pearls of greater valueThan the pearls to Queen AtossaGiven by the false knave Smerdis,And that afterwards were worn byAll the notabilitiesWho this mundane earth have dwelt in,Thais first, then Cleopatra,Priests of Isis, Moorish princes,And the queens of old Hispania,And at last the worthy MadameSalomon, the Baroness.—For those pearls of world-wide gloryAfter all are but the mucusOf a poor unhappy oysterLying sickly in the ocean;But the pearls within this casketAre the offspring of a beauteousHuman spirit, far far deeperThan the ocean’s deepest depths,—For they are the pearly tearsOf Jehuda ben Halevy,That he over the destructionOf Jerusalem let fall.Pearly tears, which, join’d togetherBy the golden threads of rhythm,As a song from poesy’sGolden smithy have proceeded.And this song of pearly tearsIs the famous lamentationThat is sung in all the scatter’dAnd far-distant tents of JacobOn the ninth day of the month Ab,That sad anniversaryOf Jerusalem’s destructionBy the Emperor Vespasian.Yes, it is the song of ZionThat Jehuda ben HalevySang when dying on the holyRuins of Jerusalem.Barefoot and in lowly garmentsSat he there upon the fragmentOf a pillar that had fallen,Till upon his breast there fellLike a gray old wood his hair,Shading over in strange fashionHis afflicted pallid features,With his eyes so like a spectre’s.In this manner sat he, singing,In appearance like a minstrelFrom the times of old, like ancientJeremiah, grave-arisen.Soon the birds around the ruinsBy his numbers’ mournful cadenceAll were tamed, and e’en the vultureDrew near list’ning, almost pitying,—But an impious SaracenCame one day in that direction,On his charger in his stirrupsBalancing, his bright lance wielding.And the breast of our poor singerWith this deadly spear transfix’d he,And then gallop’d off instanterWing’d as though a shadowy figure.Calmly flow’d the Rabbi’s life-blood,Calmly to its terminationSang he his sweet song,—his dyingSigh was still—Jerusalem!It is said in olden legendThat the Saracen was reallyNot a wicked cruel mortal,But an angel in disguise,Sent from the bright realms of heavenTo remove God’s favouriteFrom the earth, and to advance himPainlessly to those blest regions.There, ’tis said, there waited for himA reception highly flatt’ringIn its nature to the poet,Quite a heavenly surprise.Solemnly with strains of musicCame the’ angelic choir to meet him,And instead of hymns, he heard themSinging his own lovely verses,Synagoguish Wedding-Carmen,Hymeneal Sabbath numbers,With their well-known and exultingMelodies—what notes enthralling!While some angels play’d the hautboy,Others play’d upon the fiddle;Others handled the bass-viol,Others beat the drum and cymbal.Sweetly all the music sounded.Sweetly through the far-extendingVaults of heaven these strains re-echoedLecho Daudi Likras Kalle!
When the fight at ArabellaHad been won, great AlexanderPlaced Darius’ land and people,Court and harem, horses, women,Elephants, and daric coins,Crown and sceptre, golden lumber—Placed them all inside his spaciousMacedonian pantaloons.In the tent of great Darius,Who himself had fled, because heFear’d he also might be placed there,The young hero found a casket.’Twas a little golden box,Richly ornamented overWith incrusted stones and cameos,And with miniature devices.Now this casket, in itselfOf inestimable value,Served to hold the priceless treasuresOf the monarch’s body-jewels.All the latter AlexanderOn his brave commanders lavish’d,Smiling at the thought of menChildlike loving colour’d pebbles.One fair valuable gem heTo his mother dear presented;’Twas the signet ring of Cyrus,Turn’d into a brooch henceforward.To his famous old preceptorAristotle he presentedA fine onyx for his splendidCabinet of natural history.In the casket were some pearls too,Forming quite a wondrous string,Which were once to Queen AtossaGiven by the false knave Smerdis;But the pearls were all quite real,And the merry victor gave themTo a pretty dancer whom heBrought from Corinth, named Miss Thais.In her hair the latter wore them,In bacchantic fashion streaming,On that night when she was dancingAt Persepolis, and wildlyIn the regal castle hurl’d herImpious torch, till, loudly crackling,Soon the flames obtain’d the mastery,And the fortress laid in ruins.On the death of beauteous ThaisWho of some bad BabylonianIllness died at Babylon,All her pearls were sold by auctionAt the public auction-rooms there;Purchased by a priest from Memphis,He to Egypt took them with him,Where they on the toilet tableOf fair Cleopatra glisten’d;She the finest pearl amongst themCrush’d and mix’d with wine and swallow’d,Her friend Antony to banter.With the final Ommiad monarchCame the string of pearls to Spain,And they twined around the turbanWorn at Cord’va, by the Caliph.Abderam the Third he wore themAs his breast-knot at the tourneyWhere he pierced through thirty goldenRings, and fair Zuleima’s bosom.When the Moorish race was vanquish’d,Then the Christians gain’d possessionOf the pearls, which rank’d thenceforwardAs crown-jewels of Castile.Their most Cath’lic Majesties,Queens of Spain, were wont to wear themOn all court and state occasions,At all bullfights, grand processions,And at each auto da fé,When they took their pleasure, sittingAt the balcony, in sniffingUp the smell of burnt old Jews.Later still, old Mendizabel,Satan’s grandson, pawn’d these jewels,Vainly hoping thus to meet theDeficit in the finances.At the Tuileries the jewelsFinally appear’d again,Glittering on the neck of MadameSalomon, the Baroness.With the fair pearls thus it happened.