505 History and politics poems

Red Mupits’ breath, in moonlight, outside a child’s bedroom window Hunter’s bones scattered on the prairie Fragrance of Comanche gangstas who entered The Zoo Club and assassinated the bosses of Underworld Seven, a Navajo crime syndicate Little Stoney Burgess’s footprints after catching ghost sickness by running through Post Oak Cemetery chased by snot-nosed bully, Blender Plenty Bear Blue Lips of the poisoned tribal chairman collapsed on the buffet table at the 1974 Comanche Nation Inaugural Dinner Silk handkerchief drawn over the stuffed owl used to converse with the dead In the woods, it’s the laughter of Deer Woman as she stomps her male victim to death Electric guitar distortion of the Messiah playing Jimi Hendrix’s Machine Gun as she strolls into the Indian bar Yellow Coyote’s eyes in the darkness of the backseat at midnight as you speed down Mt. Scott, on a dare, with the headlights off Crushed buffalo kidney stones used in graffiti to magically imprison the river-witch underneath the I-44 bridge Intricate beadwork on Lucifer’s cane left at the funnel cake stand at Comanche Fair Flashing ignition light to the engines of the great abyss

II.iv I am writing this poem about the 1965 massacre of Indonesians by Indonesians which in an article ten years later I could not publish except in Nottingham England with a friend Malcolm Caldwell who has since himself been murdered no one will say by whom but I will guess seeing as this is precisely poetry the CIA's and now Peking's Cambodian assassins the Khmer Serai In that article I estimated a half-million or more killed in this period it took Noam in a book suppressed by its first publisher to quote Admiral Sudomo of the Indonesian junta more than 500,000 and now Amnesty International many more than one million so much for my balanced prose But none of us experienced that pervasive smell of death those impassable rivers clogged with corpses Robert Lowell is that why even you a pacifist had so little to say about it? Or you gentle reader let us examine carefully the good reasons you and I don't enjoy reading this Like the time in the steep Engadine we saw the silent avalanche fall away from the mountain hair and eyebrows the first to feel the murmurations of the spreading killer wind IV.i Mégève   coming down beside a rainbow into a shower glissade 1000 meters on wet grass laughter at falling safe think   married a Venezuelan and lives near Lausanne tell me now you with homes in the mountains who are at hand and know all things where we hear only rumor of the captains at Bilderberg meetings one has to sound like a John Bircher to talk about between the Rockefellers the Agnellis and the Rothschilds at whose Megeve resort we were lodged in uncomfrtable luxury as delegates to the International Student Service Bilderberg meetings supplying Prince Bernhard with an almost unrivalled network not just for the European Movement financed with German counterpart funds but also for the recruitment of old intelligence contacts as conduits for Lockheed payoffs through the Temperate Zone Research Foundation for Antelope Cobbler the Italian premier which supplimented the CIA's financial support to parties canidates and incumbent leaders of almost every political persuasion and under Sukarno which is why I am telling all this -- not just recalling the swampy fields around the Rockefeller lodge in the Connecticut valley where the Liberty Lobby discovered the Bilderbergers in '67 -- Jakarta payments deflected four months before the coup at legal risks to Lockheed towards the very wealthy General Alamsjah epitome of the military entrepreneur whom a Lockheed memo called the second man the coup made at once funds available to Suharto a Lockheed web extending from Geneva to Jakarta millions to Japanese officials where every move made was approved by Washington the money through Deak back to Shig Katayama in the Cayman Islands the Wildlife Fund the Sultan Castle Bank in the Bahamas Helliwell narcotics CIA the name Richard M. Nixon on the list It was at a Bilderberg meeting that Prince Bernhard was introduced by Baron Edmond de Rothschild to Tibor Rosenbaum of the ICB the International Credit Bank (later exposed by the Baron after the Vesco coup as a source of secret funds for the Mossad Israel's intelligence service and one of the country's primary weapons brokers) and whose colleague Ed Levinson was the power behind the Havana Riviera and the Serv-U Corporation of the Bobby Baker payoffs which began to be exposed in November 1963 -- My book would have asked as the Warren Commission staff working for Allen Dulles was unable to why Levinson's pit-boss McWillie gambler and murderer from the old Binion gang in Dallas and Fort Worth who had a fix with Mr. Big I don't think we'd better go into that phase of it twice brought to Havana most likely as a courier his close friend Jack Ruby A dumb subject The book went into galleys and was photographed for the Pocket Books spring catalogue but never published freeing me to write this poem Do you remember   yes just for an instant the sun warm on our shoulders and beyond the