The Synagogue

I saw them in their synagogue,
As in their ancient day,
And never from my memory
The scene will fade away,
For, dazzling on my vision, still
The latticed galleries shine
With Israel's loveliest daughters,
In their beauty half-divine!
It is the holy Sabbath eve, —
The solitary light
Sheds, mingled with the hues of day,
A lustre nothing bright;
On swarthy brow and piercing glance
It falls with saddening tinge,
And dimly gilds the Pharisee's
Phylacteries and fringe.
The two-leaved doors slide slow apart
Before the eastern screen,
As rise the Hebrew harmonies,
With chanted prayers between,
And mid the tissued vails disclosed,
Of many a gorgeous dye,
Enveloped in their jewell'd scarfs,
The sacred records lie.
Robed in his sacerdotal vest,
A silvery-headed man
With voice of solemn cadence o'er
The backward letters ran,
And often yet methinks I see
The glow and power that sate
Upon his face, as forth he spread
The roll immaculate.
And fervently that hour I pray'd,
That from the mighty scroll
Its light, in burning characters,
Might break on every soul,
That on their harden'd hearts the veil
Might be no longer dark,
But be forever rent in twain
Like that before the ark.
For yet the tenfold film shall fall,
O, Judah! from thy sight,
And every eye be purged to read
Thy testimonies right,
When thou, with all Messiah's signs
In Christ distinctly seen,
Shall, by Jehovah's nameless name,
Invoke the Nazarene.