Up came their murderous deeds of old, The grisly story Chaucer told, And many an ugly tale beside Of children caught and crucified; I heard the ducat-sweating thieves Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves, And, thrust beyond the tented green, The lepers cry, "Unclean! Unclean!" The show went on, but, ill at ease, My sullen eye it could not please, In vain my conscience whispered, "Shame! Who but their Maker is to blame?" I thought of Judas and his bribe, And steeled my soul against their tribe My neighbors stirred; I looked again Full on the younger of the twain. A fresh young cheek whose olive hue The mantling blood shows faintly through; Locks dark as midnight, that divide And shade the neck on either side; Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam Clear as a starlit mountain stream;-- So looked that other child of Shem, The Maiden's Boy of Bethlehem! And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood That flows immingled from the Flood,-- Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes! The New World's foundling, in thy pride Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side, And lo! the very semblance there The Lord of Glory deigned to wear! I see that radiant image rise, The flowing hair, the pitying eyes, The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows The blush of Sharon's opening rose,-- Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat, Thy lips would press his garment's hem That curl in wrathful scorn for them! A sudden mist, a watery screen, Dropped like a veil before the scene; The shadow floated from my soul, And to my lips a whisper stole,-- "Thy prophets caught the Spirit's flame, From thee the Son of Mary came, With thee the Father deigned to dwell,-- Peace be upon thee, Israel!" 18--. Rewritten 1874. AFTER THE FIRE WHILE far along the eastern sky I saw the flags of Havoc fly, As if his forces would assault The sovereign of the starry vault And hurl Him back the burning rain That seared the cities of the plain, I read as on a crimson page The words of Israel's sceptred sage:-- _For riches make them wings, and they Do as an eagle fly away_. O vision of that sleepless night, What hue shall paint the mocking light That burned and stained the orient skies Where peaceful morning loves to rise, As if the sun had lost his way And dawned to make a second day,-- Above how red with fiery glow, How dark to those it woke below! On roof and wall, on dome and spire, Flashed the false jewels of the fire; Girt with her belt of glittering panes, And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes, Our northern queen in glory shone With new-born splendors not her own, And stood, transfigured in our eyes, A victim decked for sacrifice! The cloud still hovers overhead, And still the midnight sky is red; As the lost wanderer strays alone To seek the place he called his own, His devious footprints sadly tell How changed the pathways known so well; The scene, how new! The tale, how old Ere yet the ashes have grown cold!