The Maccabaean

(On Her Sixteenth Birthday)

Sixteen Springs, my child,Sixteen suns of fire,Sixteen strings of goldOn a charming lyre.Sixteen melodiesWhich life's sweet truth inspire—And I saw you, child.

Like a sparkling ray To a shepherd's tent. Like a youthful smile To one whom years have bent. Like a dream of peace To hearts by sorrows rent, Child, you came to me.

As an Arab led By his palmtrees crest, As the sun perceived By the blazing West, With your birthday wake Thousand joys at heart— And I bless you, child.