Chapter XXI: Part II: 1826 (6)

On Monácho Monachorum
Now-a-days the cap doth fit
Of virorum obscurorum,
Glorified by Hutten’s wit.[81]

At his name thy dull eye flashes;
Ex-nightwatchman, watchful be!
There the cowls are, here the lash is,--
Strike away as formerly!

Scourge them, worthy friend, devoutly,
As at sight of every cowl
Ulrich did; he smote them stoutly,
And they fearfully did howl.

Old Erasmus could not master
His loud laughter at the joke;
And this fortunate disaster
His tormenting ulcer broke.

Old and young laugh,--all the city
In the general shout concur,
And they sing the well-known ditty:
“Gaudeamur igitur!”

When those dirty monks we’re catching,
We are overwhelm’d with fleas;
Hutten thus was always scratching,
And was never at his ease.

“Alea jacta est!” however
Was the brave knight’s battle shout,
Smiting down, with deathstroke clever,
Both the priests and rabble rout.

Ex-nightwatchman, now be wiser!
Feel’st thou not thy bosom glow?
Wake to action on the Isar,
And thy sickly spleen o’erthrow.

Call thy long legs transcendental
Into full and active play;
Vulgar be the monks or gentle,
If they’re monks, then strike away!

He however sigh’d, and wringing
Both his hands he thus replied:
My long legs, so apt at springing,
Are with Europe stupified.

And my corns are twitching sadly,
Tight the German shoes I’ve on;
Where the shoe is pinching badly
Know I now,--so pray begone!

MYTHOLOGY.

Yes! Europa must knock under,--
Who could stand against a bull?
Danäe we’ll forgive; no wonder
Golden rain made her a fool!

Sem’le was a victim real,
For she innocently thought
That a heavenly cloud ideal
Could not injure her in aught.

But poor Leda’s tale notorious
Really stirs up all our spleen;
Vanquish’d by a swan inglorious,

What a goose must she have been!

IN MATILDA’S ALBUM.

On these mill’d rags--a change mysterious!--
I with a goose-quill must rehearse
Partly in jest, and partly serious,
Some foolish nonsense turn’d to verse.

I, who am wont my thoughts to utter
Upon thy rosy lips so fair
With kisses that like bright flames splutter
Up from my bosom’s inmost lair!

O fashion’s rage! If I’m a poet,
E’en by my wife I’m plagued at times
Until (and other minstrels know it)
I in her album scrawl some rhymes.

TO THE YOUNG.

Heed not the confusion, resist the illusion
Of golden apples that lie in thy way!
The swords are clashing, the arrows are flashing,
But they cannot long the hero delay.

A daring beginning is halfway to winning,
An Alexander once conquer’d the earth!
Restrain each soft feeling! the queens are all kneeling
In the tent, to reward thy victorious worth.

Surmounting each burden, we win as our guerdon
The bed of Darius of old, and his crown;
O deadly seduction! O blissful destruction!
To die thus in triumph in Babylon town!

THE UNBELIEVER.

Thou wilt repose within mine arms!
With rapturous emotion
My bosom heaves and throbs and thrills
At this delicious notion.

Thou wilt repose within mine arms,
Whilst with thy fair gold tresses
I sport, and thy dear darling head
My shoulder gently presses!

Thou wilt repose within mine arms!
To truth will turn my vision,
And here on earth shall I enjoy
The highest bliss elysian.

St. Thomas! Scarce can I believe
The fact, my doubts will linger
Until upon my rapture’s wounds
I lay my eager finger.

WHITHER NOW?

Whither now? my stupid foot
Fain to Germany would guide me;
But my reason shakes its head
Wisely, seeming thus to chide me:

“Ended is the war indeed,
“But they still keep up courts-martial,
“And to writing things esteem’d
“Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.”

That’s quite true, and being shot
Has for me no great attractions;
I’m no hero, and unskill’d
In pathetic words and actions.

Fain to England would I go,
View’d I not with such displeasure
Englishmen and coals--their smell
Makes me sick beyond all measure.

To America methinks
I would sail the broad seas over;
To that place of freedom where
All alike may live in clover,

Did I not detest a land
Where tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals,
Where they never use spittoons,
And so strangely play at skittles.

Russia, that vast empire fair,
Might be tolerably pleasant,
But I should not like the knout
That’s their usual winter present.

