If you ask for these or suchlike, Then the children stare upon us With a look of stupid wonder, And in fact seem quite dumb-founded. Let me then advise you, dearest, These neglected points to study, And to take to learning Hebrew Leaving theatres and concerts. When a few years to these studies Have been given, you’ll be able In the’ original to read them, Iben Esra and Gabirol, And Halevy in addition, That triumvirate poetic, Who evoked the sweetest music From the instrument of David. Alcharisi, who, I’ll wager, Is to you unknown, although he A Voltairian was, six hundred Years before Voltaire’s time, spoke thus: “In his thoughts excels Gabirol, “And the thinker most he pleases; “Iben Esra shines in art, and “Is the fav’rite of the artist. “But Jehuda ben Halevy “Is in both a perfect master, “And at once a famous poet “And a universal fav’rite.” Iben Esra was a friend, And I rather think, a cousin Of Jehuda ben Halevy, Who in his famed book of travels Bitterly complains how vainly He had sought through all Granada For his friend, and only found there His friend’s brother, the physician, Rabbi Meyer, poet likewise, And the father of the beauty Who in Iben Esra’s bosom Kindled such a hopeless passion. That he might forget his niece, he Took in hand his pilgrim’s staff, Like so many of his colleagues, Living restlessly and homeless. Tow’rd Jerusalem he wander’d, When some Tartars fell upon him, Fasten’d him upon a steed’s back, And to their wild deserts took him. Duties there devolved upon him Quite unworthy of a Rabbi, Still less fitted for a poet-- He was made to milk the cows. Once, as he beneath the belly Of a cow was sitting squatting, Fing’ring hastily her udder, While the milk the tub was filling,-- A position quite unworthy Of a Rabbi, of a poet,-- Melancholy came across him, And to sing a song began he. And he sang so well and sweetly, That the Khan, the horde’s old chieftain, Who was passing by, was melted, And he gave the slave his freedom. And he likewise gave him presents, Gave a fox-skin, and a lengthy Saracenic mandoline, And some money for his journey. Poets’ fate! an evil star ’tis, Which the offspring of Apollo Worried unto death, and even Did not spare their noble father, When he, after Daphne lurking, In the fair nymph’s snowy body’s Stead, embraced the laurel only,-- He, the great divine Schlemihl! Yes, the glorious Delphic god is A Schlemihl, and e’en the laurel That so proudly crowns his forehead Is a sign of his Schlemihldom. What the word Schlemihl betokens Well we know. Long since Chamisso Rights of German citizenship Gain’d it (of the word I’m speaking).