mists rising from the meadow Mont Blanc IV.ii From the Bay Bridge on the way home from the opera you could look down on the searchlights of the Oakland Army Terminal where they loaded the containers of pellet-bombs and napalm into black Japanese ships over which the cranes bent like anxious surgeons in the calm and glassy night People of good will of whom at first there were many were willing to sign petitions or to help in drafting the letter to the Times about how six months they had moved from true to false reports of the North Vietnamese negotiating position that the letter never published and the music changing bonfires to still the streets the first smudges of tear gas the Yellow Submarine (acid in Bir Sur Allen kneeling to pray for Johnson's health) at the rock poetry festival no sensations from my first joint except for the difference between the salt and pepper I felt being shaken on my bare left arm Owsley by parachute at the Human Be-in Mika on Carole's shoulders one mine so they could see the Brave New World worms in the rose the party's hostess some new drug in the basement crying like a child CIA personnel helping local chemists set up LCD labs in the Bay Area to monitor events STP Serenity from Dow Chemical and the Edgewood Arsenal like being shot out of a gun men with their Sunday morning rifle range target practice Black Panthers Ku Klux Klan women who shyly hinted at ineffable orgies of acid nakedness Ed Sanders the Fugs investigative poetics Out demons out with no respect whatsoever for the unassailable logic of the next step two hundred pounds of daisies from Peggy Hitchcock to skybomb the Pentagon Fort Funston Beach the Barb's first nude-in under the fixed gaze of the mounted police dunes of iceplants and callas linnets in the sun and mist (To shoot a policeman is a sacred act) the women in seaweed and surf wading as if to be washed as clean as seals IV.viii Clifford Geertz having just reread your Notes on the Balinese cockfight how you were first accepted by cautious villagers after you all fled from the Javanese constabulary and how slaughter in the cock ring itself after red pepper is stuffed down their beaks and up their anuses joins pride to selfhood selfhood to cocks and cocks to destruction a blood sacrifice offered to the demons to pacify their cannibal hunger depicting how things are among men not literally but almost worse imaginatively what it says is it is of these emotions that society is built and of the combat between terrible witch Rangda her eyes bulging like boils and the endearing monster Barong a clash between the malignant and the ridiculous It is not your belief in men every last one of them are cultural artifacts that I now question or even that the imposition of meaning on life is the major end of human existence that Virgilian flourish in your footnote to Max Weber but your recurring interpretations of the Balinese massacre after what you choose to call the bungled coup and its savage aftermath My complaint is not of your early field project for Ford and the CIA-funded Center at MIT in which you preceded Pauker or your commissioned study on which local elites would best play a role in Rostow's pre-take-off period I will not cast that stone from this front window of the world's largest weapons lab you who know about puputan and Tjalonarang have the right to recall the fact of the massacre through the medium of the cockfight the theatricality of trance but why did you write several hundred thousand people were massacred largely villagers by other villagers though there were some army executions as well when even Shaplen admits the murders in Bali did not start until early December that is until after Colonel Edhie's commandos with unit-names like Dracula had finished in East Java the army began it then handed the job over to the Balinese that is to the special teams set up under Nasution's and Suharto's orders and finally stopped the bloodletting as the smell of burning houses overpowered the customary fragrance of the rich island flora Clifford Geertz sometimes the world is not as mysterious as you and I might wish why can you not write as straightforwardly as Time about the land to which you returned on a junta visa and how can you write about the integrative revolution in a book that is indexed to sixty-one countries Paraguay the Soviet Union but not the United States? IV.ix When some toys from the West where stolen out of the back seat of our Peugeot in Saska Kepa I went without thinking to the Warsaw police A moustached officer wrote down everything I had to say which was very little and then asked me Was the door locked? I said I had no idea probably not and he said Prosze Pana excuse me but it would be good in the future to keep your doors locked Our children are not used to seeing toys from the west and you do not want to encourage them in crime those Sunday walks with Cassie in her blue pram the well-dressed housewives offering in illegal dollars twice what we paid for it I told the officer I was withdrawing my complaint He smiled and began to talk about his life as a policeman how much easier it had been after Stalin