Sadly gaze I up on high,
Where the countless stars are gleaming,
But I nowhere can discern
Where my own bright star is beaming.

Perhaps in heaven’s gold labyrinth
It has got benighted lately,
As I on this bustling earth
Have myself been wandering greatly.

AN OLD SONG.

Thou now art dead, and thou knowest it not,
The light of thine eyes is quench’d and forgot;
Thy rosy mouth is pallid for ever,
And thou art dead, and wilt live again never.

’Twas in a dreary midsummer night,
I bore thee myself to the grave outright;
The nightingales sang their soft lamentations,
And after us follow’d the bright constellations.

As through the forest the train moved along,
They made it resound with the litany’s song;
The firs, in their mantles of mourning veil’d closely,
The prayers for the dead repeated morosely.

And as o’er the willowy lake we flew
The elfins were dancing full in our view;
They suddenly stopp’d in wondering fashion,
And seem’d to regard us with looks of compassion.

And when we had reach’d the grave, full soon
From out of the heavens descended the moon,
And preach’d a sermon, ’midst tears and condoling
While in the distance the bells were tolling.

READY MONEY.

Love, before she granted favours,
One day told the god Apollo
She on guarantees insisted,
For the times were false and hollow.

Laughingly the god made answer:
“Yes, the times are alter’d truly,
“And thou speakest like a usurer
“Who on pawn lends money duly.

“Well, then, I’ve a lyre, one only,--
“’Tis of gold, a good and rare one;
“Prythee say how many kisses
“Thou wilt lend upon it, fair one?”

THE OLD ROSE.

She for whom my heart once beat
Was a rosebud fair and tender;
Yet it ever grew more sweet,
Bursting into full-blown splendour.

’Twas the loveliest that could be,
And to pluck it I bethought me;
But it stung me piquantly
With its thorns, and prudence taught me.

Now, when wither’d, torn, and maim’d,
By the wind and tempests shatter’d,
“Dearest Henry” I’m proclaim’d,
And I’m follow’d, sought, and flatter’d.

Henry here and Henry there
Calleth she with ceaseless din now;
If a thorn is anywhere,
’Tis upon the fair one’s chin now.

O how hard the bristles grow
On the chin’s warts of my beauty!
Either to a convent go,
Or to shave will be thy duty.

AUTO-DA-FÉ.

See these violets, dusty tresses,
And this faded ribbon blue,
Long forgotten cherish’d trifles,
And these half-torn billets-doux,--

All, with angry look and gesture
In the blazing fire I throw;
Sadly crackle up these relics
Of my happiness and woe.

Vows of love, and fond deceiving
Broken oaths all upwards fly
In the chimney, while in secret
Cupid laughs maliciously.

Dreamily beside the fireplace
Sit I, while the sparkles bright
Glow in silence midst the ashes,--
So farewell! good night! good night!

LAZARUS.

1. THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

He who has already much,
Finds his wealth increasing faster;
Who but little, is of all
Soon bereft by some disaster.

But if thou hast nothing, friend,
Go and hang thyself this minute;
Only they who’ve aught on earth
Have a claim for living in it.

2. RETROSPECT.

I’ve snuff’d at every smell that has birth
In this delightful kitchen of earth;
Each thing that the world contains that’s delicious
Have I enjoy’d like a hero ambitious;
I’ve drunk my coffee, and eaten with zest,
And many a charming doll caress’d,
Worn silken waistcoats and handsome coats,
And had my pockets well lined with notes;
The high horse, like Gellert the poet, I rode,
Had house and castle all à-la-mode.
On fortune’s verdant meadow I lay,
While on me the sun gleam’d brightly all day,
A wreath of laurel my brow embraced,
And through my brain sweet visions raced,
Sweet visions of endless May and flowers--
How happily fleeted then the hours,
So dim and hazy, so full of repose,--
My mouth was fill’d with whatever I chose,
And angels came, and out of their pockets
The champagne bottles flew like rockets,--
Bright visions were these,--soap-bubbles, alas!
They burst,--and I lie on the humid grass;
My limbs are now rheumatic and lame,
My inmost spirit is fill’d with shame.
Alas! each pleasure and gratification
I bought at the price of bitter vexation;
I’m steep’d in bitterness up to the chin,
The bugs have terribly bitten my skin;
Oppress’d by care and gloomy sorrow
I needs must lie, and I needs must borrow
From wealthy rascals, and slatterns vile,
I even believe that I begg’d for a while.
And now I would finish this wearisome race,
And find in the grave a resting-place.
Farewell! In yon heavens, good Christian brother,
Once more we may hope to meet with each other.

