The Spirit Wife Poem by Arthur Weir

Rabbi Ben Horad was a learned man,
Of gentle ways, who taught a pious flock,
So small, at morn and eve the sexton ran
From door to door, and with a triple knock
Summoned the faithful who were dwelling there
To kneel and seek the Lord in humble prayer.

The sexton had a daughter, than whom dreamed
Man fairer none, and from whose great, dark eyes
An angel soul in spotless radiance beamed,
As shines a star from out the midnight skies.
She loved the Rabbi with a maid's first love:
He worshipped her well nigh like God above.

Whene'er by mortal sickness sorely pressed
One of the little congregation lay,
The sexton's mallet to the flock expressed
With its sad knock his woe, and bade them pray;
Arid oft their intercession with the Lord
Prevailed, and He the invalid restored.

Late, late one night the sexton sought to sleep,
But ere he slept himthought he heard a sound
That caused his heart to throb, his flesh to creep--
The ghostly knocking of his daily round--
And, trembling, to his child he cried in fear:
'Some one is dying, daughter, dost thou hear?'

She heard the sound and answered with a cry,
Love teaching her: 'Oh! it is he, mine own:
Rabbi Ben Horad is about to die--
Oh! father, haste! life may not yet have flown;
Bid all our people pray, that God may hear,
And in His mercy turn a willing ear.'

All through the night the faithful people prayed
That their beloved Rabbi still might live;
And by their prayers the hand of death was stayed,
Yet could their prayers no greater favor give;
And so he lingered, while she watched the strife,
With sinking heart, waged between death and life.

Then, as a last resort, from door to door
The young men went, that all who wished might give
Some space of time out of their own life's store,
That yielded to the Rabbi he might live.
Some gave a year, a month a week, a day,
But wheresoe'r they went none said them nay.

At last they sought the maid and gravely asked:
'What wilt thou give, O maiden?' and she cried--
By his sad plight her deathless love unmasked--
'Oh! gladly for his sake I would have died:
Take all my life and give it unto him.'
They wrote, but saw not, for their eyes were dim.

And lo! the Rabbi lived; but ere the earth
Had thrice upturned its face to greet the sun,
Hushed was the little congregation's mirth,
For the sweet maiden's life its course had run;
And, decked with flowers, they bore her to her grave,
He sobbing by whom she had died to save.

THE SPIRIT SONG.


Chastened by grief, Ben Horad holier grew,
And, uncomplaining, toiled from day to day.
His sad, sweet smile his loving flock well knew,
His kindly voice their sorrows charmed away;
Yet, though he bowed before his Master's will,
His heart was sad, for he was human still.

By night or day, wherever he might stray,
Through bustling city streets or lonely lane,
One form he ever saw--a maiden gay;
One voice he heard--a soft, melodious strain:
And oh! the loneliness, to see and hear,
Yet lack the tender touch of one so dear!

Long as he read into the silent night,
The winking stars soft peeping in his room,
While at his hand the dreamy, lambent light
Just lit his book and left all else in gloom.
His study walls evanished, and in mist
He saw the maid whose dead lips once he kissed:

Yet dead no more, but his dear spirit wife.
And still in heaven she sang the same glad strain
She would have sung on earth had not her life
Been given to him that he might live again,
And as she sang he wept: 'Ah! woe is me,
Who robbed her of her sweet futurity.'

There came a day when on the Rabbi's ears
Fell the low moans of one in mortal pain.
Slowly they died, as though dissolved in tears,
While a weak infant's wail took up the strain.
Sadly Ben Horad smiled, and raised his head:
'She has been spared that agony,' he said.

Then all his sorrow died; but not for long,
For soon again the spirit voice he heard,
Crooning all day a little cradle song,
With happiness and love in every word.
And as she sang he wept: 'Ah! woe is me,
Who robbed her of her sweet maternity.'

Once more he heard her moans, and once again
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
And listened till at last the happy strain
Died into discord. 'God be thanked,' he said--
Next day they found him, smiling now--but dead.