In the regal castle hurl’d her Impious torch, till, loudly crackling, Soon the flames obtain’d the mastery, And the fortress laid in ruins. On the death of beauteous Thais Who of some bad Babylonian Illness died at Babylon, All her pearls were sold by auction At the public auction-rooms there; Purchased by a priest from Memphis, He to Egypt took them with him, Where they on the toilet table Of fair Cleopatra glisten’d; She the finest pearl amongst them Crush’d and mix’d with wine and swallow’d, Her friend Antony to banter. With the final Ommiad monarch Came the string of pearls to Spain, And they twined around the turban Worn at Cord’va, by the Caliph. Abderam the Third he wore them As his breast-knot at the tourney Where he pierced through thirty golden Rings, and fair Zuleima’s bosom. When the Moorish race was vanquish’d, Then the Christians gain’d possession Of the pearls, which rank’d thenceforward As crown-jewels of Castile. Their most Cath’lic Majesties, Queens of Spain, were wont to wear them On all court and state occasions, At all bullfights, grand processions, And at each auto da fé, When they took their pleasure, sitting At the balcony, in sniffing Up the smell of burnt old Jews. Later still, old Mendizabel, Satan’s grandson, pawn’d these jewels, Vainly hoping thus to meet the Deficit in the finances. At the Tuileries the jewels Finally appear’d again, Glittering on the neck of Madame Salomon, the Baroness. With the fair pearls thus it happened.-- Less adventurous the fortune Of the casket, Alexander Keeping it for his own use. He the songs enclosed within it Of ambrosia-scented Homer, His great fav’rite, and the casket All night long was wont to stand At his bed’s head; when the monarch Slept, the heroes’ airy figures Came from out it, o’er his visions Creeping in fantastic fashion. Other times and other birds too-- I myself have erst delighted In the stories of the actions Of Pelides, of Odysseus. All then seem’d so sunny-golden And so purple to my spirit, Vine-leaves twined around my forehead, And the trumpets flourish’d loudly. Hush, no more! All broken lieth Now my haughty victor-chariot, And the panthers, who once drew it, Now are dead, as are the women Who, to sound of drum and cymbal, Danced around, and I myself Writhe upon the ground in anguish. Weak and crippled--hush, no more! Hush, no more! we now are speaking Of the casket of Darius, And within myself thus thought I: Should I e’er possess the casket, And not be obliged to change it Into cash, for want of money, I would then enclose within it All the poems of our Rabbi,--