3. RESURRECTION.

The trumpet’s wild echo fills the skies
As though it summon’d to battle;
From out of their graves the dead arise,
Their limbs they wriggle and rattle.

Each thing that has legs prepares for the race,
The spectres white are all driven
To Jehoshaphat, the gathering-place,
Where judgment is now to be given.

There sits, as Head of the Court, the Lord,
By all his apostles surrounded;
Assessors are they,--each judgment, each word
On love and wisdom is founded.

No face is disguised in all that array
For every mask is seen falling
In the radiant light of the judgment day,
At the sound of the trumpet enthralling.

At Jehoshaphat, in the valley at last
The whole of the troop is united,
And since the defendants’ number’s so vast,
I’ve the summary only recited:

The goats to the left, and the sheep to the right,--
The parting is quickly effected;
For the pious good sheep heaven’s mansions of light,
And hell for the goats is selected.

4. THE DYING ONE.

Flying after bliss and light,
Thou return’st in piteous plight;
German truth and German shirt
Strangers draggle through the dirt.

Pale as death hast thou become,
But take comfort, thou’rt at home;
Warm as by the household hearth
Lie we under German earth.

Many others, who fell lame,
Home again, alas! ne’er came,
Though they yearningly implored,--
O have pity, gracious Lord!

5. RASCALITY.

Rich people only can be won
By open, barefaced flattery;
Money is flat, my worthy son,
And needs must flatly flatter’d be.

The box of incense swing with zeal
Before all worshipp’d golden calves:
In dust and mire with meekness kneel,
And, above all, ne’er praise by halves.

The price of bread this year is high,
Fine words we lavish all in vain;
Mecænas’ dog to praise, then, try,
And earn a bellyful again.

6. RETROSPECT.

The pearl for the first, and the case for the second,--
O William Wisetzki, thy days were soon reckon’d,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.[82]

The beam that he clung to, that stretch’d o’er the current
Beneath him broke down, and he sank in the torrent,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

We follow’d the corpse of this darling of ours,
They buried him under a grave of May flowers,
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

O prudent wert thou, thus early in striving
To ’scape from life’s storms, and in harbour arriving,--
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

Happy thou, that thus early thy danger was over;
Before thou wert ill, thou thy health didst recover,--
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

For many a year have I thought, child so cherish’d,
With envy and grief how thou early hast perish’d,--
But the Kitten, the Kitten was saved.

7. IMPERFECTION.

Nothing is perfect in this world of ours,
The thorn grows with the rose, that queen of flowers;
Methinks the angels, who for our protection
Dwell in the skies, are stain’d with imperfection.

The tulip has no scent. The saying is:
Honour once stole a sucking-pig, old quiz;
Had not Lucretia stabb’d herself, she may be
Would have in time brought forth a thumping baby.

The haughty peacock has but ugly feet;
A woman may be witty and discreet,
And yet, like Voltaire’s Henriade, may weary,
Or be, like Klopstock’s famed Messias, dreary.

The best of cows no Spanish knows, I ween,
Massmann no Latin. Much too smooth are e’en
The marble buttocks of Canova’s Venus;
Too flat is Massmann’s nose (but this between us).

In pretty songs are hidden wretched rhymes,
As bees’ stings in the honey lurk at times;
Of vulnerable heel the son of Thetis,
And Alexandre Dumas is quite a Metis.

The fairest star that in the heavens has birth,
When it has caught a cold, straight falls to earth;
Prime cider of the barrel bears the traces,
And many a spot the sun’s bright face defaces.

And thou, much honour’d Madam, even thou
Faultless art not, nor free from failings now.
“What, then, is wanting?” askest thou and starest,--
A bosom, and a soul within it, fairest!

8. PIOUS WARNING.

When thou dost quit this mortal abode,
Immortal spirit, beware thee
Lest dangers seek to ensnare thee;
Through death and night conducteth the road.

The soldiers of God at the golden door
Of the city of light are collected;
Here actions and deeds are respected,
Mere name and station avail no more.