—Less adventurous the fortuneOf the casket, AlexanderKeeping it for his own use.He the songs enclosed within itOf ambrosia-scented Homer,His great fav’rite, and the casketAll night long was wont to standAt his bed’s head; when the monarchSlept, the heroes’ airy figuresCame from out it, o’er his visionsCreeping in fantastic fashion.Other times and other birds too—I myself have erst delightedIn the stories of the actionsOf Pelides, of Odysseus.All then seem’d so sunny-goldenAnd so purple to my spirit,Vine-leaves twined around my forehead,And the trumpets flourish’d loudly.Hush, no more! All broken liethNow my haughty victor-chariot,And the panthers, who once drew it,Now are dead, as are the womenWho, to sound of drum and cymbal,Danced around, and I myselfWrithe upon the ground in anguish.Weak and crippled—hush, no more!Hush, no more! we now are speakingOf the casket of Darius,And within myself thus thought I:Should I e’er possess the casket,And not be obliged to change itInto cash, for want of money,I would then enclose within itAll the poems of our Rabbi,—All Jehuda ben Halevy’sFestal songs and lamentations,And Ghaselas, the descriptionOf his pilgrimage—the whole IWould have written on the cleanestParchment by the best of scribes,And the manuscript depositIn the little golden casket.This should stand upon the tableNear my bed, and then, wheneverFriends appear’d and were astonish’dAt the beauty of the trinket,—At the wondrous bas-reliefs,Small in size, and yet so perfectNotwithstanding,—at the jewelsOf such size incrusted on it,—I should smilingly address them:That is but the vulgar coveringThat contains a nobler treasure—In this casket there are lyingDiamonds, whose light doth mirrorAnd reflect the light of heaven,Rubies glowing as the heart’s blood,Turquoises of spotless beauty,And fair emeralds of promise,Likewise pearls of greater valueThan the pearls to Queen AtossaGiven by the false knave Smerdis,And that afterwards were worn byAll the notabilitiesWho this mundane earth have dwelt in,Thais first, then Cleopatra,Priests of Isis, Moorish princes,And the queens of old Hispania,And at last the worthy MadameSalomon, the Baroness.—For those pearls of world-wide gloryAfter all are but the mucusOf a poor unhappy oysterLying sickly in the ocean;But the pearls within this casketAre the offspring of a beauteousHuman spirit, far far deeperThan the ocean’s deepest depths,—For they are the pearly tearsOf Jehuda ben Halevy,That he over the destructionOf Jerusalem let fall.Pearly tears, which, join’d togetherBy the golden threads of rhythm,As a song from poesy’sGolden smithy have proceeded.And this song of pearly tearsIs the famous lamentationThat is sung in all the scatter’dAnd far-distant tents of JacobOn the ninth day of the month Ab,That sad anniversaryOf Jerusalem’s destructionBy the Emperor Vespasian.Yes, it is the song of ZionThat Jehuda ben HalevySang when dying on the holyRuins of Jerusalem.Barefoot and in lowly garmentsSat he there upon the fragmentOf a pillar that had fallen,Till upon his breast there fellLike a gray old wood his hair,Shading over in strange fashionHis afflicted pallid features,With his eyes so like a spectre’s.In this manner sat he, singing,In appearance like a minstrelFrom the times of old, like ancientJeremiah, grave-arisen.Soon the birds around the ruinsBy his numbers’ mournful cadenceAll were tamed, and e’en the vultureDrew near list’ning, almost pitying,—But an impious SaracenCame one day in that direction,On his charger in his stirrupsBalancing, his bright lance wielding.And the breast of our poor singerWith this deadly spear transfix’d he,And then gallop’d off instanterWing’d as though a shadowy figure.Calmly flow’d the Rabbi’s life-blood,Calmly to its terminationSang he his sweet song,—his dyingSigh was still—Jerusalem!It is said in olden legendThat the Saracen was reallyNot a wicked cruel mortal,But an angel in disguise,Sent from the bright realms of heavenTo remove God’s favouriteFrom the earth, and to advance himPainlessly to those blest regions.There, ’tis said, there waited for himA reception highly flatt’ringIn its nature to the poet,Quite a heavenly surprise.Solemnly with strains of musicCame the’ angelic choir to meet him,And instead of hymns, he heard themSinging his own lovely verses,Synagoguish Wedding-Carmen,Hymeneal Sabbath numbers,With their well-known and exultingMelodies—what notes enthralling!While some angels play’d the hautboy,Others play’d upon the fiddle;Others handled the bass-viol,Others beat the drum and cymbal.Sweetly all the music sounded.Sweetly through the far-extendingVaults of heaven these strains re-echoedLecho Daudi Likras Kalle!
When the fight at ArabellaHad been won, great AlexanderPlaced Darius’ land and people,Court and harem, horses, women,
Elephants, and daric coins,Crown and sceptre, golden lumber—Placed them all inside his spaciousMacedonian pantaloons.
In the tent of great Darius,Who himself had fled, because heFear’d he also might be placed there,The young hero found a casket.
’Twas a little golden box,Richly ornamented overWith incrusted stones and cameos,And with miniature devices.
Now this casket, in itselfOf inestimable value,Served to hold the priceless treasuresOf the monarch’s body-jewels.
