Rebecca, the Jewess

CLOSED are the tear-gates of Paradise now,

And the shadows of death lie cold on the brow

Of Rebecca, the Jewess so fair;

And her dark eyes that sparkled than diamonds more bright,

Have paled the soft rays of their pure, living light,

And vacant they gaze as a lone star of night,

When darkness is filling the air,—

The balmy, the soft summer air.

Weep, daughters of Zion! Weep, chosen of God!

For the morrow shall moulder, beneath the cold clod,

The form of the spirit that’s fled!

Wreathe the dark hair of the maiden laid low,

Spread violets over her bosom of snow,

And lay her down peacefully, calmly, below

The green winding-sheet of the dead,

The flower-decked robe of the dead.

There let her sleep, till the last trump shall sound

The call of the dead, that slumber around

Earth’s green hills, and by its streams;

Waked by the voice of the Angel of Doom,

Then may she burst in the dark gates of the tomb,

Arrayed in white robes, and radiant with bloom

To sing in the Land of Dreams,—

The beautiful Land of Dreams.