The pilgrim leaves at the portal behind
His shoes so heavy and dusty;
O enter with confidence trusty,
Soft slippers, sweet music, and rest thou’lt find.

9. THE COOLED-DOWN ONE.

When we are dead, we long must lie
Within the tomb; distress’d am I,
Yes, sad am I that resurrection
Delays so long to give perfection.

Once more, before the light of life
Is quench’d, before this weary strife
Is o’er, fain would I, ere I perish,
Have woman’s love, to bless and cherish.

Some fair one I would now invite
With eyes as soft as moonbeams’ light;
No more I relish the advances
Of wild brunettes with burning glances.

Young men, exulting in their youth,
Prefer tumultuous love in truth.
With them excitement’s all the fashion,
And soul-enthralling mutual passion.

No longer young, bereft of power,
As I, alas! am at this hour,
I fain once more would love in quiet,
And happy be,--without a riot.

10. SOLOMON.

The drums, trumps, cornets at length sink to slumber;
By Solomon’s couch, as he lieth sleeping,
Full-girded angels the watch are keeping,
On either side six thousand in number.

The monarch protect they from cares while dreaming,
And as he frowns in his slumbers nightly,
From out of their sheaths straight draw they lightly
Twelve thousand swords, all fiercely gleaming.

But presently back in their sheaths are falling
The angels’ swords. The brow of the sleeper
Grows smooth, his slumber is softer and deeper,
And soon his lips are gently calling:

“O Sulamith, thou whom so dearly I cherish!
“O’er countries and kingdoms I rule, great and glorious,
“Of Israel and Judah the monarch victorious,
“But if thou’lt not love me, I wither and perish.”

11. LOST WISHES.

Similar in disposition,
Like a brother link’d to brother,
We unconsciously were ever
Growing fonder of each other.

Each one knew the other’s meaning,
Just as if we were omniscient;
Words, in fact, we found superfluous,
And a look was quite sufficient.

How I long’d to have thee near me,
Revelling in peace and plenty,
As my staunch and valiant comrade
In a dolce far niente!

Always to remain beside thee
Was the aim of each endeavour;
Everything that gave thee pleasure,
To accomplish sought I ever.

I enjoy’d what thou didst relish,
Neither would I touch the dishes
Thou didst hate, and even smoking
I commenced, to meet thy wishes.

Many a funny Polish story
That thy merriment excited,
In a strange and Jewish accent
To repeat I then delighted.

Yes, then long’d I to approach thee,
Leave my foreign habitation,
And beside thy fortune’s fireplace
Take for evermore my station.

Golden wishes! mere soap bubbles!
Like my life they all have vanish’d;
On the ground I now am lying,
Crush’d for ever, hopeless, banish’d.

Fare ye well, ye golden wishes
Where my darling hopes once centred!
Ah! the blow was far too deadly
That my inmost heart has enter’d.

12. THE ANNIVERSARY.

Not one mass will e’er be chanted,
Not one Hebrew prayer be mutter’d,
When the day I died returneth,--
Nothing will be sung or utter’d.

Yet upon that day, it may be,
If the weather has not chill’d her,
On a visit to Montmartre
With Pauline will go Matilda.

With a wreath of immortelles she’ll
Deck my grave in foreign fashion,
Sighing say “_pauvre homme!_” and sadly
Drop a tear of fond compassion.

I shall then too high be dwelling,
And, alas! no chair have ready
For my darling’s use to offer,
As she walks with foot unsteady.

Sweet, stout little one, return not
Home on foot, I must implore thee;
At the barrier gate is standing
A fiacre all ready for thee.

13. MEETING AGAIN.

One summer eve, in the woodbine bower
We sat once more at the window lonely;
The moon arose with life-giving power,
But we appear’d two spectres only.

Twelve years had pass’d since the last occasion
When we on this spot had sat together;
Each tender glow, each loving persuasion
Had meanwhile been quench’d in life’s rough weather.

I silently sat. The woman, however,
Just like her sex, amongst love’s ashes
Must needs be raking, but vain her endeavour
To kindle again its long-quench’d flashes.

And she recounted how she had contended
With evil thoughts, the story disclosing
How hardly she once her virtue defended,--
I stupidly listened to all her prosing.

When homeward I rode, the trees beside me
Like spirits beneath the moon’s rays flitted;
Sad voices call’d, but onward I hied me,
Yes, I and the dead, who my side ne’er quitted.