All the latter AlexanderOn his brave commanders lavish’d,Smiling at the thought of menChildlike loving colour’d pebbles.
One fair valuable gem heTo his mother dear presented;’Twas the signet ring of Cyrus,Turn’d into a brooch henceforward.
To his famous old preceptorAristotle he presentedA fine onyx for his splendidCabinet of natural history.
In the casket were some pearls too,Forming quite a wondrous string,Which were once to Queen AtossaGiven by the false knave Smerdis;
But the pearls were all quite real,And the merry victor gave themTo a pretty dancer whom heBrought from Corinth, named Miss Thais.
In her hair the latter wore them,In bacchantic fashion streaming,On that night when she was dancingAt Persepolis, and wildly
In the regal castle hurl’d herImpious torch, till, loudly crackling,Soon the flames obtain’d the mastery,And the fortress laid in ruins.
On the death of beauteous ThaisWho of some bad BabylonianIllness died at Babylon,All her pearls were sold by auction
At the public auction-rooms there;Purchased by a priest from Memphis,He to Egypt took them with him,Where they on the toilet table
Of fair Cleopatra glisten’d;She the finest pearl amongst themCrush’d and mix’d with wine and swallow’d,Her friend Antony to banter.
With the final Ommiad monarchCame the string of pearls to Spain,And they twined around the turbanWorn at Cord’va, by the Caliph.
Abderam the Third he wore themAs his breast-knot at the tourneyWhere he pierced through thirty goldenRings, and fair Zuleima’s bosom.
When the Moorish race was vanquish’d,Then the Christians gain’d possessionOf the pearls, which rank’d thenceforwardAs crown-jewels of Castile.
Their most Cath’lic Majesties,Queens of Spain, were wont to wear themOn all court and state occasions,At all bullfights, grand processions,
And at each auto da fé,When they took their pleasure, sittingAt the balcony, in sniffingUp the smell of burnt old Jews.
Later still, old Mendizabel,Satan’s grandson, pawn’d these jewels,Vainly hoping thus to meet theDeficit in the finances.
At the Tuileries the jewelsFinally appear’d again,Glittering on the neck of MadameSalomon, the Baroness.
With the fair pearls thus it happened.—Less adventurous the fortuneOf the casket, AlexanderKeeping it for his own use.
He the songs enclosed within itOf ambrosia-scented Homer,His great fav’rite, and the casketAll night long was wont to stand
At his bed’s head; when the monarchSlept, the heroes’ airy figuresCame from out it, o’er his visionsCreeping in fantastic fashion.
Other times and other birds too—I myself have erst delightedIn the stories of the actionsOf Pelides, of Odysseus.
All then seem’d so sunny-goldenAnd so purple to my spirit,Vine-leaves twined around my forehead,And the trumpets flourish’d loudly.
Hush, no more! All broken liethNow my haughty victor-chariot,And the panthers, who once drew it,Now are dead, as are the women
Who, to sound of drum and cymbal,Danced around, and I myselfWrithe upon the ground in anguish.Weak and crippled—hush, no more!
Hush, no more! we now are speakingOf the casket of Darius,And within myself thus thought I:Should I e’er possess the casket,
And not be obliged to change itInto cash, for want of money,I would then enclose within itAll the poems of our Rabbi,—
All Jehuda ben Halevy’sFestal songs and lamentations,And Ghaselas, the descriptionOf his pilgrimage—the whole I
Would have written on the cleanestParchment by the best of scribes,And the manuscript depositIn the little golden casket.
This should stand upon the tableNear my bed, and then, wheneverFriends appear’d and were astonish’dAt the beauty of the trinket,—
At the wondrous bas-reliefs,Small in size, and yet so perfectNotwithstanding,—at the jewelsOf such size incrusted on it,—
I should smilingly address them:That is but the vulgar coveringThat contains a nobler treasure—In this casket there are lying
Diamonds, whose light doth mirrorAnd reflect the light of heaven,Rubies glowing as the heart’s blood,Turquoises of spotless beauty,
And fair emeralds of promise,Likewise pearls of greater valueThan the pearls to Queen AtossaGiven by the false knave Smerdis,
And that afterwards were worn byAll the notabilitiesWho this mundane earth have dwelt in,Thais first, then Cleopatra,
Priests of Isis, Moorish princes,And the queens of old Hispania,And at last the worthy MadameSalomon, the Baroness.—
For those pearls of world-wide gloryAfter all are but the mucusOf a poor unhappy oysterLying sickly in the ocean;
But the pearls within this casketAre the offspring of a beauteousHuman spirit, far far deeperThan the ocean’s deepest depths,—
For they are the pearly tearsOf Jehuda ben Halevy,That he over the destructionOf Jerusalem let fall.
Pearly tears, which, join’d togetherBy the golden threads of rhythm,As a song from poesy’sGolden smithy have proceeded.
And this song of pearly tearsIs the famous lamentationThat is sung in all the scatter’dAnd far-distant tents of Jacob
On the ninth day of the month Ab,That sad anniversaryOf Jerusalem’s destructionBy the Emperor Vespasian.
Yes, it is the song of ZionThat Jehuda ben HalevySang when dying on the holyRuins of Jerusalem.
Barefoot and in lowly garmentsSat he there upon the fragmentOf a pillar that had fallen,Till upon his breast there fell
Like a gray old wood his hair,Shading over in strange fashionHis afflicted pallid features,With his eyes so like a spectre’s.
