Raschi In Prague.

Raschi of Troyes, the Moon of Israel,     The authoritative Talmudist, returned     From his wide wanderings under many skies,     To all the synagogues of the Orient,     Through Spain and Italy, the isles of Greece,     Beautiful, dolorous, sacred Palestine,     Dead, obelisked Egypt, floral, musk-breathed Persia,     Laughing with bloom, across the Caucasus,     The interminable sameness of bare steppes,     Through dark luxuriance of Bohemian woods,     And issuing on the broad, bright Moldau vale,     Entered the gates of Prague. Here, too, his fame,     Being winged, preceded him. His people swarmed     Like bees to gather the rich honey-dew     Of learning from his lips. Amazement filled     All eyes beholding him. No hoary sage,     He who had sat in Egypt at the feet     Of Moses ben-Maimuni, called him friend;     Raschi the scholiast, poet, and physician,     Who bore the ponderous Bible's storied wisdom,     The Mischna's tangled lore at tip of tongue,     Light as a garland on a lance, appeared     In the just-ripened glory of a man.     From his clear eye youth flamed magnificent;     Force, masked by grace, moved in his balanced frame;     An intellectual, virile beauty reigned     Dominant on domed brow, on fine, firm lips,     An eagle profile cut in gilded bronze,     Strong, delicate as a head upon a coin,     While, as an aureole crowns a burning lamp,     Above all beauty of the body and brain     Shone beauty of a soul benign with love.     Even as a tawny flock of huddled sheep,     Grazing each other's heels, urged by one will,     With bleat and baa following the wether's lead,     Or the wise shepherd, so o'er the Moldau bridge     Trotted the throng of yellow-caftaned Jews,     Chattering, hustling, shuffling. At their head     Marched Rabbi Jochanan ben-Eleazar,     High priest in Prague, oldest and most revered,     To greet the star of Israel. As a father     Yearns toward his son, so toward the noble Raschi     Leapt at first sight the patriarch's fresh old heart.     "My home be thine in Prague! Be thou my son,     Who have no offspring save one simple girl.     See, glorious youth, who dost renew the days     Of David and of Samuel, early graced     With God's anointing oil, how Israel     Delights to honor who hath honored him."     Then Raschi, though he felt a ball of fire     Globe itself in his throat, maintained his calm,     His cheek's opaque, swart pallor while he kissed     Silent the Rabbi's withered hand, and bowed     Divinely humble, his exalted head     Craving the benison.              For each who asked     He had the word of counsel, comfort, help;     For all, rich eloquence of thanks. His voice,     Even and grave, thrilled secret chords and set     Plain speech to music. Certain folk were there     Sick in the body, dragging painful limbs,     To the physician. These he solaced first,     With healing touch, with simples from his pouch,     Warming and lulling, best with promises     Of constant service till their ills were cured.     And some, gray-bearded, bald, and curved with age,     Blear-eyed from poring over lines obscure     And knotty riddles of the Talmud, brought     Their problems to this youth, who cleared and solved,     Yielding prompt answer to a lifetime's search.     Then, followed, pushed by his obsequious tribe,     Who fain had pedestaled him on their backs,     Hemming his steps, choking the airs of heaven     With their oppressive honors, he advanced,     Midst shouts, tumultuous welcomes, kisses showered     Upon his road-stained garments, through Prague's streets,     Gaped at by Gentiles, hissed at and reviled,     But no whit altering his majestic mien     For overwhelming plaudits or contempt.     Glad tidings Raschi brought from West and East     Of thriving synagogues, of famous men,     And flourishing academies. In Rome     The Papal treasurer was a pious Jew,     Rabbi Jehiel, neath whose patronage     Prospered a noble school. Two hundred Jews     Dwelt free and paid no tributary mark.     Three hundred lived in peace at Capua,     Shepherded by the learned Rabbi David,     A prince of Israel. In Babylon     The Jews established their Academy.     Another still in Bagdad, from whose chair     Preached the great rabbi, Samuel Ha-levi,     Versed in the written and the oral law,     Who blindfold could repeat the whole vast text     Of Mischna and Gemara. On the banks     Of Eden-born Euphrates, one day's ride     From Bagdad, Raschi found in the wilderness,     Which once was Babylon, Ezekiel's tomb.     