(From Beranger.)
I.
Christian, a pilgrim craves from you
A glass of water at your door!
I am—I am—the Wandering Jew—
Chained to a whirlwind evermore!
Though ever young, weighed down with years,
The end of Time my one glad dream;
Each night I hope the end appears,
Each morning brings its cursed gleam.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
II.
For eighteen centuries, alas!
Over the dust of Greece and Rome,
I’ve seen a thousand kingdoms pass,—
And yet the end delays to come.
I’ve seen the good spring up in vain,
I’ve seen the ill wax strong and bold,
And from the bosom of the main
I’ve seen twin worlds succeed the old.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
III.
God gives me life to punish me;
I cling to all that hopes for death,
But ere my soul’s desire I see,
I feel the whirlwind’s vengeful breath.
How many a poor, sad man of grief
Has asked from me the means to live!
But none from me has gained relief,—
My hand has never time to give!
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
IV.
Alone, in shade of downing trees,
Upon the turf, where water flows,
If I enjoy a moment’s ease,
The whirlwind breaks my short repose.
Oh! might not angry heaven allow
One moment stolen from the sun!
Is less than endlessness enow?
Or shall this journey ne’er be done?
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
V.
If e’er I see a child’s sweet face,
And in its pretty, joyous pride,
My own lost innocents’ retrace,
The Hoarse Voice grumbles at my side.
Oh! you, who lust for length of days,
Dare not to envy my career!
That sweet child-face on which I gaze
Shall long be dust while I am here!
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
VI.
I find some trace of those old walls,
Where I was born long, long ago;
I fain would stay, the whirlwind calls—
“Pass on! thy fathers sleep below,
But in their tombs no place is kept
For thee; thou still must wander on,
Nor sleep till all thy race has slept,
And all the pride of man is gone.”
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.
VII.
I outraged with a laugh of scorn
The God-man in His hour of woe—
But from my feet the way is torn—
I feel the whirlwind—I must go.
You, who feel not another’s pain,
Tremble—and help him while you can;
The crime I dared was foul disdain
Not of God only, but of Man.
Never, never,
Till this earth its race has run,
Shall my goal of death be won.