In this manner sat he, singing,In appearance like a minstrelFrom the times of old, like ancientJeremiah, grave-arisen.
Soon the birds around the ruinsBy his numbers’ mournful cadenceAll were tamed, and e’en the vultureDrew near list’ning, almost pitying,—
But an impious SaracenCame one day in that direction,On his charger in his stirrupsBalancing, his bright lance wielding.
And the breast of our poor singerWith this deadly spear transfix’d he,And then gallop’d off instanterWing’d as though a shadowy figure.
Calmly flow’d the Rabbi’s life-blood,Calmly to its terminationSang he his sweet song,—his dyingSigh was still—Jerusalem!
It is said in olden legendThat the Saracen was reallyNot a wicked cruel mortal,But an angel in disguise,
Sent from the bright realms of heavenTo remove God’s favouriteFrom the earth, and to advance himPainlessly to those blest regions.
There, ’tis said, there waited for himA reception highly flatt’ringIn its nature to the poet,Quite a heavenly surprise.
Solemnly with strains of musicCame the’ angelic choir to meet him,And instead of hymns, he heard themSinging his own lovely verses,
Synagoguish Wedding-Carmen,Hymeneal Sabbath numbers,With their well-known and exultingMelodies—what notes enthralling!
While some angels play’d the hautboy,Others play’d upon the fiddle;Others handled the bass-viol,Others beat the drum and cymbal.
Sweetly all the music sounded.Sweetly through the far-extendingVaults of heaven these strains re-echoedLecho Daudi Likras Kalle!
My good wife is not contentedWith the chapter just concluded,And especially the portionSpeaking of Darius’ casket.Almost bitterly observes she,That a husband with pretensionsTo religion, into moneyStraightway would convert the casket,That he with it might be ableFor his poor and lawful spouseThat nice Cashmere shawl to purchaseThat she stands so much in need of.That Jehuda ben HalevyWould, she fancies, with sufficientHonour be preserved, if guardedIn a pretty box of pasteboard,Deck’d with Chinese elegantArabesques, like those enchantingSweetmeat-boxes of MarquisIn the Passage Panorama.“Very strange it is,”—she added,—“That I never heard the name of“This remarkable old poet,“This Jehuda ben Halevy.”Darling little wife, I answer’d,Your delightful ignoranceBut too well the gaps disclosesIn the education givenIn the boarding schools of Paris,Where the girls, the future mothersOf a proud and freeborn nation,Learn the elements of knowledge.All about the dry old mummies,And embalm’d Egyptian PharaohsMerovingian shadowy monarchs,With perukes devoid of powder,And the pig-tail’d kings of China,Lords of porcelain and pagodas,—This they know by heart and fully,Clever girls,—but, O, good heavensIf you ask for any great namesFrom the glorious golden agesOf Arabian-ancient-SpanishJewish schools of poetry,—If you ask for those three worthies,For Jehuda ben Halevy,For great Solomon Gabirol,Or for Moses Iben Esra,If you ask for these or suchlike,Then the children stare upon usWith a look of stupid wonder,And in fact seem quite dumb-founded.Let me then advise you, dearest,These neglected points to study,And to take to learning HebrewLeaving theatres and concerts.When a few years to these studiesHave been given, you’ll be ableIn the’ original to read them,Iben Esra and Gabirol,And Halevy in addition,That triumvirate poetic,Who evoked the sweetest musicFrom the instrument of David.Alcharisi, who, I’ll wager,Is to you unknown, although heA Voltairian was, six hundredYears before Voltaire’s time, spoke thus:“In his thoughts excels Gabirol,“And the thinker most he pleases;“Iben Esra shines in art, and“Is the fav’rite of the artist.“But Jehuda ben Halevy“Is in both a perfect master,“And at once a famous poet“And a universal fav’rite.”Iben Esra was a friend,And I rather think, a cousinOf Jehuda ben Halevy,Who in his famed book of travelsBitterly complains how vainlyHe had sought through all GranadaFor his friend, and only found thereHis friend’s brother, the physician,Rabbi Meyer, poet likewise,And the father of the beautyWho in Iben Esra’s bosomKindled such a hopeless passion.That he might forget his niece, heTook in hand his pilgrim’s staff,Like so many of his colleagues,Living restlessly and homeless.Tow’rd Jerusalem he wander’d,When some Tartars fell upon him,Fasten’d him upon a steed’s back,And to their wild deserts took him.Duties there devolved upon himQuite unworthy of a Rabbi,Still less fitted for a poet—He was made to milk the cows.Once, as he beneath the bellyOf a cow was sitting squatting,Fing’ring hastily her udder,While the milk the tub was filling,—A position quite unworthyOf a Rabbi, of a poet,—Melancholy came across him,And to sing a song began he.And he sang so well and sweetly,That the Khan, the horde’s old chieftain,Who was passing by, was melted,And he gave the slave his freedom.And he likewise gave him presents,Gave a fox-skin, and a lengthySaracenic mandoline,And some money for his journey.Poets’ fate! an evil star ’tis,Which the offspring of ApolloWorried unto death, and evenDid