heats beneath the golden balls,
The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes--
I stabbed them deep with muttered oaths:
Spawn of the rebel wandering horde
That stoned the saints, and slew their Lord!

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 leper's cry, "Unclean, unclean!"

The show went on, but, ill at ease,
My sullen eye it could not please;
In vain the haggard outcast knelt,
The white-haired patriarch's heart to melt;
I thought of Judas and his bribe,
And steeled my soul against his tribe.
My neighbors stirred; I looked again,
Full on the younger of the twain.

A soft young cheek of olive brown,
A lip just flushed with youthful down,
Locks dark as midnight, that divide
And shade the neck on either side;
An eye that wears a moistened gleam,
Like starlight in a hidden stream;
So looked that other child of Shem,
The maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!

And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood
That flows untainted from the Flood!
Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains
Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes!
Scum of the nations! 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 midnight hair, the starlit eyes;
The faintly-crimsoned cheek that shows
The stain of Judah's dusky 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 scornful wrath for them!

A sudden mist, a watery screen,
Dropped like a veil before the scene;
I strove the glistening film to stay,
The wilful tear would have its way.
The shadow floated from my soul,
And to my lips a whisper stole,
Soft murmuring, as the curtain fell,
"Peace to the Beni-Israel!"

BOCAGE'S PENITENTIAL SONNET.

_From the Portuguese of Manoel de Barbosa do Bocage._

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

I've seen my life, without a noble aim,
In the mad strife of passions waste away.
Fool that I was! to live as if decay
Would spare the vital essence in my frame