A watery waste the sinful world has grown, With no dry spot whereon the eye can rest, No man, no beast, no bird to gaze upon, Can all be dead, with silent sleep possessed? Oh, how I long the hills and vales to see, To find myself on barren steppes were bliss. I peer about, but nothing greeteth me, Naught save the ship, the clouds, the waves' abyss, The crocodile which rushes from the deeps; The flood foams gray; the whirling waters reel, Now like its prey whereon at last it sweeps, The ocean swallows up the vessel's keel. The billows rage--exult, oh soul of mine, Soon shalt thou enter the Lord's sacred shrine! III. TO THE WEST WIND. O West, how fragrant breathes thy gentle air, Spikenard and aloes on thy pinions glide. Thou blow'st from spicy chambers, not from there Where angry winds and tempests fierce abide. As on a bird's wings thou dost waft me home, Sweet as a bundle of rich myrrh to me. And after thee yearn all the throngs that roam And furrow with light keel the rolling sea. Desert her not--our ship--bide with her oft, When the day sinks and in the morning light. Smooth thou the deeps and make the billows soft, Nor rest save at our goal, the sacred height. Chide thou the East that chafes the raging flood, And swells the towering surges wild and rude. What can I do, the elements' poor slave? Now do they hold me fast, now leave me free; Cling to the Lord, my soul, for He will save, Who caused the mountains and the winds to be. MOSES BEN ESRA (About 1100). EXTRACTS FROM THE BOOK OF TARSHISH, OR "NECKLACE OF PEARLS." I. 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 behold, the dreary winter's gone, The mantle of old age has time withdrawn.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 fulfil the whole, Unto the weak new vigor it imparts, And without lance subdues the hero'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.