We do not mean to convey by this, that the Jewish poets of Spain devoted themselves only and exclusively to the sacred song. _Jehuda Ha-Levi_ thus sings of love and wine as fiery as e'er did Moorish bard.[29] [29] This and the following selections are taken from Miss Emma Lazarus' translations in "Songs of a Semite." LOVE-SONG. "See'st thou o'er my shoulder falling Snake-like ringlets waving free? Have no fear, for they are twisted To allure thee unto me." Thus she spake, the gentle dove, Listen to thy plighted love: "Ah, how long I wait, until Sweetheart cometh back (she said) Laying his caressing hand Underneath my burning head." SEPARATION. And so we twain must part! Oh linger yet, Let me still feed my glance upon thine eyes. Forget not, love, the days of our delight, And I our nights of bliss shall ever prize. In dreams thy shadowy image I shall see, Oh even in my dream be kind to me! Though I were dead, I none the less would hear Thy step, thy garment rustling on the sand. And if thou waft me greetings from the grave, I shall drink deep the breath of that cold land. Take thou my days, command this life of mine, If it can lengthen out the space of thine. No voice I hear from lips death-pale and chill, Yet deep within my heart it echoes still. My frame remains--my soul to thee yearns forth, A shadow I must tarry still on earth. Back to the body dwelling here in pain, Return, my soul, make haste and come again! Thus sings Moses ben Esra; The shadow of the houses leave behind, In the cool boscage of the grove reclined, The wine of friendship from love's goblet drink, And entertain with cheerful speech the mind. Drink, friend! behold the dreary winter's gone, The mantle of old age has time withdrawn, The sunbeam glitters in the morning dew, O'er hill and vale youth's bloom is surging on. Cup-bearer! quench with snow the goblet's fire, Even as the wise man cools and stills his ire. Look, when the jar is drained, upon the brim The light foam melteth with the heart's desire. Cup-bearer! bring anear the silver bowl, And with the glowing gold fulfill the whole, Unto the weak new vigor it imparts, And without lance subdues the heroe's soul. My love sways, dancing, like the myrtle-tree. The masses of her curls disheveled see! She kills me with her darts, intoxicates My burning blood, and will not set me free. Within the aromatic garden come, And slowly in its shadows let us roam, The foliage be the turban for our brows, And the green branches o'er our heads a dome. All pain thou with the goblet shalt assuage, The wine-cup heals the sharpest pangs that rage, Let others crave inheritance of wealth, Joy be our portion and our heritage.