Page:Poems of Emma Lazarus vol 2.djvu/58

By every voice in Prague, from Duke to serf
(Save the vindictive bigot, Narzerad);
The beautiful young wife, whose cup of joy
Sparkled at brim ; nest her the vacant chaip
Awaited the Messiali, who, unannoimced,
In God's good time shall take his place with us.
Now when the Eabbi reached the verse where
Shall rise from table, flinging wide the door,
To give the Prophet entrance, if so be
The glorious hour have sounded, Raschi
Pale, grave, jet glad with great expectaney.
Crossed the hushed room, and, with a joyous smile
To greet the Saviour, opened the door.
A curse!
A cry, "Revenged!" a thrast, a stifled
The sheathing of a poniard—that was all!
In the dark vestibule a fleeing form,
Masked, gowned in black; and in the room of prayer,
Raschi, face downward on the stone-cold floor.
Bleeding his life out. Oh! what a cry was that
(Folk shuddered, hearing, roods oft in the street)
Wherewith Rebekah rushed to raise her lord.
Kneeling beside bim, striving in vain to quench
With turban, veil, torn shreds of gown, stained hands,
The black blood's Bickening gush.
Never rewarded with one glance of life