Solemn birds, large, many-colour’d,
All deep thinkers, never singing,
While around them finches flutter’d,
Keeping up a merry twitter,—
All things here were blest, and teeming
With a pure balsamic fragrance,
Which was free from all offensive
Earthly smells and hateful odours.
The Hagada is a garden
That this airy whim resembles,
And the youthful Talmud scholar,
When his heart was overpower’d
And was deafen’d by the squabbles
Of the’ Halacha, by disputes
All about the fatal egg
Laid one feast day by a pullet,—
Or about some other question
Of the same importance, straightway
Fled the boy to find refreshment
In the blossoming Hagada
Where the charming olden stories,
Tales of angels, famous legends,
Silent histories of martyrs,
Festal songs, and words of wisdom,
Hyperboles, far-fetch’d it may be,
But impress’d with deep conviction,
Full of glowing faith,—all glitter’d,
Bloom’d and sprung in such abundance.
And the stripling’s noble bosom
Was pervaded by the savage
But adventure-breathing sweetness,
By the wondrous blissful anguish
And the fabulous wild terrors
Of that blissful secret world,
Of that mighty revelation,
Known to us as Poesy.
And the art of Poesy,
Radiant knowledge, understanding,
Which we call the art poetic,
Open’d on the boy’s mind also.