14. MRS. CARE.

When fortune on me shed her ray,
The gnats around me danced all day,
Plenty of friends then cherish’d me,
And all, in fashion brotherly,
My viands with me tasted,
And my last penny wasted.

Fortune has fled, and void is my purse,
My friends have left for better for worse,
Extinguish’d is each sunny ray,
Around me the gnats no longer play;
My friends and the gnats together
Have gone with the sunny weather.

Beside my bed in the winter night
Old Care as my nurse sits bolt upright;
She wears a habit that’s white enough,
A bonnet black, and takes her snuff.
The box is harshly creaking,
As the woman a pinch is seeking.

I often dream that the happy time
Of bliss has return’d, and May’s young prime,
And friendship, and all the gnats as well,--
When creaks the snuffbox,--and, sad to tell,
The bubble is straightway breaking,
While the nurse her snuff is taking.

15. TO THE ANGELS.

This is dread Thanatos indeed!
He comes upon his pale-white steed.
I hear its tread, I hear its trot,
The dusky horseman spares me not;
He tears me from Matilda’s fond embraces,--
This thought of woe all other thoughts effaces.

She was at once my child, my wife,
And when I quit this mortal life
An orphan’d widow will she be!
I leave alone on earth’s wide sea
The wife, the child, who, trusting to my guiding
Slept on my bosom, careless and confiding.

Ye angels in yon heavens so fair
Receive my sobs, receive my prayer!
When I am buried, from above
Protect the woman that I love!
Be shield and guardian to your own reflection,
Grant my poor child Matilda your protection!

By all the tears e’er shed by you
Over men’s woes in pity true,--
By that dread word that priests alone
Know, and ne’er breathe without a groan,
By all your beauty, gentleness, perfection,
Ye angels, grant Matilda your protection!

16. IN OCTOBER 1849.

The weather now is calm and mild,
And hush’d once more the tempest’s voice is,
And Germany, that o’ergrown child,
Once more in its old Christmas trees rejoices.

Domestic joys we now pursue,
All things beyond are false and hollow,
And to the house’s gable too,
Where once he built his nest, comes concord’s swallow.

Forest and stream rest peacefully,
With the soft moonlight o’er them playing;
But, hark, a crack! A shot may’t be?
It is perchance some friend whom they are slaying.

Perchance with weapons in his hand,
Some madcap they have overtaken;
(All do not flight well understand
Like Horace, who so nimbly saved his bacon).

Crack, Crack! A fête, may I presume,
Or fireworks in our Goethe’s honour?
Or Sontag rising from the tomb
Greeted, by rockets showering down upon her?

And Francis Liszt appears again!
He lives, he lies not dead and gory
On some Hungarian battle-plain,
Russian and Croat have not quench’d his glory.

Freedom’s last bulwark was o’erthrown,
And Hungary to death is bleeding--
Francis, our Knight, escaped alone,
His sword a quiet life at home is leading.

Francis still lives; when old and gray
Of the Hungarian war devoutly
He’ll tell his grandsons: “Thus I lay,
“And thus my trusty blade I wielded stoutly!”

Hearing the name of Hungary,
My German waistcoat grows too narrow;
Beneath it foams a raging sea,
The trumpet’s clang seems thrilling through my marrow.

Once more across my memory throng
The hero-legend’s strains enthralling,
The wild and iron martial song,
The Nibelunge’s overthrow appalling.

’Tis still the same heroic lot,
’Tis still the same old noble stories;
The names are changed, the natures not,--
’Tis still the same praiseworthy hero-glories.

And the same issue ’tis once more;
However proudly flaunts the banner,
The hero, as in days of yore,
Yields to brute strength, but in a glorious manner.

This time the oxen and the bear
In firm alliance are united;
Thou fall’st; but, Magyar, ne’er despair,
Still more have all _our_ German hopes been blighted.

While very decent beasts are they
Who have in fight become thy masters,
We have, alas! become the prey
Of wolves, swine, dogs,--so great are our disasters.

They howl, grunt, bark,--the victor’s smell
Is such, I fain would do without it;--
But, Poet, hush!--it were as well,
Seeing thou’rt ill, to say no more about it.

17. EVIL DREAMS.

In vision once more young and happy, paced I
Near the old country house that used to stand
Hard by the mountain; down the pathway raced I,
Yes, raced with dear Ottilia, hand in hand.

