A JEWISH LEGEND OF PRAGUE.[*]
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?