Thrice ten perpetual lamps starred the dim shrine,     Two hundred sentinels held the sleepless vigil,     Receiving offerings. At the Feast of Booths     Here crowded Jews by thousands, out of Persia,     From all the neighboring lands, to celebrate     The glorious memories of the golden days.     Ten thousand Jews with their Academy     Damascus boasted, while in Cairo shone     The pearl, the crown of Israel, ben-Maimuni,     Physician at the Court of Saladin,     The second Moses, gathering at his feet     Sages from all the world.                 As Raschi spake,     Forgetting or ignoring the chief shrine,     The Exile's Home, whereunto yearned all hearts,     All ears were strained for tidings. Some one asked:     "What of Jerusalem? Speak to us of Zion."     The light died from his eyes. From depths profound     Issued his grave, great voice: "Alas for Zion!     Verily is she fallen! Where our race     Dictated to the nations, not a handful,     Nay, not a score, not ten, not two abide!     One, only one, one solitary Jew,     The Rabbi Abraham Haceba, flits     Ghostlike amid the ruins; every year     Beggars himself to pay the idolaters     The costly tax for leave to hold a-gape     His heart's live wound; to weep, a mendicant,     Amidst the crumbled stones of palaces     Where reigned his ancestors, upon the graves     Where sleep the priests, the prophets, and the kings     Who were his forefathers. Ask me no more!"     Now, when the French Jew's advent was proclaimed,     And his tumultuous greeting, envious growls     And ominous eyebeams threatened storm in Prague.     "Who may this miracle of learning be?     The Anti-Christ! The century-long-awaited,     The hourly-hoped Messiah, come at last!     Else dared they never wax so arrogant,     Flaunting their monstrous joy in Christian eyes,     And strutting peacock-like, with hideous screams,     Who are wont to crawl, mute reptiles underfoot."     A stone or two flung at some servile form,     Liveried in the yellow gaberdine     (With secret happiness but half suppressed     On features cast for misery), served at first     For chance expression of the rabble's hate;     But, swelling like a snow-ball rolled along     By mischief-plotting boys, the rage increased,     Grew to a mighty mass, until it reached     The palace of Duke Vladislaw. He heard     With righteous wrath his injured subjects' charge     Against presumptuous aliens: how these blocked     His avenues, his bridges; bared to the sun     The canker-taint of Prague's obscurest coigne;     Paraded past the churches of the Lord     One who denied Him, one by them hailed Christ.     Enough! This cloud, no bigger than one's hand,     Gains overweening bulk. Prague harbored, first,     Out of contemptuous ruth, a wretched band     Of outcast paupers, gave them leave to ply     Their money-lending trade, and leased them land     On all too facile terms. Behold! to-day,     Like leeches bloated with the people's blood,     They batten on Bohemia's poverty;     They breed and grow; like adders, spit back hate     And venomed perfidy for Christian love.     Thereat the Duke, urged by wise counsellors -     Narzerad the statesman (half whose wealth was pledged     To the usurers), abetted by the priest,     Bishop of Olmutz, who had visited     The Holy Sepulchre, whose long, full life     Was one clean record of pure piety -     The Duke, I say, by these persuasive tongues,     Coaxed to his darling aim, forbade his guards     To hinder the just anger of his town,     And ordered to be led in chains to him     The pilgrim and his host.                 At noontide meal     Raschi sat, full of peace, with Jochanan,     And the sole daughter of the house, Rebekah,     Young, beautiful as her namesake when she brought     Her firm, frail pitcher balanced on her neck     Unto the well, and gave the stranger drink,     And gave his camels drink. The servant set     The sparkling jar's refreshment from his lips,     And saw the virgin's face, bright as the moon,     Beam from the curled luxuriance of black locks,     And cast-back linen veil's soft-folded cloud,     Then put the golden ear-ring by her cheek,     The bracelets on her hands, his master's pledge,     Isaac's betrothal gift, whom she should wed,     And be the mother of millions - one whose seed     Dwells in the gates of those which hate them.                      