How graceful was her figure! She enchanted
With the sweet magic of her sea-green eyes;
On her small feet how firmly was she planted,
A form where elegance with vigour vies!

Her voice’s tone, how true and how confiding!
Her spirit’s inmost depth one seems to see;
Wisdom her every word is ever guiding,
Her mouth’s as like a rosebud as can be.

It is not pangs of love that now steal o’er me,
I wander not, my reason’s in command;
Yet strangely am I soften’d, as before me
She stands, with trembling warmth I kiss her hand.

When I a lily from the stem had broken,
I gave it her, and then these words address’d:
“Ottilia, be my wife by this dear token,
“That I may be as good as thee, and blest.”

The answer that she gave, it reach’d me never,
For presently I woke,--and now lie here
In my sick chamber, weak and ill as ever--
As I have hopeless lain for many a year.

18. IT GOES OUT.

The curtain falls, as ends the play,
And all the audience go away;
And did the piece give satisfaction?
Methinks they found it of attraction.
A much-respected public then
Its poet thankfully commended;
But now the house is hush’d again,
And lights and merriment are ended.

But hark to that dull heavy clang
Hard by the empty stage’s middle!
It was perchance the bursting twang
Of the worn string of some old fiddle.
With rustling noise across the pit
Some nasty rats like shadows flit,
And rancid oil all places smell of,
And the last lamp, with groans and sighs
Despairing, then goes out and dies.--
My soul was this poor light I tell of.

19. THE WILL.

Now that life is nearly spent,
Here’s my will and testament,
Giving every foe a present,
As a Christian finds it pleasant:

Let these gentry full of merit
Have my sickness as their guerdon,
All that makes my life a burden,--
All my wretched pangs inherit.

I bequeath you all the colic
Which my belly tweaks in frolic,--
Strangury and these perfidious
Prussian piles so sharp and hideous.

Unto you my cramps be given,
Pains in joints, and salivation,
Pains in back, and inflammation,--
Every one the gift of heaven.

Let this codicil then follow:--
Lord! that wretched herd demolish,
And their very name abolish,
As they in their vileness wallow.

20. ENFANT PERDU.

Forlorn posts leading, thirty long years fought I
Stoutly and well on freedom’s battle plain;
Hopeless of triumph, never hoped or thought I
Safe and uninjured home to see again.

I watch’d both day and night, slept not a tittle,
As when I camp’d amongst my friends of yore;
(And if I felt inclined to doze a little,
I soon was waken’d by my neighbour’s snore.)

In those long nights ennui would oft assail me,
And fear as well,--(’tis fools who never fear;)
To scare them, I delighted to regale me
With whistling songs all full of gibe and jeer.

Yes, watchfully I stood, my weapon grasping,--
If a suspicious looking fool drew nigh,
I took a careful aim, and laid him gasping
With a hot bullet in his paunch or thigh.

But by-and-by, if I may so express it,
This clumsy fool, whom I so much deride,
Proves the best shot; and now, I must confess it,
My blood pours forth, my wounds are gaping wide.

A post is vacant! All my wounds are gaping--
One falls, the others follow in his wake;
Unvanquish’d fall I,--from my hands escaping
My arms break not, my heart alone doth break.

_BOOK III.--HEBREW MELODIES_

O let the days of thy life pass not
Without tasting life’s blisses;
And if thou’rt shelter’d from the shot,
Let it fly, for it misses.

If fortune should ever be passing thy way,
To grasp her, forth sally;
Don’t build on the summit thy cottage, I pray,
But down in the valley.

PRINCESS SABBATH.

In Arabia’s books of stories
Read we of enchanted princes,
Who from time to time recover’d
Their once handsome pristine features;

Or the whilome hairy monster
To a king’s son is converted,
Dress’d in gay and glittering garments,
And the flute divinely playing.

Yet the magic time expires,
And once more and of a sudden
We behold his royal highness
Changed into a shaggy monster.

Of a prince of such-like fortune
Sings my song. His name is Israel,
And a witch’s art has changed him
To the figure of a dog.

As a dog, with doggish notions,
All the week his time he muddles
Through life’s filthiness and sweepings,
To the scavengers’ derision.

But upon each Friday evening,
Just at twilight, the enchantment
Ceases suddenly,--the dog
Once more is a human being.

