Phinehas, too, has long been dead, But his spear is in existence, And incessantly we hear it Whizzing through the air above us. And the noblest hearts it pierces-- Both Jehuda ben Halevy, Also Moses Iben Esra, And it likewise struck Gabirol, Yes, Gabirol, that truehearted God-devoted Minnesinger, That sweet nightingale, who sang to God instead of to a rose,-- That sweet nightingale who caroll’d Tenderly his loving numbers In the darkness of the Gothic Mediæval night of earth! Undismay’d and caring nothing For grimaces or for spirits, Or the chaos of delirium And of death those ages haunting, Our sweet nightingale thought only Of the Godlike One he loved so, Unto Whom he sobb’d his love, Whom his hymns were glorifying. Thirty springs Gabirol witness’d On this earth, but loud-tongued Fama Trumpeted abroad the glory Of his name through every country. Now at Cordova, his home, he Had a Moor as nextdoor neighbour, Who wrote verses, like the other, And the poet’s glory envied. When he heard the poet singing, Then the Moor’s bile straight flow’d over, And the sweetness of the songs was Bitter wormwood to this base one. He enticed his hated rival To his house one night, and slew him There, and then the body buried In the garden in its rear. But behold! from out the spot Where the body had been hidden, Presently there grew a fig-tree Of the most enchanting beauty. All its fruit was long in figure, And of strange and spicy sweetness; He who tasted it, sank into Quite a dreamy state of rapture. ’Mongst the people on the subject Much was said aloud or whisper’d, Till at length the rumour came to The illustrious Caliph’s ears. He with his own tongue first tasted This strange fig-phenomenon, And then form’d a strict commission Of inquiry on the matter. Summarily they proceeded; On the owner of the tree’s soles Sixty strokes of the bamboo they Gave, and then his crime confess’d he. Thereupon they tore the tree up By its roots from out the ground, And the body of the murder’d Man Gabirol was discover’d. He was buried with due honour, And lamented by his brethren; And the selfsame day they also Hang’d the Moor at Cordova. DISPUTATION. In the Aula at Toledo Loudly are the trumpets blowing To the spiritual tourney, Gaily dress’d, the crowd are going. This is no mere worldly combat, Not one arm of steel here glances; Sharply pointed and scholastic Words are here the only lances. Gallant Paladins here fight not, Ladies’ honest fame defending; Capuchins and Jewish Rabbis Are the knights who’re here contending.