Classic Poem

In the gloomy Ghetto's gloomiest spot,
A certain patch of putrid ground,
There is a place of tombs: Moors rot,
Rats revel there, and devils abound
By night, no cross being there to keep
The evil things in awe: the dead
That house there, sleep no Christian sleep—
They do not sleep at all, it is said;
Tho' how they fare, the Fiend best knows,
Who never vouchsafes to them any repose,
For their worm is awake in the narrow bed,
And the fire that will never be quenched is fed
On the night that will never close.
There did Rabbi Ben Ephraim
(When he saw, at length, the appointed measure
Of misery meted out to him)
Bury his books and all his treasure.
He buried them deep that 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 turn'd and shook
The dust from his foot on the place of slaughter,
And cross'd the night, and fled away
(Balking the hangman of his prey)
From out of the city of Cordova.