“Serpents, birds of night, are dwelling
“In its weather-beaten ruins;
“From the window’s airy bow
“Peeps the fox with much contentment.
“Here and there a ragged fellow
“Comes sometimes from out the desert,
“And his hunch-back’d camel feedeth
“In the long grass growing round it.
“On the noble heights of Zion,
“Where stood up the golden fortress
“Whose great majesty bore witness
“To the mighty monarch’s glory,—
“There, with noisome weeds encumber’d,
“Nought now lies but gray old ruins,
“Gazing with such looks of sorrow
“One must fancy they are weeping.
“And ’tis said they wept in earnest,
“Once in each year, on the ninth day
“Of the month’s that known as Ab—
“With my own eyes, full of weeping,
“I the clammy drops have witness’d
“Down the large stones slowly trickling,
“And have heard the broken columns
“Of the temple sadly moaning.”
Such-like pious pilgrim-sayings
Waken’d in the youthful bosom
Of Jehuda ben Halevy
Yearnings for Jerusalem.
Poet’s yearnings! As foreboding,
Visionary, sad, as those
In the Château Blay experienced
Whilome by the noble Vidam,
Messer Geoffroy Rudello,
When the knights, returning homeward
From the Eastern land, asserted
Loudly, as they clash’d their goblets,
That the paragon of graces,
And the flower and pearl of women,
Was the beauteous Melisanda,
Margravine of Tripoli.