So     Yearned Raschi to adorn the radiant girl     Who sat at board before him, nor dared lift     Shy, heavy lids from pupils black as grapes     That dart the imprisoned sunshine from their core.     But in her ears keen sense was born to catch,     And in her heart strange power to hold, each tone     O' the low-keyed, vibrant voice, each syllable     O' the eloquent discourse, enriched with tales     Of venturous travel, brilliant with fine points     Of delicate humor, or illustrated     With living portraits of world-famoused men,     Jews, Saracens, Crusaders, Islamites,     Whose hand he had grasped - the iron warrior,     Godfrey of Bouillon, the wise infidel     Who in all strength, wit, courtesy excelled     The kings his foes - imperial Saladin.     But even as Raschi spake an abrupt noise     Of angry shouts, of battering staves that shook     The oaken portal, stopped the enchanted voice,     The uplifted wine spilled from the nerveless hand     Of Rabbi Jochanan. "God pity us!     Our enemies are upon us once again.     Hie thee, Rebekah, to the inmost chamber,     Far from their wanton eyes' polluting gaze,     Their desecrating touch! Kiss me! Begone!     Raschi, my guest, my son" - But no word more     Uttered the reverend man. With one huge crash     The strong doors split asunder, pouring in     A stream of soldiers, ruffians, armed with pikes,     Lances, and clubs - the unchained beast, the mob.     "Behold the town's new guest!" jeered one who tossed     The half-filled golden wine-cup's contents straight     In the noble pure young face. "What, master Jew!     Must your good friends of Prague break bolts and bars     To gain a peep at this prodigious pearl     You bury in your shell? Forth to the day!     Our Duke himself claims share of your new wealth;     Summons to court the Jew philosopher!"     Then, while some stuffed their pokes with baubles snatched     From board and shelf, or with malignant sword     Slashed the rich Orient rugs, the pictured woof     That clothed the wall; others had seized and bound,     And gagged from speech, the helpless, aged man;     Still others outraged, with coarse, violent hands,     The marble-pale, rigid as stone, strange youth,     Whose eye like struck flint flashed, whose nether lip     Was threaded with a scarlet line of blood,     Where the compressed teeth fixed it to forced calm.     He struggled not while his free limbs were tied,     His beard plucked, torn and spat upon his robe -     Seemed scarce to know these insults were for him;     But never swerved his gaze from Jochanan.     Then, in God's language, sealed from these dumb brutes,     Swiftly and low he spake: "Be of good cheer,     Reverend old man. I deign not treat with these.     If one dare offer bodily hurt to thee,     By the ineffable Name! I snap my chains     Like gossamer, and in his blood, to the hilt,     Bathe the prompt knife hid in my girdle's folds.     The Duke shall hear me. Patience. Trust in me."     Somewhat the authoritative voice abashed,     Even hoarse and changed, the miscreants, who feared     Some strong curse lurked in this mysterious tongue,     Armed with this evil eye. But brief the spell.     With gibe and scoff they dragged their victims forth,     The abused old man, the proud, insulted youth,     O'er the late path of his triumphal march,     Befouled with mud, with raiment torn, wild hair     And ragged beard, to Vladislaw. He sat     Expectant in his cabinet. On one side     His secular adviser, Narzerad,     Quick-eyed, sharp-nosed, red-whiskered as a fox;     On the other hand his spiritual guide,     Bishop of Olmutz, unctuous, large, and bland.     "So these twain are chief culprits!" sneered the Duke,     Measuring with the noble's ignorant scorn     His masters of a lesser caste. "Stand forth!     Rash, stubborn, vain old man, whose impudence     Hath choked the public highways with thy brood     Of nasty vermin, by our sufferance hid     In lanes obscure, who hailed this charlatan     With sky-flung caps, bent knees, and echoing shouts,     Due to ourselves alone in Prague; yea, worse,     Who offered worship even ourselves disclaim,     Our Lord Christ's meed, to this blaspheming Jew -     Thy crimes have murdered patience. Thou hast wrecked     Thy people's fortune with thy own. But first     (For even in anger we are just) recount     With how great compensation from thy store     Of hoarded gold and jewels thou wilt buy     Remission of the penalty. Be wise.     