Then, as a last resort, from door to door
The young men went, that all who wished might give
Some space of time out of their own life's store,
That yielded to the Rabbi he might live.
Some gave a year, a month a week, a day,
But wheresoe'r they went none said them nay.
At last they sought the maid and gravely asked:
"What wilt thou give, O maiden?" and she cried—
By his sad plight her deathless love unmasked—
"Oh! gladly for his sake I would have died:
Take all my life and give it unto him."
They wrote, but saw not, for their eyes were dim.
And lo! the Rabbi lived; but ere the earth
Had thrice upturned its face to greet the sun,
Hushed was the little congregation's mirth,
For the sweet maiden's life its course had run;
And, decked with flowers, they bore her to her grave,
He sobbing by whom she had died to save.
THE SPIRIT SONG.
Chastened by grief, Ben Horad holier grew,
And, uncomplaining, toiled from day to day.
His sad, sweet smile his loving flock well knew,
His kindly voice their sorrows charmed away;
Yet, though he bowed before his Master's will,
His heart was sad, for he was human still.
By night or day, wherever he might stray,
Through bustling city streets or lonely lane,
One form he ever saw—a maiden gay;
One voice he heard—a soft, melodious strain:
And oh! the loneliness, to see and hear,
Yet lack the tender touch of one so dear!
Long as he read into the silent night,
The winking stars soft peeping in his room,
While at his hand the dreamy, lambent light
Just lit his book and left all else in gloom.
His study walls evanished, and in mist
He saw the maid whose dead lips once he kissed:
Yet dead no more, but his dear spirit wife.
And still in heaven she sang the same glad strain
She would have sung on earth had not her life
Been given to him that he might live again,
And as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me,
Who robbed her of her sweet futurity."
There came a day when on the Rabbi's ears
Fell the low moans of one in mortal pain.
Slowly they died, as though dissolved in tears,
While a weak infant's wail took up the strain.
Sadly Ben Horad smiled, and raised his head:
"She has been spared that agony," he said.
Then all his sorrow died; but not for long,
For soon again the spirit voice he heard,
Crooning all day a little cradle song,
With happiness and love in every word.
And as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me,
Who robbed her of her sweet maternity."