Once more he heard her moans, and once again
Heard the young mother crooning o'er her child.
And then came no more sorrow in the strain,
Which had there been might him have reconciled,
But as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me,
Who robbed her of her sweet maturity."
And still he read the Talmud, day and night,
And still the years slipped by on noiseless wing.
Then one day as he studied, lo! the sprite,
Till then long silent, recommenced to sing.
He sighed: "To-day she feasts her eldest boy,
And I have robbed my darling of this joy."
Again was silence, and again there fell
Upon the Rabbi's ears the sweet refrain,
With the glad tumult of a marriage bell,
Now rising like a bird, now low again.
"Her daughter weds," he said. "Ah! woe is me,
Who robbed her of her sweet maternity."
Year after year he lived, and children died
Of age, whom he had dandled, until he,
Worn with his grief, for death's oblivion sighed;
But still he heard the same sweet melody,
And could not die until the singing ceased,
For by her life had his life been increased.
Long flashed the lamp upon the sacred page,
Long peeped the star-worlds through the orioled pane,
Long nightly sat the white-haired, saintly sage
And listened till at last the happy strain
Died into discord. "God be thanked," he said—
Next day they found him, smiling now—but dead.
RHODOPE'S SHOE.
In Egypt Rhodope was born,
And lived afar from king and court;
No jewels did the maid adorn;
She crowned herself with flowers in sport.
Her hair was like a summer night,
Her eyes like stars that twinkle low,
Her voice like soft winds in their flight,
When through the tremulous leaves they blow.
She dwelt beside the sacred Nile,
And in its waters every day,
With but the sun to gaze and smile,
Like any nymph was wont to play.
While in the limpid stream she played
One day, an eagle cleft the blue,
And, hovering o'er the sporting maid,
Upon the bank espied her shoe.