had died in those days no one wanted to talk to us even our own children sometimes mistrusting us despite what they learned at school We talked for two hours and I think of him often as I read in the papers of Solidarnosc suppressed how those must be privileged moments one can so transcend history how today he would not dare to have such a conversation nor I have the heart And yet those two hours in that ill-furnished precinct seem somehow more true than the street battles since My own life is easier no longer having to be consul I suspect that on our side officials of U.S. Steel IV.xvii And now East Timor where in 1977 the Indonesian minister admits perhaps 80,000 might have been killed that is to say one person out of eight by his own government's paracommandos these gentle midnight faces the beetles which crowd their eyes From 1975 to 1977 the New York Times index entries for East Timor dropped from six columns to five lines

A history of some sort, one that made us, a war and what the war had meant, or since meaning eludes war, what it did to the look of the trees and the sides of the buildings, most of which survived, only to be torn down later to widen the street or put up a new office complex. There it was on the shelf. I was there only a moment, but still, I wanted to know what happened to the man in the photograph wearing a flat cap standing outside the important building cheering. He was there. He was part of that moment, one of the first into the streets when the turn of events came, the declaration or pronouncement, words that would change the look of everything he smiled on, words that may have cost him his life. Here it is in a book I found on a shelf. The person who lives here bought it at a library stock reduction sale. No one had read it. It looked interesting thirty years ago. It was practically new, the back uncracked. But the person did what those before her had, put it up on a shelf and never found a way back to it. The history sits there, unread, unbelievable, somebody else's. Even I have only looked at the pictures, at the man smiling between the cold pages. Maybe ending the world as he knew it was ok. Maybe it was the only way. Maybe the world has to come to an end in the first place to be the world. And the man? He has to smile, though he knows so little of what's coming, even looking right at it. As we do, who still haven't read the book.

I got a call from the White House, from the President himself, asking me if I’d do him a personal favor. I like the President, so I said, “Sure, Mr. President, anything you like.” He said, “Just act like nothing’s going on. Act normal. That would mean the world to me. Can you do that, Leon?” “Why, sure, Mr. President, you’ve got it. Normal, that’s how I’m going to act. I won’t let on, even if I’m tortured,” I said, immediately regretting that “tortured” bit. He thanked me several times and hung up. I was dying to tell someone that the President himself called me, but I knew I couldn’t. The sudden pressure to act normal was killing me. And what was going on anyway. I didn’t know anything was going on. I saw the President on TV yesterday. He was shaking hands with a farmer. What if it wasn’t really a farmer? I needed to buy some milk, but suddenly I was afraid to go out. I checked what I had on. I looked “normal” to me, but maybe I looked more like I was trying to be normal. That’s pretty suspicious. I opened the door and looked around. What was going on? There was a car parked in front of my car that I had never seen before, a car that was trying to look normal, but I wasn’t fooled. If you need milk, you have to get milk, otherwise people will think something’s going on. I got into my car and sped down the road. I could feel those little radar guns popping behind every tree and bush, but, apparently, they were under orders not to stop me. I ran into Kirsten in the store. “Hey, what’s going on, Leon?” she said. She had a very nice smile. I hated to lie to her. “Nothing’s going on. Just getting milk for my cat,” I said. “I didn’t know you had a cat,” she said. “I meant to say coffee. You’re right, I don’t have a cat. Sometimes I refer to my coffee as my cat. It’s just a private joke. Sorry,” I said. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Nothing’s going on, Kirsten. I promise you. Everything is normal. The President shook hands with a farmer, a real farmer. Is that such a big deal?” I said. “I saw that,” she said, “and that man was definitely not a farmer.” “Yeah, I know,” I said, feeling better.

The bread has become moldy and the dates blown down by the wind; the iron has slipped from the helve. The wool was to by dyed red but the dyer dyed it black. The dead woman has forgotten her comb and tube of eye-paint; the dead cobbler has forgotten his knife, the dead butcher his chopper, and the dead carpenter his adze. A goat can be driven off with a shout. But where is the man to shout? The bricks pile up, the laths are trimmed, and the beams are ready. Where is the builder? To be buried in a linen shroud or in a matting of reeds— but where are the dead of the Flood and where the dead of Nebuchadnezzar?

