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Never feeling of unrest
Broke the pleasant dream he dreamed ; Only made to be his nest, All the lovely valley seemed;
Of soaring higher
True, his songs were not divine ;
Were not songs of that high art, Which, as winds do in the pine, Find an answer in each heart;
But the mirth
Of this green earth Laughed and revelled in his line. From the alehouse and the inn,
Opening on the narrow street, Came the loud, convivial din, Singing and applause of feet,
The laughing lays
That in those days Sang the
Knights, who fought at Agincourt,
Songs that rang
Sat the monks in lonely cells,
But his rhymes
Found other chimes,
Gone are all the knights and squires,
Not a name
Remains to fame,
Of the landscape makes a part ;
That ancient mill,
THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT. How strange it seems ! These Hebrews in their graves,
Close by the street of this fair seaport town,
At rest in all this moving up and down.
Wave their broad curtains in the south wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep
The long mysterious Exodus of Death.
Thal pave with level flags their burial-place,
And broken by Moses at the mountain's base.
The very names recorded here are strange,
Of foreign accent, and of different climes; Alvares and Rivera interchange
With Abraham and Jacob of old times. “ Blessed be God! for he created Death!'
The mourner said, “and Death is rest and peace;" Then added, in the certainty of faith,
“And giveth Life that never more shall cease.' Closed are the portals of their synagogue,
No psalms of David now the silence break, No rabbi reads the ancient decalogue
In the grand dialect the prophets spake. Gone are the living, but the dead remain,
And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty, like a summer-rain,
Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate,
What persecution, merciless and blind, Drove o'er the sea-that desert desolate
These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind ? They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure,
Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire ; Taught in the school of patience to endure
The life of anguish and the death of fire. All their lives long, with the unleavened bread
And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, The wasting famine of the heart they fed,
And slaked its thirst with Marah of their tears. Anathema maranatha! was the cry
That rang from town to town, from street to street; At
every gate the accursed Mordecai Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet.
Pride and humiliation hand in hand
Walked with them thro' the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,
And yet unshaken as the continent.
Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime,
They saw reflected in the coming time. And thus for ever with reverted look
The mystic volume of the world they read,
Till life became a legend of the dead.
The groaning earth in travail and in pain
And the dead nations never rise again.
“Come forth to thy death,
“Come forth to thy death,
He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,
Thus challenges death
Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,
And they only scathe
Three balls are in his breast and brain,
In his agony prayeth
Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,
When the Sergeant saith,
Under the walls of Monterey