not spare their noble father,When he, after Daphne lurking,In the fair nymph’s snowy body’sStead, embraced the laurel only,—He, the great divine Schlemihl!Yes, the glorious Delphic god isA Schlemihl, and e’en the laurelThat so proudly crowns his foreheadIs a sign of his Schlemihldom.What the word Schlemihl betokensWell we know. Long since ChamissoRights of German citizenshipGain’d it (of the word I’m speaking).But its origin has ever,Like the holy Nile’s far sources,Been unknown. Upon this subjectMany a night have I been poring.Many a year ago I travell’dTo Berlin, to see ChamissoOn this point, and from the dean soughtInformation of Schlemihl.But he could not satisfy me,And referr’d me on to Hitzig,Who had made the first suggestionOf the family name of PeterShadowless. I straightway hiredThe first cab, and quickly hasten’dTo the magistrate Herr Hitzig,Who was formerly call’d Itzig.When he still was known as Itzig,In a vision saw he writtenHis own name high in the heavens,And in front the letter H.“What’s the meaning of this H?”Ask’d he of himself. “Herr Itzig“Or the Holy Itzig? Holy“Is a pretty title. Not, though,“Suited for Berlin.” At length he,Tired of thinking, took the name ofHitzig, and his best friends onlyKnew that Hitzig stood for Holy.“Holy Hitzig!” said I thereforeWhen I saw him, “have the goodness“To explain the derivation“Of the word Schlemihl, I pray you.”Many circumbendibusesTook the holy one—he could notRecollect,—and made excusesIn succession like a Christian,Till at length I burst the buttonsIn the breeches of my patience,And began to swear so fiercely,In such very impious fashion,That the worthy pietist,Pale as death, with trembling knees,Forthwith gratified my wishes,And the following story told me:“In the Bible it is written“How, while wandering in the desert,“Israel oft committed whoredom“With the daughters fair of Canaan.“Then it came to pass that Phinehas“Chanced to see the noble Zimri“Thus engaged in an intrigue“With a Canaanitish woman.“Straightway in his fury seized he“On his spear, and put to death“Zimri on the very spot.—Thus“In the Bible ’tis recounted.“But, according to an oral“Old tradition ’mongst the people,“’Twas not Zimri that was really“Stricken by the spear of Phinehas;“But the latter, blind with fury,“In the sinner’s place, by ill-luck“Chanced to kill a guiltless person,“Named Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.”—He, then, this Schlemihl the First,Was the ancestor of all theRace Schlemihlian. We’re descendedFrom Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.Certainly no wondrous actionsAre preserved of his; we onlyKnow his name, and in additionKnow that he was a Schlemihl.But a pedigree is valuedNot according to its fruits, butIts antiquity alone—Ours three thousand years can reckon.Years come round, and years then vanish—Full three thousand years have fleetedSince the death of our forefatherThis Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.Phinehas, too, has long been dead,But his spear is in existence,And incessantly we hear itWhizzing through the air above us.And the noblest hearts it pierces—Both Jehuda ben Halevy,Also Moses Iben Esra,And it likewise struck Gabirol,Yes, Gabirol, that trueheartedGod-devoted Minnesinger,That sweet nightingale, who sang toGod instead of to a rose,—That sweet nightingale who caroll’dTenderly his loving numbersIn the darkness of the GothicMediæval night of earth!Undismay’d and caring nothingFor grimaces or for spirits,Or the chaos of deliriumAnd of death those ages haunting,Our sweet nightingale thought onlyOf the Godlike One he loved so,Unto Whom he sobb’d his love,Whom his hymns were glorifying.Thirty springs Gabirol witness’dOn this earth, but loud-tongued FamaTrumpeted abroad the gloryOf his name through every country.Now at Cordova, his home, heHad a Moor as nextdoor neighbour,Who wrote verses, like the other,And the poet’s glory envied.When he heard the poet singing,Then the Moor’s bile straight flow’d over,And the sweetness of the songs wasBitter wormwood to this base one.He enticed his hated rivalTo his house one night, and slew himThere, and then the body buriedIn the garden in its rear.But behold! from out the spotWhere the body had been hidden,Presently there grew a fig-treeOf the most enchanting beauty.All its fruit was long in figure,And of strange and spicy sweetness;He who tasted it, sank intoQuite a dreamy state of rapture.’Mongst the people on the subjectMuch was said aloud or whisper’d,Till at length the rumour came toThe illustrious Caliph’s ears.He with his own tongue first tastedThis strange fig-phenomenon,And then form’d a strict commissionOf inquiry on the matter.Summarily they proceeded;On the owner of the tree’s solesSixty strokes of the bamboo theyGave, and then his crime confess’d he.Thereupon they tore the tree upBy its roots from out the ground,And the body of the murder’dMan Gabirol was discover’d.He was buried with due honour,And lamented by his brethren;And the selfsame day they alsoHang’d the Moor at Cordova.