1. Benigno Aquino Jr. International Airport The adobe-brown terminal looms like a sleeping carabao caked with mud— you come up with fifty words to describe the different shades of green you saw rushing up from the ground, you scratch your neck, feel the grime and sweat from San Francisco or L.A. on your nape, you look out your window seat search for a plaque or a stain of blood— this is the tarmac where he was shot. (For a better view, go to Ayala Avenue in Makati. In front of the Bank of the Philippine Islands and the Insular Life Building is the statue with the stairs and the dove on his shoulder. While you're there, look for the statues of Lapu Lapu and Tandang Sora among the Ipil-ipil trees on Makati Avenue.) You pass through a fluorescent-white curtain of warm air as you descend into the unloading tube— a smile from an airline attendant, the long walk to the Immigration booth, Balikbayan sir?Welcome home. a stamp for six months on your U.S. passport, another ten dollar bill between its pages for the Customs people up ahead, Balikbayan? Do you have anything to declare, pasalubong, expensive gifts for the relatives? Thank you sir! a porter in a red shirt takes your luggage to the street level, asks for five dollars, the faces of a hundred people pressed behind a bamboo fence stare as you board a Golden or Metro taxi cab. You inhale the humid air, sweat is now running down your face. 2. E. de los Santos Avenue The Jeepnies are engorged with eight or ten passengers, each jeepney speeding and stopping with their fiesta of sounds, of colors, the bodies inside breathing carbon monoxide. You take the overpass into Makati— to the right is the long tan wall topped with barbed-wire hiding the luxury homes of Dasmarinas Village, to the left is San Lorenzo Village where you'll find the San Lorenzo Pre-school. Go to the house in Zulueta Circle, this is where the poet of Like The Molave once lived. His widow's name is Cora. On the corner of Edsa and Buendia, among the street vendors selling copies of Woman's Day, Manila Bulletin, or Marlboro and Winston cigarettes, you might see a girl without a left arm tapping on windows of stopped cars pointing to her mouth, asking for money. Every other year, before the monsoon rains, it's the same arm that's cut off just above the elbow, a different young face running up to cars in the same intersection. 3. Camp Crame and Camp Aguinaldo You pass Camp Crame where Ninoy Aquino, Jose Maria Sison, the poet Mila D. Aguilar, and countless others were "detained" under Marcos. The positive wire attached to the penis, the negative to the scrotum. This is also the place where more than a million people said "no" to the Dictator. You may still hear stories about the tear gas, the armored personnel vehicles, the ordinary people who would not move out of the way. They say that for three days the electricity to the whole city was turned off but the people still fought for freedom, sang songs to each other around bonfires, made love by candle light.

I The bronze General Grant riding a bronze horse in Lincoln Park Shrivels in the sun by day when the motor cars whirr by in long processions going somewhere to keep apppointment for dinner and matineés and buying and selling Though in the dusk and nightfall when high waves are piling On the slabs of the promenade along the lake shore near by I have seen the general dare the combers come closer And make to ride his bronze horse out into the hoofs and guns of the storm. II I cross Lincoln Park on a winter night when the snow is falling. Lincoln in bronze stands among the white lines of snow, his bronze forehead meeting soft echoes of the newsies crying forty thousand men are dead along the Yser, his bronze ears listening to the mumbled roar of the city at his bronze feet. A lithe Indian on a bronze pony, Shakespeare seated with long legs in bronze, Garibaldi in a bronze cape, they hold places in the cold, lonely snow to-night on their pedestals and so they will hold them past midnight and into the dawn.

I see him moving, in his legendary fleece, Between the superhighway and an Algonquin stone axe; Between the wild tribes, in their lost heat, And the dark blizzard of my Grandfather’s coat; Cold with the outdoor cold caught in the curls, Smelling of the world before the poll tax. And between the new macadam and the Scalp Act They got him by the short hair; had him clipped Who once was wild—and all five senses wild— Printing the wild with his hoof’s inflated script Before the times was money in the bank, Before it was a crime to be so mild. But history is a fact, and moves on feet Sharper than his, toward wallows deeper than. And the myth that covered all his moving parts, Grandfather’s time had turned into a coat; And what kept warm then, in the true world’s cold Is old and cold in a world his death began.