Hark how my subjects, storming through the streets,     Vent on thy tribe accursed their well-based wrath."     And, truly, through closed casements roared the noise     Of mighty surging crowds, derisive cries,     And victims' screams of anguish and affright.     Then Raschi, royal in his rags, began:     "Hear me, my liege!" At that commanding voice,     The Bishop, who with dazed eyes had perused     The grieved, wise, beautiful, pale face, sprang up,     Quick recognition in his glance, warm joy     Aflame on his broad cheeks. "No more! No more!     Thou art the man! Give me the hand to kiss     That raised me from the shadow of the grave     In Jaffa's lazar-house! Listen, my liege!     During my pilgrimage to Palestine     I, sickened with the plague and nigh to death,     Languished 'midst strangers, all my crumbling flesh     One rotten mass of sores, a thing for dogs     To shy from, shunned by Christian as by Turk,     When lo! this clean-breathed, pure-souled, blessed youth,     Whom I, not knowing for an infidel,     Seeing featured like the Christ, believed a saint,     Sat by my pillow, charmed the sting from pain,     Quenched the fierce fever's heat, defeated Death;     And when I was made whole, had disappeared,     No man knew whither, leaving no more trace     Than a re-risen angel. This is he!"     Then Raschi, who had stood erect, nor quailed     From glances of hot hate or crazy wrath,     Now sank his eagle gaze, stooped his high head,     Veiling his glowing brow, returned the kiss     Of brother-love upon the Christian's hand,     And dropping on his knees implored the three,     "Grace for my tribe! They are what ye have made.     If any be among them fawning, false,     Insatiable, revengeful, ignorant, mean -     And there are many such - ask your own hearts     What virtues ye would yield for planted hate,     Ribald contempt, forced, menial servitude,     Slow centuries of vengeance for a crime     Ye never did commit? Mercy for these!     Who bear on back and breast the scathing brand     Of scarlet degradation, who are clothed     In ignominious livery, whose bowed necks     Are broken with the yoke. Change these to men!     That were a noble witchcraft simply wrought,     God's alchemy transforming clods to gold.     If there be one among them strong and wise,     Whose lips anoint breathe poetry and love,     Whose brain and heart served ever Christian need -     And there are many such - for his dear sake,     Lest ye chance murder one of God's high priests,     Spare his thrice-wretched tribe! Believe me, sirs,     Who have seen various lands, searched various hearts,     I have yet to touch that undiscovered shore,     Have yet to fathom that impossible soul,     Where a true benefit's forgot; where one     Slight deed of common kindness sown yields not     As now, as here, abundant crop of love.     Every good act of man, our Talmud says,     Creates an angel, hovering by his side.     Oh! what a shining host, great Duke, shall guard     Thy consecrated throne, for all the lives     Thy mercy spares, for all the tears thy ruth     Stops at the source. Behold this poor old man,     Last of a line of princes, stricken in years,     As thy dead father would have been to-day.     Was that white beard a rag for obscene hands     To tear? a weed for lumpish clowns to pluck?     Was that benignant, venerable face     Fit target for their foul throats' voided rheum?     That wrinkled flesh made to be pulled and pricked,     Wounded by flinty pebbles and keen steel?     Behold the prostrate, patriarchal form,     Bruised, silent, chained. Duke, such is Israel!"     "Unbind these men!" commanded Vladislaw.     "Go forth and still the tumult of my town.     Let no Jew suffer violence. Raschi, rise!     Thou who hast served the Christ - with this priest's life,     Who is my spirit's counselor - Christ serves thee.     Return among thy people with my seal,     The talisman of safety. Let them know     The Duke's their friend. Go, publish the glad news!"     Raschi the Saviour, Raschi the Messiah,     Back to the Jewry carried peace and love.     But Narzerad fed his venomed heart with gall,     Vowing to give his fatal hatred vent,     Despite a world of weak fantastic Dukes     And heretic bishops. He fulfilled his vow.