SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW

                     Though the torrents from their fountains
                     Roar down many a craggy steep,
                     Yet they find among the mountains
                     Resting-places calm and deep.

                     Clouds that love through air to hasten,
                     Ere the storm its fury stills,
                     Helmet-like themselves will fasten
                     On the heads of towering hills.

                     What, if through the frozen centre
                     Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
                     Yet he has a home to enter
                     In some nook of chosen ground:

                     And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
                     Yield him no domestic cave,
                     Slumbers without sense of motion,
                     Couched upon the rocking wave.

                     If on windy days the Raven
                     Gambol like a dancing skiff,
                     Not the less she loves her haven
                     In the bosom of the cliff.

                     The fleet Ostrich, till day closes.
                     Vagrant over desert sands,
                     Brooding on her eggs reposes
                     When chill night that care demands.

                     Day and night my toils redouble,
                     Never nearer to the goal;
                     Night and day, I feel the trouble
                     Of the Wanderer in my soul.

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