But the latter, the Hagada, I should rather call a garden, Yes, a garden, most fantastic, Comparable to that other, Which in days of yore was planted In the town of Babylon,-- Great Semiramis’s garden, That eighth wonder of the world. ’Tis said queen Semiramis, Who had, when a child, been brought up By the birds, and had contracted Many a bird’s peculiar custom, On the mere flat ground would never Promenade, as human creatures Mostly do, and so she planted In the air a hanging garden. High upon colossal pillars Palms and cypresses were standing, Golden oranges, fair flow’r-beds, Marble statues, gushing fountains,-- Firmly, skilfully united By unnumber’d hanging bridges Which appear’d like climbing plants, And whereon the birds were rocking,-- Solemn birds, large, many-colour’d, All deep thinkers, never singing, While around them finches flutter’d, Keeping up a merry twitter,-- All things here were blest, and teeming With a pure balsamic fragrance, Which was free from all offensive Earthly smells and hateful odours. The Hagada is a garden That this airy whim resembles, And the youthful Talmud scholar, When his heart was overpower’d And was deafen’d by the squabbles Of the’ Halacha, by disputes All about the fatal egg Laid one feast day by a pullet,-- Or about some other question Of the same importance, straightway Fled the boy to find refreshment In the blossoming Hagada Where the charming olden stories, Tales of angels, famous legends, Silent histories of martyrs, Festal songs, and words of wisdom, Hyperboles, far-fetch’d it may be, But impress’d with deep conviction, Full of glowing faith,--all glitter’d, Bloom’d and sprung in such abundance. And the stripling’s noble bosom Was pervaded by the savage But adventure-breathing sweetness, By the wondrous blissful anguish And the fabulous wild terrors Of that blissful secret world, Of that mighty revelation, Known to us as Poesy. And the art of Poesy, Radiant knowledge, understanding, Which we call the art poetic, Open’d on the boy’s mind also. And Jehuda ben Halevy Was not merely skill’d in reading, But in poetry a master, And himself a first-rate poet. Yes, he was a first-rate poet, Star and torch of his own age, Light and beacon of his people, Yes, a very wondrous mighty Fiery pillar of all song, That preceded Israel’s mournful Caravan as it was marching Through the desert of sad exile. Pure and true alike, and spotless Was his song, as was his spirit; When this spirit was created By its Maker, self-contented, He embraced the lovely spirit, And that kiss’s beauteous echo Thrills through all the poet’s numbers, Which are hallow’d by this grace.