Yet still I linger here; I scarce know why. There is a charm that, all beyond my will, Allures me, holds me, will not let me go. 'T is not indeed like our Jerusalem; Yet in its age, its sorrows and its wrongs, It is allied to her, a city sad, That, like a mourner weeping at a tomb, Sits clad in sackcloth, grieving o'er the past, Hoping for nothing, stricken by despair. Sad, lonely stretches compass her about With silence. Wandering here, at every step We stumble o'er some ruin, once the home Of happy life; or pensive, stay our feet To ponder o'er some stern decaying tomb, The haunt of blinking owls. Nor all in vain Doth kindly nature strive to heal the wounds Of Time and human rage: with ivy green, With whispering grasses, reeds, and bright-eyed flowers, Veiling its ruin; and with tremulous songs Of far larks hidden in the deep blue sky, Lifting the thoughts to heaven. With dreams that wander far on bound less ways Of meditation vague, recalling oft To Rome, as once unto Jerusalem: The bravery of thy ornaments away; Thy men shall perish by the sword in war; No one of us is free of this, or old Or young, whatever be our state,Elder or priest or child,-it matters not. High ladies, cardinals in purple robes, Ay, even the Pope himself, with all his court, Seated on high, in all their pomp and pride, Laugh at us, as we stumble on our course, Pelted with filth, and shake their holy sides, Encouraging the mob that mock at us. But what offends me more than all the rest Is that this usage has debased our tribe, Bent its proud neck, and forced it to the earth, Taught us to cringe and whimper, taught us wiles, And driven us at their beck to creep and crawl. We, who were God's own people,--we must bow Before these Christians; with a smile accept Even their kicks and humbly give them thanks For our mere life. This stings me to the quick. As for what Christ said, "Love your enemies; Bless them that curse you, and do good to them," This is beyond the power of any manBeyond my power at least, I curse them all! (When he saw, at length, the appointed measure Of misery meted out to him) use Of the number Seven (quoth the Jews, Furthermore, he laid in store Of Florence-work wrought under and o'er, Shekels of silver, and stones of price, Of Venice, the many times bought and sold. He buried them deep where none might mark, Hid them from sight of the hated race, Gave them in guard of the Powers of the Dark. And solemnly set his curse on the place. Then he saddled his mule, and with him took Zillah his wife, and Rachel his daughter, And Manassah his son; and turned and shook The dust from his foot on the place Therefore he ended the days of his life Was laid to rest in another land. But, before his face to the wall he turned, As the eyes of the women about his bed Grew hungry and hard with a hope unfed, And the misty lamp more misty burned, To Zillah and Rachel the Rabbi said Where they might find, if fate turned kind, And the fires in Cordova, grown slack, Should ever suffer their footsteps back, The tomb where by stealth he had buried his wealth In the evil place, when in dearth and lack He fled from the foe, and the stake, and the rack; IV. "A strand of colors, clear to be seen By the main black cord of it twined between The scarlet, the golden and the green; All the length of the Moorish wall the line Runs low with his mystic serpent-twine, Until he is broken against the angle Where thin grizzled grasses dangle, Like dead men's hairs, from the weeds that clot The scurfy side of a splintered pot, Upon the crumbled cornice squat, Gaping, long-eared, in his hue and shape Like a Moor's head cut off at the nape. The line, till it touches the angle, follow, Take pebbles then in the hand and drop Stone after stone till the ground sounds hollow. Thence walk left, till there starts, to stop Your steps, a thorn-tree with an arm Stretched out as though some mad alarm Had seized upon it from behind. |