All Jehuda ben Halevy’s Festal songs and lamentations, And Ghaselas, the description Of his pilgrimage--the whole I Would have written on the cleanest Parchment by the best of scribes, And the manuscript deposit In the little golden casket. This should stand upon the table Near my bed, and then, whenever Friends appear’d and were astonish’d At the beauty of the trinket,-- At the wondrous bas-reliefs, Small in size, and yet so perfect Notwithstanding,--at the jewels Of such size incrusted on it,-- I should smilingly address them: That is but the vulgar covering That contains a nobler treasure-- In this casket there are lying Diamonds, whose light doth mirror And reflect the light of heaven, Rubies glowing as the heart’s blood, Turquoises of spotless beauty, And fair emeralds of promise, Likewise pearls of greater value Than the pearls to Queen Atossa Given by the false knave Smerdis, And that afterwards were worn by All the notabilities Who this mundane earth have dwelt in, Thais first, then Cleopatra, Priests of Isis, Moorish princes, And the queens of old Hispania, And at last the worthy Madame Salomon, the Baroness.-- For those pearls of world-wide glory After all are but the mucus Of a poor unhappy oyster Lying sickly in the ocean; But the pearls within this casket Are the offspring of a beauteous Human spirit, far far deeper Than the ocean’s deepest depths,-- For they are the pearly tears Of Jehuda ben Halevy, That he over the destruction Of Jerusalem let fall. Pearly tears, which, join’d together By the golden threads of rhythm, As a song from poesy’s Golden smithy have proceeded. And this song of pearly tears Is the famous lamentation That is sung in all the scatter’d And far-distant tents of Jacob On the ninth day of the month Ab, That sad anniversary Of Jerusalem’s destruction By the Emperor Vespasian. Yes, it is the song of Zion That Jehuda ben Halevy Sang when dying on the holy Ruins of Jerusalem. Barefoot and in lowly garments Sat he there upon the fragment Of a pillar that had fallen, Till upon his breast there fell Like a gray old wood his hair, Shading over in strange fashion His afflicted pallid features, With his eyes so like a spectre’s. In this manner sat he, singing, In appearance like a minstrel From the times of old, like ancient Jeremiah, grave-arisen. Soon the birds around the ruins By his numbers’ mournful cadence All were tamed, and e’en the vulture Drew near list’ning, almost pitying,-- But an impious Saracen Came one day in that direction, On his charger in his stirrups Balancing, his bright lance wielding.