The Spanish Jew's Tale - The Wayside Inn - Part Third

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    AZRAEL

    King Solomon, before his palace gate
    At evening, on the pavement tessellate
    Was walking with a stranger from the East,
    Arrayed in rich attire as for a feast,
    The mighty Runjeet-Sing, a learned man,
    And Rajah of the realms of Hindostan.
    And as they walked the guest became aware
    Of a white figure in the twilight air,
    Gazing intent, as one who with surprise
    His form and features seemed to recognize;
    And in a whisper to the king he said:
    "What is yon shape, that, pallid as the dead,
    Is watching me, as if he sought to trace
    In the dim light the features of my face?"

    The king looked, and replied: "I know him well;
    It is the Angel men call Azrael,
    'T is the Death Angel; what hast thou to fear?"
    And the guest answered: "Lest he should come near,
    And speak to me, and take away my breath!
    Save me from Azrael, save me from death!
    O king, that hast dominion o'er the wind,
    Bid it arise and bear me hence to Ind."

    The king gazed upward at the cloudless sky,
    Whispered a word, and raised his hand on high,
    And lo! the signet-ring of chrysoprase
    On his uplifted finger seemed to blaze
    With hidden fire, and rushing from the west
    There came a mighty wind, and seized the guest
    And lifted him from earth, and on they passed,
    His shining garments streaming in the blast,
    A silken banner o'er the walls upreared,
    A purple cloud, that gleamed and disappeared.
    Then said the Angel, smiling: "If this man
    Be Rajah Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan,
    Thou hast done well in listening to his prayer;
    I was upon my way to seek him there."



    INTERLUDE.

    "O Edrehi, forbear to-night
    Your ghostly legends of affright,
    And let the Talmud rest in peace;
    Spare us your dismal tales of death
    That almost take away one's breath;
    So doing, may your tribe increase."

    Thus the Sicilian said; then went
    And on the spinet's rattling keys
    Played Marianina, like a breeze
    From Naples and the Southern seas,
    That brings us the delicious scent
    Of citron and of orange trees,
    And memories of soft days of ease
    At Capri and Amalfi spent.

    "Not so," the eager Poet said;
    "At least, not so before I tell
    The story of my Azrael,
    An angel mortal as ourselves,
    Which in an ancient tome I found
    Upon a convent's dusty shelves,
    Chained with an iron chain, and bound
    In parchment, and with clasps of brass,
    Lest from its prison, some dark day,
    It might be stolen or steal away,
    While the good friars were singing mass.

    "It is a tale of Charlemagne,
    When like a thunder-cloud, that lowers
    And sweeps from mountain-crest to coast,
    With lightning flaming through its showers,
    He swept across the Lombard plain,
    Beleaguering with his warlike train
    Pavia, the country's pride and boast,
    The City of the Hundred Towers."
    Thus heralded the tale began,
    And thus in sober measure ran.