THE WANDERING JEW.

The stars are failing, and the sky

Is like a field of faded flowers;

The winds on weary wings go by;

The moon hides, and the temptest lowers;

And still through every clime and age

I wander on a pilgrimage

That all men know an idle quest,

For that the goal I seek is — REST!

I hear the voice of summer streams,

And, following, I find the brink

Of cooling springs, with childish dreams

Returning as I bend to drink —

But suddenly, with startled eyes,

My face looks on its grim disguise

Of long gray beard; and so, distressed,

I hasten on, nor taste of rest.

I come upon a merry group

Of children in the dusky wood,

Who answer back the owlet's whoop,

That laughs as it had understood;

And I would pause a little space,

But that each happy blossom-face

Is like to one His hands have blessed

Who sent me forth in search of rest.

Sometimes I fain would stay my feet

In shady lanes, where huddled kine

Couch in the grasses cool and sweet,

And lift their patient eyes to mine;

But I, for thoughts that ever then

Go back to Bethlehem again,

Must needs fare on my weary quest,

And weep for very need of rest.

Is there no end? I plead in vain:

Lost worlds nor living answer me.

Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign

Have I not passed eternity?

Have I not drank the fetid breath

Of every fevered phase of death,

And come unscathed through every pest

And scourge and plague that promised rest?

Have I not seen the stars go out

That shed their light o'er Galilee,

And mighty kingdoms tossed about

And crumbled clod-like in the sea?

Dead ashes of dead ages blow

And cover me like drifting snow,

And time laughs on as‘ twere a jest

That I have any need of rest.