ped, would "become an immortal book, a perpetual lamp in the dome of
God." Again Jewish conversions, a burning question of the day, were made
prominent. Heine's solution is beyond a cavil enlightened. The words are
truly remarkable with which Sarah, the beautiful Jewess, declines the
services of the gallant knight:[99] "Noble sir! Would you be my knight,
then you must meet nations in a combat in which small praise and less
honor are to be won. And would you be rash enough to wear my colors,
then you must sew yellow wheels upon your mantle, or bind a blue-striped
scarf about your breast. For these are my colors, the colors of my
house, named Israel, the unhappy house mocked at on the highways and the
byways by the children of fortune."

Another illustration of Heine's views at that time of his life, and with
those views he one day went to the neighboring town of Heiligenstadt--to
be baptized.

Who can sound the depths of a poet's soul? Who can divine what Heine's
thoughts, what his hopes were, when he took this step? His letters and
confessions of that period must be read to gain an idea of his inner
world. On one occasion he wrote to Moser, to whom he laid bare his most
intimate thoughts:[100] "Mentioning Japan reminds me to recommend to you
Golovnin's 'Journey to Japan.' Perhaps I may send you a poem to-day from
the _Rabbi_, in the writing of which I unfortunately have been
interrupted again. I beg that you speak to nobody about this poem, or
about what I tell you of my private affairs. A young Spaniard, at heart
a Jew, is beguiled to baptism by the arrogance bred of luxury. He sends
the translation of an Arabic poem to young Yehuda Abarbanel, with whom
he is corresponding. Perhaps he shrinks from directly confessing to his
friend an action hardly to be called admirable.... Pray do not think
about this."

And the poem? It is this:

TO EDOM

"Each with each has borne, in patience
Longer than a thousand year--
_Thou_ dost tolerate my breathing,
_I_ thy ravings calmly hear.

Sometimes only, in the darkness,
Thou didst have sensations odd,
And thy paws, caressing, gentle,
Crimson turned with my rich blood.

Now our friendship firmer groweth,
Daily keeps on growing straight.
I myself incline to madness,
Soon, in faith, I'll be thy mate."

A few weeks later he writes to Moser in a still more bitter strain: "I
know not what to say. Cohen assures me