A Legend

TO the home of the rabbi a Lord in his splendor,

Comes riding at dead of night;

His glittering helmet with feathers is garnished,

With stains his breast is bedight.

In a room where the flame of a lamplet is glowing,

So wan and so lonely and dim;

The Lord of the Manor in quest of his learning,

Attentively listens to him.

And yet ere the church bells at dawn o’ the morning

Their summons to prayer intone,

The Lord of the Manor rides forth from the Ghetto;

To no one his secret is known.

By daylight the sage in his cloistered seclusion

Sees never the Lord of the night;

But the dreams and the deeds of the noble disciple,

Are fruit of the tree of his might.

And so through the squalor and dirt of the Ghetto,

The Lord with his retinue rides,

And gazes with pensive and yearning attention,

At the home where his teacher abides.