Although his curse burned in them! 'though, me-seemed,
Each burning jewel glared a separate curse.
Can dead men work us evil from the grave?
Can crime infest us so that fear will slay?...
Richer than all Castile and yet—not dare
Drink but from cups of Roman murra,—spar
Bowl-sprayed with fibrile gold,—spar sensitive
To poison! I, no fool! and yet—a fool
To fear a dead Jew's malice!... Yet, how else?