Part 2 / Book 3 — JEHUDA BEN HALEVY A Fragment.

“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.

“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.

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!

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. That he might forget his niece, he Took 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 him Quite unworthy of a Rabbi, Still less fitted for a poet— He was made to milk the cows. Once, as he beneath the belly Of a cow was sitting squatting, Fing’ring hastily her udder, While the milk the tub was filling,— A position quite unworthy Of 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 lengthy Saracenic mandoline, And some money for his journey. Poets’ fate! an evil star ’tis, Which the offspring of Apollo Worried unto death, and even Did not spare their noble father, When he, after Daphne lurking, In the fair nymph’s snowy body’s Stead, embraced the laurel only,— He, the great divine Schlemihl! Yes, the glorious Delphic god is A Schlemihl, and e’en the laurel That so proudly crowns his forehead Is a sign of his Schlemihldom. What the word Schlemihl betokens Well we know. Long since Chamisso Rights of German citizenship Gain’d it (of the word I’m speaking). But its origin has ever, Like the holy Nile’s far sources, Been unknown. Upon this subject Many a night have I been poring. Many a year ago I travell’d To Berlin, to see Chamisso On this point, and from the dean sought Information of Schlemihl. But he could not satisfy me, And referr’d me on to Hitzig, Who had made the first suggestion Of the family name of Peter Shadowless. I straightway hired The first cab, and quickly hasten’d To the magistrate Herr Hitzig, Who was formerly call’d Itzig. When he still was known as Itzig, In a vision saw he written His 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 of Hitzig, and his best friends only Knew that Hitzig stood for Holy. “Holy Hitzig!” said I therefore When I saw him, “have the goodness “To explain the derivation “Of the word Schlemihl, I pray you.” Many circumbendibuses Took the holy one—he could not Recollect,—and made excuses In succession like a Christian, Till at length I burst the buttons In 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 the Race Schlemihlian. We’re descended From Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday. Certainly no wondrous actions Are preserved of his; we only Know his name, and in addition Know that he was a Schlemihl. But a pedigree is valued Not according to its fruits, but Its antiquity alone— Ours three thousand years can reckon. Years come round, and years then vanish— Full three thousand years have fleeted Since the death of our forefather This Schlemihl ben Zuri Schadday. Phinehas, too, has long been dead, But his spear is in existence, And incessantly we hear it Whizzing 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 truehearted God-devoted Minnesinger, That sweet nightingale, who sang to God instead of to a rose,— That sweet nightingale who caroll’d Tenderly his loving numbers In the darkness of the Gothic Mediæval night of earth! Undismay’d and caring nothing For grimaces or for spirits, Or the chaos of delirium And of death those ages haunting, Our sweet nightingale thought only Of the Godlike One he loved so, Unto Whom he sobb’d his love, Whom his hymns were glorifying. Thirty springs Gabirol witness’d On this earth, but loud-tongued Fama Trumpeted abroad the glory Of his name through every country. Now at Cordova, his home, he Had 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 was Bitter wormwood to this base one. He enticed his hated rival To his house one night, and slew him There, and then the body buried In the garden in its rear. But behold! from out the spot Where the body had been hidden, Presently there grew a fig-tree Of the most enchanting beauty. All its fruit was long in figure, And of strange and spicy sweetness; He who tasted it, sank into Quite a dreamy state of rapture. ’Mongst the people on the subject Much was said aloud or whisper’d, Till at length the rumour came to The illustrious Caliph’s ears. He with his own tongue first tasted This strange fig-phenomenon, And then form’d a strict commission Of inquiry on the matter. Summarily they proceeded; On the owner of the tree’s soles Sixty strokes of the bamboo they Gave, and then his crime confess’d he. Thereupon they tore the tree up By its roots from out the ground, And the body of the murder’d Man Gabirol was discover’d. He was buried with due honour, And lamented by his brethren; And the selfsame day they also Hang’d the Moor at Cordova.