The sight of thy face will give ease to my pain.
If thou dreamest of one that is kissing thine eyes,
Awake, and the dream I full soon shall explain[[63-2]].
On a Rain Cloud[[63-3]].
Without an eye it weeps, and we
Do laugh with joy its kiss to see,
But when its eyeless face is dry,
'Tis then our turn to weep and sigh.
The last of the famous quartette of Spanish Hebrew poets living in the Middle Ages, exclusive of the famous Moses Ibn Ezra, was Jehuda ben Shelomoh Alcharizi. He flourished in Spain in the first half of the thirteenth century, and was famous in his day not only as a linguist and philosopher, but even more so as a master of sparkling rhymed prose and verse. His reputation rests chiefly on his charming book entitled Tachkemoni, which consists of fifty chapters, having for their model the peculiar form of the so-called Makāma, which the author has adopted from his favourite Arabic poet, Al Hariri. Alcharizi and his Tachkemoni have in modern times been exhaustively criticized, so that there is very little left to be said about him. A specimen of his humour may, however, be aptly given here; it is an extract from the sixth Makāma of the Tachkemoni, which is called “The Unlucky Marriage.”
“Thus relate Hayman the Esrachite:—While living in Tarbez, a town pleasantly situated in the East, I sat one day in one of the public bazaars in company with some friends. I suddenly noticed among the crowd a haggard man whom I soon recognized as Heber the Kenite, an old and intimate friend of my youth. I quickly ran up to him, and amidst cordial greetings and embraces I questioned him about the state of his health, and about his intended plans for the future. At the same time I suggested to him that he should settle down in my neighbourhood, so that I could look after him, and even assist him in making a suitable marriage. When Heber heard my last remark, he sighed deeply, and said: ‘Dear friend, I entreat you with all my heart and soul not to induce me to get married to any woman, for my past experiences of wedlock have been so painful that I should not like to have them repeated.’ And on my pressing him to let me know what had happened, he told me the following tale:—