My good wife is not contentedWith the chapter just concluded,And especially the portionSpeaking of Darius’ casket.Almost bitterly observes she,That a husband with pretensionsTo religion, into moneyStraightway would convert the casket,That he with it might be ableFor his poor and lawful spouseThat nice Cashmere shawl to purchaseThat she stands so much in need of.That Jehuda ben HalevyWould, she fancies, with sufficientHonour be preserved, if guardedIn a pretty box of pasteboard,Deck’d with Chinese elegantArabesques, like those enchantingSweetmeat-boxes of MarquisIn the Passage Panorama.“Very strange it is,”—she added,—“That I never heard the name of“This remarkable old poet,“This Jehuda ben Halevy.”Darling little wife, I answer’d,Your delightful ignoranceBut too well the gaps disclosesIn the education givenIn the boarding schools of Paris,Where the girls, the future mothersOf a proud and freeborn nation,Learn the elements of knowledge.All about the dry old mummies,And embalm’d Egyptian PharaohsMerovingian shadowy monarchs,With perukes devoid of powder,And the pig-tail’d kings of China,Lords of porcelain and pagodas,—This they know by heart and fully,Clever girls,—but, O, good heavensIf you ask for any great namesFrom the glorious golden agesOf Arabian-ancient-SpanishJewish schools of poetry,—If you ask for those three worthies,For Jehuda ben Halevy,For great Solomon Gabirol,Or for Moses Iben Esra,If you ask for these or suchlike,Then the children stare upon usWith a look of stupid wonder,And in fact seem quite dumb-founded.Let me then advise you, dearest,These neglected points to study,And to take to learning HebrewLeaving theatres and concerts.When a few years to these studiesHave been given, you’ll be ableIn the’ original to read them,Iben Esra and Gabirol,And Halevy in addition,That triumvirate poetic,Who evoked the sweetest musicFrom the instrument of David.Alcharisi, who, I’ll wager,Is to you unknown, although heA Voltairian was, six hundredYears before Voltaire’s time, spoke thus:“In his thoughts excels Gabirol,“And the thinker most he pleases;“Iben Esra shines in art, and“Is the fav’rite of the artist.“But Jehuda ben Halevy“Is in both a perfect master,“And at once a famous poet“And a universal fav’rite.”Iben Esra was a friend,And I rather think, a cousinOf Jehuda ben Halevy,Who in his famed book of travelsBitterly complains how vainlyHe had sought through all GranadaFor his friend, and only found thereHis friend’s brother, the physician,Rabbi Meyer, poet likewise,And the father of the beautyWho in Iben Esra’s bosomKindled such a hopeless passion.That he might forget his niece, heTook in hand his pilgrim’s staff,Like so many of his colleagues,Living restlessly and homeless.Tow’rd Jerusalem he wander’d,When some Tartars fell upon him,Fasten’d him upon a steed’s back,And to their wild deserts took him.Duties there devolved upon himQuite unworthy of a Rabbi,Still less fitted for a poet—He was made to milk the cows.Once, as he beneath the bellyOf a cow was sitting squatting,Fing’ring hastily her udder,While the milk the tub was filling,—A position quite unworthyOf a Rabbi, of a poet,—Melancholy came across him,And to sing a song began he.And he sang so well and sweetly,That the Khan, the horde’s old chieftain,Who was passing by, was melted,And he gave the slave his freedom.And he likewise gave him presents,Gave a fox-skin, and a lengthySaracenic mandoline,And some money for his journey.Poets’ fate! an evil star ’tis,Which the offspring of ApolloWorried unto death, and evenDid not spare their noble father,When he, after Daphne lurking,In the fair nymph’s snowy body’sStead, embraced the laurel only,—He, the great divine Schlemihl!Yes, the glorious Delphic god isA Schlemihl, and e’en the laurelThat so proudly crowns his foreheadIs a sign of his Schlemihldom.What the word Schlemihl betokensWell we know. Long since ChamissoRights of German citizenshipGain’d it (of the word I’m speaking).But its origin has ever,Like the holy Nile’s far sources,Been unknown. Upon this subjectMany a night have I been poring.Many a year ago I travell’dTo Berlin, to see ChamissoOn this point, and from the dean soughtInformation of Schlemihl.But he could not satisfy me,And referr’d me on to Hitzig,Who had made the first suggestionOf the family name of PeterShadowless. I straightway hiredThe first cab, and quickly hasten’dTo the magistrate Herr Hitzig,Who was formerly call’d Itzig.When he still was known as Itzig,In a vision saw he writtenHis own name high in the heavens,And in front the letter H.“What’s the meaning of this H?”Ask’d he of himself. “Herr Itzig“Or the Holy Itzig? Holy“Is a pretty title. Not, though,“Suited for Berlin.” At length he,Tired of thinking, took the name ofHitzig, and his best friends onlyKnew that Hitzig stood for Holy.“Holy Hitzig!” said I thereforeWhen I saw him, “have the goodness“To explain the derivation“Of the word Schlemihl, I pray you.”Many circumbendibusesTook the holy one—he could notRecollect,—and made excusesIn succession like a Christian,Till at length I burst the buttonsIn the breeches of my patience,And began to swear so fiercely,In such very impious fashion,That the worthy pietist,Pale as death, with trembling knees,Forthwith gratified my wishes,And the following story told me:“In the Bible it is written“How, while wandering in the desert,“Israel oft committed whoredom“With the daughters fair of Canaan.“Then it came to pass that Phinehas“Chanced to see the noble Zimri“Thus engaged in an intrigue“With a Canaanitish woman.“Straightway in his fury seized he“On his spear, and put to death“Zimri on the very spot.—Thus“In the Bible ’tis recounted.“But, according to an oral“Old tradition ’mongst the people,“’Twas not Zimri that was really“Stricken by the spear of Phinehas;“But the latter, blind with fury,“In the sinner’s place, by ill-luck“Chanced to kill a guiltless person,“Named Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.”