| |
| BEN LEVI sat with his books alone | |
| At the midnight’s solemn chime, | |
| And the full-orb’d moon through his lattice shone | |
| In the power of autumn’s prime; | |
| It shone on the darkly learned page, | 5 |
| And the snowy locks of the lonely Sage— | |
| But he sat and mark’d not its silvery light, | |
| For his thoughts were on other themes that night. | |
| |
| Wide was the learn’d Ben Levi’s fame | |
| As the wanderings of his race— | 10 |
| And many a seeker of wisdom came | |
| To his lonely dwelling place; | |
| For he made the darkest symbols clear, | |
| Of ancient doctor and early seer. | |
| |
| Yet a question ask’d by a simple maid | 15 |
| He met that eve in the linden’s shade, | |
| Had puzzled his matchless wisdom more | |
| Than all that ever it found before; | |
| And this it was: “What path of crime | |
| Is darkest traced on the map of time?” | 20 |
| |
| The Rabbi ponder’d the question o’er | |
| With a calm and thoughtful mind, | |
| And search’d the depths of the Talmud’s lore— | |
| But an answer he could not find;— | |
| Yet a maiden’s question might not foil | 25 |
| A Sage inured to Wisdom’s toil— | |
| And he leant on his hand his aged brow, | |
| For the current of thought ran deeper now: | |
| |
| When, lo! by his side, Ben Levi heard | |
| A sound of rustling leaves— | 30 |
| But not like those of the forest stirr’d | |
| By the breath of summer eves, | |
| That comes through the dim and dewy shades | |
| As the golden glow of the sunset fades, | |
| Bringing the odors of hidden flowers | 35 |
| That bloom in the greenwood’s secret bowers— | |
| |
| But the leaves of a luckless volume turn’d | |
| By the swift impatient hand | |
| Of student young, or of critics learn’d | |
| In the lore of the Muse’s land. | 40 |
| The Rabbi raised his wondering eyes— | |
| Well might he gaze in mute surprise— | |
| For, open’d wide to the moon’s cold ray, | |
| A ponderous volume before him lay! | |
| |
| Old were the characters, and black | 45 |
| As the soil when sear’d by the lightning’s track, | |
| But broad and full that the dimmest sight | |
| Might clearly read by the moon’s pale light; | |
| But, oh! ’twas a dark and fearful theme | |
| That fill’d each crowded page— | 50 |
| The gather’d records of human crime | |
| From every race and age. | |
| |
| All the blood that the Earth had seen | |
| Since Abel’s crimson’d her early green; | |
| All the vice that had poison’d life | 55 |
| Since Lamech wedded his second wife; | |
| All the pride that had mock’d the skies | |
| Since they built old Babel’s wall;— | |
| But the page of the broken promises | |
| Was the saddest page of all. | 60 |
| |
| It seem’d a fearful mirror made | |
| For friendship ruin’d and love betray’d, | |
| For toil that had lost its fruitless pain, | |
| And hope that had spent its strength in vain; | |
| For all who sorrow’d o’er broken faith— | 65 |
| Whate’er their fortunes in life or death— | |
| Were there in one ghastly pageant blent | |
| With the broken reeds on which they leant. | |
| |
| And foul was many a noble crest | |
| By the Nations deem’d unstain’d— | 70 |
| And, deep on brows which the Church had bless’d, | |
| The traitor’s brand remain’d. | |
| |
| For vows in that blacken’d page had place | |
| Which time had ne’er reveal’d | |
| And many a faded and furrow’d face | 75 |
| By death and dust conceal’d— | |
| Eyes that had worn their light away | |
| In weary watching from day to day, | |
| And tuneful voices which Time had heard | |
| Grow faint with the sickness of hope deferr’d. | 80 |
| |
| The Rabbi read till his eye grew dim | |
| With the mist of gathering tears, | |
| For it woke in his soul the frozen stream | |
| Which had slumber’d there for years | |
| And he turn’d to clear his clouded sight, | 85 |
| From that blacken’d page to the sky so bright— | |
| And joy’d that the folly, crime, and care | |
| Of Earth could not cast one shadow there. | |
| |
| For the stars had still the same bright look | |
| That in Eden’s youth they wore;— | 90 |
| And he turn’d again to the ponderous book— | |
| But the book he found no more; | |
| Nothing was there but the moon’s pale beam— | |
| And whence that volume of wonder came, | |
| Or how it pass’d from his troubled view, | 95 |
| The Sage might marvel, but never knew! | |
| |
| Long and well had Ben Levi preach’d | |
| Against the sins of men— | |
| And many a sinner his sermon reach’d | |
| By the power of page and pen; | 100 |
| Childhood’s folly, and manhood’s vice, | |
| And age with its boundless avarice, | |
| All were rebuk’d, and little ruth | |
| Had he for the venial sins of youth. | |
| |
| But never again to mortal ears | 105 |
| Did the Rabbi preach of aught | |
| But the mystery of trust and tears | |
| By that wondrous volume taught. | |
| And if he met a youth and maid | |
| Beneath the linden boughs— | 110 |
| Oh, never a word Ben Levi said, | |
| But—“Beware of Broken Vows!” | |
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