From the remains of his cremation, the monks recovered the seat of Thich Quang Duc’s consciousness — a bloodless protest to awaken the heart of the oppressor offered at the crossing of Phanh Dinh Phung & Le Van Duyet doused in gasoline & immolated by 4-meter flames the orange-robed arhat folded in the stillness of full lotus his body withering his crown blackening his flesh charring his corpse collapsing his heart refusing to burn his heart refusing to burn his heart refusing to burn

Little Poems in Prose I. The Exodus. (August 3, 1492.) 1. The Spanish noon is a blaze of azure fire, and the dusty pilgrims crawl like an endless serpent along treeless plains and bleached highroads, through rock-split ravines and castellated, cathedral-shadowed towns. 2. The hoary patriarch, wrinkled as an almond shell, bows painfully upon his staff. The beautiful young mother, ivory-pale, well-nigh swoons beneath her burden; in her large enfolding arms nestles her sleeping babe, round her knees flock her little ones with bruised and bleeding feet. “Mother, shall we soon be there?” 3. The youth with Christ-like countenance speaks comfortably to father and brother, to maiden and wife. In his breast, his own heart is broken. 4. The halt, the blind, are amid the train. Sturdy pack-horses laboriously drag the tented wagons wherein lie the sick athirst with fever. 5. The panting mules are urged forward with spur and goad; stuffed are the heavy saddlebags with the wreckage of ruined homes. 6. Hark to the tinkling silver bells that adorn the tenderly-carried silken scrolls. 7. In the fierce noon-glare a lad bears a kindled lamp; behind its network of bronze the airs of heaven breathe not upon its faint purple star. 8. Noble and abject, learned and simple, illustrious and obscure, plod side by side, all brothers now, all merged in one routed army of misfortune. 9. Woe to the straggler who falls by the wayside! no friend shall close his eyes. 10. They leave behind, the grape, the olive, and the fig; the vines they planted, the corn they sowed, the garden-cities of Andalusia and Aragon, Estremadura and La Mancha, of Granada and Castile; the altar, the hearth, and the grave of their fathers. 11. The townsman spits at their garments, the shepherd quits his flock, the peasant his plow, to pelt with curses and stones; the villager sets on their trail his yelping cur. 12. Oh the weary march, oh the uptorn roots of home, oh the blankness of the receding goal! 13. Listen to their lamentation: They that ate dainty food are desolate in the streets; they that were reared in scarlet embrace dunghills. They flee away and wander about. Men say among the nations, they shall no more sojourn there; our end is near, our days are full, our doom is come. 14. Whither shall they turn? for the West hath cast them out, and the East refuseth to receive. 15. O bird of the air, whisper to the despairing exiles, that to-day, to-day, from the many-masted, gayly-bannered port of Palos, sails the world-unveiling Genoese, to unlock the golden gates of sunset and bequeath a Continent to Freedom! II. Treasures. 1. Through cycles of darkness the diamond sleeps in its coal-black prison. 2. Purely incrusted in its scaly casket, the breath-tarnished pearl slumbers in mud and ooze. 3. Buried in the bowels of earth, rugged and obscure, lies the ingot of gold. 4. Long hast thou been buried, O Israel, in the bowels of earth; long hast thou slumbered beneath the overwhelming waves; long hast thou slept in the rayless house of darkness. 5. Rejoice and sing, for only thus couldst thou rightly guard the golden knowledge, Truth, the delicate pearl and the adamantine jewel of the Law. III. The Sower. 1. Over a boundless plain went a man, carrying seed. 2. His face was blackened by sun and rugged from tempest, scarred and distorted by pain. Naked to the loins, his back was ridged with furrows, his breast was plowed with stripes. 3. From his hand dropped the fecund seed. 4. And behold, instantly started from the prepared soil blade, a sheaf, a springing trunk, a myriad-branching, cloud-aspiring tree. Its arms touched the ends of the horizon, the heavens were darkened with its shadow. 5. It bare blossoms of gold and blossoms of blood, fruitage of health and fruitage of poison; birds sang amid its foliage, and a serpent was coiled about its stem. 6. Under its branches a divinely beautiful man, crowned with thorns, was nailed to a cross. 7. And the tree put forth treacherous boughs to strangle the Sower; his flesh was bruised and torn, but cunningly he disentangled the murderous knot and passed to the eastward. 