—He, then, this Schlemihl the First,Was the ancestor of all theRace Schlemihlian. We’re descendedFrom Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.Certainly no wondrous actionsAre preserved of his; we onlyKnow his name, and in additionKnow that he was a Schlemihl.But a pedigree is valuedNot according to its fruits, butIts antiquity alone—Ours three thousand years can reckon.Years come round, and years then vanish—Full three thousand years have fleetedSince the death of our forefatherThis Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.Phinehas, too, has long been dead,But his spear is in existence,And incessantly we hear itWhizzing through the air above us.And the noblest hearts it pierces—Both Jehuda ben Halevy,Also Moses Iben Esra,And it likewise struck Gabirol,Yes, Gabirol, that trueheartedGod-devoted Minnesinger,That sweet nightingale, who sang toGod instead of to a rose,—That sweet nightingale who caroll’dTenderly his loving numbersIn the darkness of the GothicMediæval night of earth!Undismay’d and caring nothingFor grimaces or for spirits,Or the chaos of deliriumAnd of death those ages haunting,Our sweet nightingale thought onlyOf the Godlike One he loved so,Unto Whom he sobb’d his love,Whom his hymns were glorifying.Thirty springs Gabirol witness’dOn this earth, but loud-tongued FamaTrumpeted abroad the gloryOf his name through every country.Now at Cordova, his home, heHad a Moor as nextdoor neighbour,Who wrote verses, like the other,And the poet’s glory envied.When he heard the poet singing,Then the Moor’s bile straight flow’d over,And the sweetness of the songs wasBitter wormwood to this base one.He enticed his hated rivalTo his house one night, and slew himThere, and then the body buriedIn the garden in its rear.But behold! from out the spotWhere the body had been hidden,Presently there grew a fig-treeOf the most enchanting beauty.All its fruit was long in figure,And of strange and spicy sweetness;He who tasted it, sank intoQuite a dreamy state of rapture.’Mongst the people on the subjectMuch was said aloud or whisper’d,Till at length the rumour came toThe illustrious Caliph’s ears.He with his own tongue first tastedThis strange fig-phenomenon,And then form’d a strict commissionOf inquiry on the matter.Summarily they proceeded;On the owner of the tree’s solesSixty strokes of the bamboo theyGave, and then his crime confess’d he.Thereupon they tore the tree upBy its roots from out the ground,And the body of the murder’dMan Gabirol was discover’d.He was buried with due honour,And lamented by his brethren;And the selfsame day they alsoHang’d the Moor at Cordova.
My good wife is not contentedWith the chapter just concluded,And especially the portionSpeaking of Darius’ casket.
Almost bitterly observes she,That a husband with pretensionsTo religion, into moneyStraightway would convert the casket,
That he with it might be ableFor his poor and lawful spouseThat nice Cashmere shawl to purchaseThat she stands so much in need of.
That Jehuda ben HalevyWould, she fancies, with sufficientHonour be preserved, if guardedIn a pretty box of pasteboard,
Deck’d with Chinese elegantArabesques, like those enchantingSweetmeat-boxes of MarquisIn the Passage Panorama.
“Very strange it is,”—she added,—“That I never heard the name of“This remarkable old poet,“This Jehuda ben Halevy.”
Darling little wife, I answer’d,Your delightful ignoranceBut too well the gaps disclosesIn the education given
In the boarding schools of Paris,Where the girls, the future mothersOf a proud and freeborn nation,Learn the elements of knowledge.
All about the dry old mummies,And embalm’d Egyptian PharaohsMerovingian shadowy monarchs,With perukes devoid of powder,
And the pig-tail’d kings of China,Lords of porcelain and pagodas,—This they know by heart and fully,Clever girls,—but, O, good heavens
If you ask for any great namesFrom the glorious golden agesOf Arabian-ancient-SpanishJewish schools of poetry,—
If you ask for those three worthies,For Jehuda ben Halevy,For great Solomon Gabirol,Or for Moses Iben Esra,
If you ask for these or suchlike,Then the children stare upon usWith a look of stupid wonder,And in fact seem quite dumb-founded.
Let me then advise you, dearest,These neglected points to study,And to take to learning HebrewLeaving theatres and concerts.
When a few years to these studiesHave been given, you’ll be ableIn the’ original to read them,Iben Esra and Gabirol,
And Halevy in addition,That triumvirate poetic,Who evoked the sweetest musicFrom the instrument of David.
Alcharisi, who, I’ll wager,Is to you unknown, although heA Voltairian was, six hundredYears before Voltaire’s time, spoke thus:
“In his thoughts excels Gabirol,“And the thinker most he pleases;“Iben Esra shines in art, and“Is the fav’rite of the artist.
“But Jehuda ben Halevy“Is in both a perfect master,“And at once a famous poet“And a universal fav’rite.”
Iben Esra was a friend,And I rather think, a cousinOf Jehuda ben Halevy,Who in his famed book of travels
Bitterly complains how vainlyHe had sought through all GranadaFor his friend, and only found thereHis friend’s brother, the physician,
Rabbi Meyer, poet likewise,And the father of the beautyWho in Iben Esra’s bosomKindled such a hopeless passion.
That he might forget his niece, heTook in hand his pilgrim’s staff,Like so many of his colleagues,Living restlessly and homeless.
Tow’rd Jerusalem he wander’d,When some Tartars fell upon him,Fasten’d him upon a steed’s back,And to their wild deserts took him.
Duties there devolved upon himQuite unworthy of a Rabbi,Still less fitted for a poet—He was made to milk the cows.
Once, as he beneath the bellyOf a cow was sitting squatting,Fing’ring hastily her udder,While the milk the tub was filling,—
A position quite unworthyOf a Rabbi, of a poet,—Melancholy came across him,And to sing a song began he.
