And (even when mirthful) gave always A pathos to your girlish lays, Falls, with perchance a deeper thrill, Upon the breathless listener still. I cannot guess in what fair spot The chance of Time hath fixed your lot, Nor can I name what manly breast Gives to that head a welcome rest; I cannot tell if partial Fate Hath made you poor, or rich, or great; But oh! whatever be your place, I never saw a form or face To which more plainly hath been lent The blessing of a full content! La Belle Juive Is it because your sable hair Is folded over brows that wear At times a too imperial air; Or is it that the thoughts which rise In those dark orbs do seek disguise Beneath the lids of Eastern eyes; That choose whatever pose or place May chance to please, in you I trace The noblest woman of your race? The crowd is sauntering at its ease, And humming like a hive of bees-- You take your seat and touch the keys: I do not hear the giddy throng; The sea avenges Israel's wrong, And on the wind floats Miriam's song! You join me with a stately grace; Music to Poesy gives place; Some grand emotion lights your face: At once I stand by Mizpeh's walls: With smiles the martyred daughter falls, And desolate are Mizpeh's halls! Intrusive babblers come between; With calm, pale brow and lofty mien, You thread the circle like a queen! Then sweeps the royal Esther by; The deep devotion in her eye Is looking "If I die, I die!" You stroll the garden's flowery walks; The plants to me are grainless stalks, And Ruth to old Naomi talks. Adopted child of Judah's creed, Like Judah's daughters, true at need, I see you mid the alien seed. I watch afar the gleaner sweet; I wake like Boaz in the wheat, And find you lying at my feet! My feet! Oh! if the spell that lures My heart through all these dreams endures, How soon shall I be stretched at yours! An Exotic Not in a climate near the sun Did the cloud with its trailing fringes float, Whence, white as the down of an angel's plume, Fell the snow of her brow and throat. And the ground had been rich for a thousand years With the blood of heroes, and sages, and kings, Where the rose that blooms in her exquisite cheek Unfolded the flush of its wings. On a land where the faces are fair, though pale As a moonlit mist when the winds are still, She breaks like a morning in Paradise Through the palms of an orient hill. Her beauty, perhaps, were all too bright, But about her there broods some delicate spell, Whence the wondrous charm of the girl grows soft As the light in an English dell.