The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume II Part 43

"Naught is false in me, my darling, E'en as in my veins there floweth Not a drop of blood that's Moorish, Neither of foul Jewish current."

"Heed not Moors nor Jews, beloved,"

Spake the knight with fond endearments.

Then towards a grove of myrtles

Leads he the Alcalde's daughter.

And with Love's slight subtile meshes, He has trapped her and entangled.

Brief their words, but long their kisses, For their hearts are overflowing.

What a melting bridal carol Sings the nightingale, the pure one.

How the fire-flies in the gra.s.ses Trip their sparkling torchlight dances!

In the grove the silence deepens, Naught is heard save furtive rustling Of the swaying myrtle branches, And the breathing of the flowers.

But the sound of drum and trumpet Burst forth sudden from the castle.

Rudely they awaken Clara, Pillowed on her lover's bosom.

"Hark! they summon me, my darling!

But before we part, oh tell me, Tell me what thy precious name is, Which so closely thou hast hidden."

Then the knight with gentle laughter, Kissed the fingers of his Donna, Kissed her lips and kissed her forehead, And at last these words he uttered:

"I, Senora, your beloved, Am the son of the respected, Worthy, erudite Grand Rabbi, Israel of Saragossa."

"The ensemble of the romance is a scene of my own life--only the Park of Berlin has become the Alcalde's garden, the Baroness a Senora, and myself a St. George, or even an Apollo. This was only to be the first part of a trilogy, the second of which shows the hero jeered at by his own child, who does not know him, whilst the third discovers this child, who has become a Dominican, and is torturing to the death his Jewish brethren. The refrain of these two pieces corresponds with that of the first. Indeed this little poem was not intended to excite laughter, still less to denote a mocking spirit. I merely wished, without any definite purpose, to render with epic impartiality in this poem an individual circ.u.mstance, and, at the same time, something general and universal--a moment in the world's history which was distinctly reflected in my experience, and I had conceived the whole idea in a spirit which was anything rather than smiling but serious and painful, so much so, that it was to form the first part of a tragic trilogy."-- Heine's Correspondence.

Guided by these hints, I have endeavored to carry out in the two following original Ballads the Poet's first conception.

Emma Lazarus.

II.

DON PEDRILLO.

Not a lad in Saragossa n.o.bler-featured, haughtier-tempered, Than the Alcalde's youthful grandson, Donna Clara's boy Pedrillo.

Handsome as the Prince of Evil, And devout as St. Ignatius.

Deft at fence, unmatched with zither, Miniature of knightly virtues.

Truly an unfailing blessing To his pious, widowed mother, To the beautiful, lone matron Who forswore the world to rear him.

For her beauty hath but ripened In such wise as the pomegranate Putteth by her crown of blossoms, For her richer crown of fruitage.

Still her hand is claimed and courted, Still she spurns her proudest suitors, Doting on a phantom pa.s.sion, And upon her boy Pedrillo.

Like a saint lives Donna Clara, First at matins, last at vespers, Half her fortune she expendeth Buying ma.s.ses for the needy.

Visiting the poor afflicted, Infinite is her compa.s.sion, Scorning not the Moorish beggar, Nor the wretched Jew despising.

And--a scandal to the faithful, E'en she hath been known to welcome To her castle the young Rabbi, Offering to his tribe her bounty.

Rarely hath he crossed the threshold, Yet the thought that he hath crossed it, Burns like poison in the marrow Of the zealous youth Pedrillo.

By the blessed Saint Iago, He hath vowed immortal hatred To these circ.u.mcised intruders Who pollute the soil of Spaniards.

Seated in his mother's garden, At high noon the boy Pedrillo Playeth with his favorite parrot, Golden-green with streaks of scarlet.

"Pretty Dodo, speak thy lesson,"

Coaxed Pedrillo--"thief and traitor"-- "Thief and traitor"--croaked the parrot, "Is the yellow-skirted Rabbi."

And the boy with peals of laughter, Stroked his favorite's head of emerald, Raised his eyes, and lo! before him Stood the yellow-skirted Rabbi.

In his dark eyes gleamed no anger, No hot flush o'erspread his features.

'Neath his beard his pale lips quivered, And a shadow crossed his forehead.

Very gentle was his aspect, And his voice was mild and friendly, "Evil words, my son, thou speakest, Teaching to the fowls of heaven.