A hospital for Jews who’re sick and needy,
For those unhappy threefold sons of sorrow,
Afflicted by the three most dire misfortunes
Of poverty, disease, and Judaism.
The worst by far of all the three the last is,
That family misfortune, thousand years old,
That plague which had its birth in Nile’s far valley,
The old Egyptian and unsound religion.
Incurable deep pain! ’gainst which avail not
Nor douche nor vapour-bath, the apparatus
Of surgery, nor all the means of healing
Which this house offers to its sickly inmates.
Will Time, eternal goddess, e’er extinguish
This glowing ill, descending from the father
Upon the son,—and will the grandson ever
Be cured, and rational become and happy?
I cannot tell! Yet in the meantime let us
Extol that heart which lovingly and wisely
Sought to alleviate pain as far as may be,
Into the wounds a timely balsam pouring.
Dear worthy man! He here has built a refuge
For sorrows which by the physician’s science
(Or else by death’s!) are curable, providing
Cushions, refreshing drinks, and food, and nurses.
A man of deeds, he did his very utmost,
Devoted to good works his hard-earned savings
In his life’s evening, kindly and humanely,
Recruiting from his toils by acts of mercy.
He gave with open hand—but gifts still richer,
His tears, full often from his eyes were rolling,
Tears fair and precious, which he wept deploring
His brethren’s great, incurable misfortune.