Heard the young mother crooning o'er her child.
And then came no more sorrow in the strain,
Which had there been might him have reconciled,
But as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me,
Who robbed her of her sweet maturity."

And still he read the Talmud, day and night,
And still the years slipped by on noiseless wing.
Then one day as he studied, lo! the sprite,
Till then long silent, recommenced to sing.
He sighed: "To-day she feasts her eldest boy,
And I have robbed my darling of this joy."

Again was silence, and again there fell
Upon the Rabbi's ears the sweet refrain,
With the glad tumult of a marriage bell,
Now rising like a bird, now low again.
"Her daughter weds," he said. "Ah! woe is me,
Who robbed her of her sweet maternity."

Year after year he lived, and children died
Of age, whom he had dandled, until he,
Worn with his grief, for death's oblivion sighed;
But still he heard the same sweet melody,
And could not die until the singing ceased,
For by her life had his life been increased.

Long flashed the lamp upon the sacred page,
Long peeped the star-worlds through the orioled pane,
Long nightly sat the white-haired, saintly sage