As a man, with human feelings,
With his head and breast raised proudly
Dress’d in festival attire,
His paternal halls he enters.

“Hail, all hail, ye halls belovèd
“Of my gracious regal father!
“Tents of Jacob, your all-holy
“Entrance posts my mouth thus kisses!”

Through the house mysteriously
Goes a whispering and buzzing,
And the unseen master of it
Shudd’ring breathes amid the silence,--

Silence, save the seneschal
(Vulgo Synagogue-Attendant)
Here and there with vigour springing,
As the lamps he seeks to kindle.

Golden lights so comfort-giving,
How they glitter, how they glimmer!
Proudly also flare the tapers
On the rails of the Almemor.

At the shrine wherein the Thora
Is preserved, and which is cover’d
With the costly silken cov’ring
That with precious jewels sparkles,--

There beside his post, already
Stands prepared the parish minstrel,
Dandy little man, who shoulders
His black cloak coquettishly.

His white hand to show the better,
At his neck he works, his finger
Pressing strangely to his temple,
And his thumb against his throat.

To himself then softly trills he,
Till at length his voice he raises
Joyfully, and loudly sings he
“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle!

“Lecho Daudi Likras Kalle--
“Loved one, come! the bride already
“Waiteth for thee, to uncover
“To thy face her blushing features!”

This most charming marriage ditty
Was composed by the illustrious
Far and wide known Minnesinger
Don Jehuda ben Halevy.

In the song was celebrated
The espousals of Prince Israel
With the lovely Princess Sabbath,
Whom they call the silent princess.

Pearl and flower of perfect beauty
Is the Princess. Fairer never
Was the famous queen of Sheba,
Solomon’s old bosom-friend,

Ethiopian vain blue-stocking,
Who with her _esprit_ would dazzle,
And with all her clever riddles
Was, I fear, extremely tedious.

But our Princess Sabbath, who was
Peace itself personified,
Held in utter detestation
All debates and wit-encounters.

Equally abhorr’d she noisy
And declamatory passion,--
All that pathos which with flowing
And dishevell’d hair storms wildly.

Modestly the silent princess
In her hood conceals her tresses;
Soft as the gazelle’s her looks are,
Slender as an Addas blooms she.

She allows her lover all things
Save this one,--tobacco-smoking:
“Loved one! smoking is forbidden,
“For to-day the Sabbath is.

“But at noon, in compensation,
“Thou a steaming dish shalt taste of,
“Which is perfectly delicious--
“Thou shall eat to-day some Schalet!”

“Schalet, beauteous spark immortal,
“Daughter of Elysium!”[83]
Thus would Schiller’s song have sung it,
Had he ever tasted Schalet.

Schalet is the food of heaven,
Which the Lord Himself taught Moses
How to cook, when on that visit
To the summit of Mount Sinai,

Where the Lord Almighty also
Every good religious doctrine
And the holy ten commandments
Publish’d in a storm of lightning.

Schalet is the pure ambrosia
That the food of heaven composes--
Is the bread of Paradise;
And compared with food so glorious,

The ambrosia of the spurious
Heathen gods whom Greece once worshipp’d
And were naught but muffled devils,
Was but wretched devil’s dung.

When the prince this food hath tasted,
Gleams his eye as if transfigured,
And his waistcoat he unbuttons,
And he speaks with smiles of rapture:

“Hear I not the Jordan murmuring?
“Is it not the gushing fountains
“In the palmy vale of Beth-El,
“Where the camels have their station?

“Hear I not the sheep-bells ringing?
“Is it not the well-fed wethers
“Whom the herdsman drives at evening
“Down from Gilead’s lofty mountain?”

Yet the beauteous day fades quickly;
As with long and shadowy legs
Hastens on the fell enchantment’s
Evil hour, the prince sighs sadly,

Feeling as though with his bosom
Icy witches’ fingers grappled;
He’s pervaded by the fear of
Canine metamorphosis.

To the prince then hands the princess
Her own golden box of spikenard;
Long he smells, once more desiring
To find comfort in sweet odours.

Next the parting drink the princess
Gives the prince--He hastily
Drinks, and in the goblet only
Some few drops are left untasted.

With them sprinkles he the table,
Then he takes a little waxlight,
And he dips it in the moisture
Till it crackles and goes out.

JEHUDA BEN HALEVY

A FRAGMENT.

1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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