8. Again there dropped from his hand the fecund seed. 9. And behold, instantly started from the prepared soil a blade, a sheaf, a springing trunk, a myriad-branching, cloud-aspiring tree. Crescent shaped like little emerald moons were the leaves; it bare blossoms of silver and blossoms of blood, fruitage of health and fruitage of poison; birds sang amid its foilage and a serpent was coiled about its stem. 10. Under its branches a turbaned mighty-limbed Prophet brandished a drawn sword. 11. And behold, this tree likewise puts forth perfidious arms to strangle the Sower; but cunningly he disentangles the murderous knot and passes on. 12. Lo, his hands are not empty of grain, the strength of his arm is not spent. 13. What germ hast thou saved for the future, O miraculous Husbandman? Tell me, thou Planter of Christhood and Islam; tell me, thou seed-bearing Israel! IV. The Test. 1. Daylong I brooded upon the Passion of Israel. 2. I saw him bound to the wheel, nailed to the cross, cut off by the sword, burned at the stake, tossed into the seas. 3. And always the patient, resolute, martyr face arose in silent rebuke and defiance. 4. A Prophet with four eyes; wide gazed the orbs of the spirit above the sleeping eyelids of the senses. 5. A Poet, who plucked from his bosom the quivering heart and fashioned it into a lyre. 6. A placid-browed Sage, uplifted from earth in celestial meditation. 7. These I saw, with princes and people in their train; the monumental dead and the standard-bearers of the future. 8. And suddenly I heard a burst of mocking laughter, and turning, I beheld the shuffling gait, the ignominious features, the sordid mask of the son of the Ghetto. V. Currents. 1. Vast oceanic movements, the flux and reflux of immeasurable tides, oversweep our continent. 2. From the far Caucasian steppes, from the squalid Ghettos of Europe, 3. From Odessa and Bucharest, from Kief and Ekaterinoslav, 4. Hark to the cry of the exiles of Babylon, the voice of Rachel mourning for her children, of Israel lamenting for Zion. 5. And lo, like a turbid stream, the long-pent flood bursts the dykes of oppression and rushes hitherward. 6. Unto her ample breast, the generous mother of nations welcomes them. 7. The herdsman of Canaan and the seed of Jerusalem’s royal shepherds renew their youth amid the pastoral plains of Texas and the golden valleys of the Sierras. VI. The Prophet. 1. Moses ben Maimon lifting his perpetual lamp over the path of the perplexed; 2. Hallevi, the honey-tongued poet, wakening amid the silent ruins of Zion the sleeping lyre of David; 3. Moses, the wise son of Mendel, who made the Ghetto illustrious; 4. Abarbanel, the counselor of kings; Aicharisi, the exquisite singer; Ibn Ezra, the perfect old man; Gabirol, the tragic seer; 5. Heine, the enchanted magician, the heart-broken jester; 6.Yea, and the century-crowned patriarch whose bounty engirdles the globe;— 7. These need no wreath and no trumpet; like perennial asphodel blossoms, their fame, their glory resounds like the brazen-throated cornet. 8. But thou—hast thou faith in the fortune of Israel? Wouldst thou lighten the anguish of Jacob? 9. Then shalt thou take the hand of yonder caftaned wretch with flowing curls and gold-pierced ears; 10. Who crawls blinking forth from the loathsome recesses of the Jewry; 11. Nerveless his fingers, puny his frame; haunted by the bat-like phantoms of superstition is his brain. 12. Thou shalt say to the bigot, “My Brother,” and to the creature of darkness, “My Friend.” 13 . And thy heart shall spend itself in fountains of love upon the ignorant, the coarse, and the abject. 14. Then in the obscurity thou shalt hear a rush of wings, thine eyes shall be bitten with pungent smoke. 15. And close against thy quivering lips shall be pressed the live coal wherewith the Seraphim brand the Prophets. VII. Chrysalis. 1. Long, long has the Orient Jew spun around his helplessness the cunningly enmeshed web of Talmud and Kabbala. 2. Imprisoned in dark corners of misery and oppression, closely he drew about him the dust-gray filaments, soft as silk and stubborn as steel, until he lay death-stiffened in mummied seclusion. 3. And the world has named him an ugly worm, shunning the blessed daylight. 4. But when the emancipating springtide breathes wholesome, quickening airs, when the Sun of Love shines out with cordial fires, lo, the Soul of Israel bursts her cobweb sheath, and flies forth attired in the winged beauty of immortality.