And he sang so well and sweetly,That the Khan, the horde’s old chieftain,Who was passing by, was melted,And he gave the slave his freedom.
And he likewise gave him presents,Gave a fox-skin, and a lengthySaracenic mandoline,And some money for his journey.
Poets’ fate! an evil star ’tis,Which the offspring of ApolloWorried unto death, and evenDid not spare their noble father,
When he, after Daphne lurking,In the fair nymph’s snowy body’sStead, embraced the laurel only,—He, the great divine Schlemihl!
Yes, the glorious Delphic god isA Schlemihl, and e’en the laurelThat so proudly crowns his foreheadIs a sign of his Schlemihldom.
What the word Schlemihl betokensWell we know. Long since ChamissoRights of German citizenshipGain’d it (of the word I’m speaking).
But its origin has ever,Like the holy Nile’s far sources,Been unknown. Upon this subjectMany a night have I been poring.
Many a year ago I travell’dTo Berlin, to see ChamissoOn this point, and from the dean soughtInformation of Schlemihl.
But he could not satisfy me,And referr’d me on to Hitzig,Who had made the first suggestionOf the family name of Peter
Shadowless. I straightway hiredThe first cab, and quickly hasten’dTo the magistrate Herr Hitzig,Who was formerly call’d Itzig.
When he still was known as Itzig,In a vision saw he writtenHis own name high in the heavens,And in front the letter H.
“What’s the meaning of this H?”Ask’d he of himself. “Herr Itzig“Or the Holy Itzig? Holy“Is a pretty title. Not, though,
“Suited for Berlin.” At length he,Tired of thinking, took the name ofHitzig, and his best friends onlyKnew that Hitzig stood for Holy.
“Holy Hitzig!” said I thereforeWhen I saw him, “have the goodness“To explain the derivation“Of the word Schlemihl, I pray you.”
Many circumbendibusesTook the holy one—he could notRecollect,—and made excusesIn succession like a Christian,
Till at length I burst the buttonsIn the breeches of my patience,And began to swear so fiercely,In such very impious fashion,
That the worthy pietist,Pale as death, with trembling knees,Forthwith gratified my wishes,And the following story told me:
“In the Bible it is written“How, while wandering in the desert,“Israel oft committed whoredom“With the daughters fair of Canaan.
“Then it came to pass that Phinehas“Chanced to see the noble Zimri“Thus engaged in an intrigue“With a Canaanitish woman.
“Straightway in his fury seized he“On his spear, and put to death“Zimri on the very spot.—Thus“In the Bible ’tis recounted.
“But, according to an oral“Old tradition ’mongst the people,“’Twas not Zimri that was really“Stricken by the spear of Phinehas;
“But the latter, blind with fury,“In the sinner’s place, by ill-luck“Chanced to kill a guiltless person,“Named Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.”—
He, then, this Schlemihl the First,Was the ancestor of all theRace Schlemihlian. We’re descendedFrom Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.
Certainly no wondrous actionsAre preserved of his; we onlyKnow his name, and in additionKnow that he was a Schlemihl.
But a pedigree is valuedNot according to its fruits, butIts antiquity alone—Ours three thousand years can reckon.
Years come round, and years then vanish—Full three thousand years have fleetedSince the death of our forefatherThis Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday.
Phinehas, too, has long been dead,But his spear is in existence,And incessantly we hear itWhizzing through the air above us.
And the noblest hearts it pierces—Both Jehuda ben Halevy,Also Moses Iben Esra,And it likewise struck Gabirol,
Yes, Gabirol, that trueheartedGod-devoted Minnesinger,That sweet nightingale, who sang toGod instead of to a rose,—
That sweet nightingale who caroll’dTenderly his loving numbersIn the darkness of the GothicMediæval night of earth!
Undismay’d and caring nothingFor grimaces or for spirits,Or the chaos of deliriumAnd of death those ages haunting,
Our sweet nightingale thought onlyOf the Godlike One he loved so,Unto Whom he sobb’d his love,Whom his hymns were glorifying.
Thirty springs Gabirol witness’dOn this earth, but loud-tongued FamaTrumpeted abroad the gloryOf his name through every country.
Now at Cordova, his home, heHad a Moor as nextdoor neighbour,Who wrote verses, like the other,And the poet’s glory envied.
When he heard the poet singing,Then the Moor’s bile straight flow’d over,And the sweetness of the songs wasBitter wormwood to this base one.
He enticed his hated rivalTo his house one night, and slew himThere, and then the body buriedIn the garden in its rear.
But behold! from out the spotWhere the body had been hidden,Presently there grew a fig-treeOf the most enchanting beauty.
All its fruit was long in figure,And of strange and spicy sweetness;He who tasted it, sank intoQuite a dreamy state of rapture.
’Mongst the people on the subjectMuch was said aloud or whisper’d,Till at length the rumour came toThe illustrious Caliph’s ears.
He with his own tongue first tastedThis strange fig-phenomenon,And then form’d a strict commissionOf inquiry on the matter.
Summarily they proceeded;On the owner of the tree’s solesSixty strokes of the bamboo theyGave, and then his crime confess’d he.
Thereupon they tore the tree upBy its roots from out the ground,And the body of the murder’dMan Gabirol was discover’d.
He was buried with due honour,And lamented by his brethren;And the selfsame day they alsoHang’d the Moor at Cordova.