| |
| “O EDREHI, forbear to-night | |
| Your ghostly legends of affright, | |
| And let the Talmud rest in peace; | |
| Spare us your dismal tales of death | |
| That almost take away one’s breath; | 5 |
| So doing, may your tribe increase.” | |
| |
| Thus the Sicilian said; then went | |
| And on the spinet’s rattling keys | |
| Played Marianina, like a breeze | |
| From Naples and the Southern seas, | 10 |
| That brings us the delicious scent | |
| Of citron and of orange trees, | |
| And memories of soft days of ease | |
| At Capri and Amalfi spent. | |
| |
| “Not so,” the eager Poet said; | 15 |
| “At least, not so before I tell | |
| The story of my Azrael, | |
| An angel mortal as ourselves, | |
| Which in an ancient tome I found | |
| Upon a convent’s dusty shelves, | 20 |
| Chained with an iron chain, and bound | |
| In parchment, and with clasps of brass, | |
| Lest from its prison, some dark day, | |
| It might be stolen or steal away, | |
| While the good friars were singing mass. | 25 |
| |
| “It is a tale of Charlemagne, | |
| When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers | |
| And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast, | |
| With lightning flaming through its showers, | |
| He swept across the Lombard plain, | 30 |
| Beleaguering with his warlike train | |
| Pavia, the country’s pride and boast, | |
| The City of the Hundred Towers.” | |
| |
| Thus heralded the tale began, | |
| And thus in sober measure ran. | 35 |
| |
