Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/192



They were dying, dying daily,
 * The small children of the Jews;

And each mother’s heart was heavy,
 * As she heard the bitter news.

Every mother clasped her infant
 * With a love unfelt before,

While she sought Jehovah’s blessing
 * For the little child she bore.

They were dying, dying daily,
 * Still the little prattling tongue

That had been the household’s treasure,
 * And the little lips that sung,

Stilled in death the restless fingers,
 * And the little toddling feet;

And their parents in their sorrow
 * Had no comfort but to weep.

One by one Jehovah called them,
 * Till a home was scarcely found

Where some loved one was not lying
 * In the cold and noisome ground.

Prayer and fasting, naught availed them,
 * Day by day the sickness spread;

Raging midst the Jewish children,
 * Till the half of them were dead.

Then a stricken, weeping mother,
 * Who had lost her youngest son,

Sped her to the Rabbi, crying,
 * Save, oh, save my eldest son.”

Woman!” said the Rabbi sadly,
 * Am I God, to do this thing?