Chapter I

Christian, a pilgrim craves from you
A glass of water at your door!
I am--I am--the Wandering Jew--
Chained to a whirlwind evermore!
Though ever young, weighed down with years,
The end of Time my one glad dream;
Each night I hope the end appears,
Each morning brings its cursed gleam.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.