AHASUERUS.  Ah, God of Jacob!  Hear the Christians talk. 
  “Dog Jew!” “Accursed Jew!” I hate you all! 
  Your Christ sits on his kingly throne this night—­
  But I am steadfast.  How the very wind
  Doth buffet me and chill my aged bones! 
  Ringed all about with enemies, I stand
  Unharmed—­for by Jehovah’s dreadful curse
  I live—­nor can I die—­until He come. 
  How chill the wind sweeps through my withered frame
  While curses and revilings dog my steps—­
  My weary, ceaseless steps.  Ah, God!  To die! 
  Have I not expiated yet my sin?—­
  To bear life’s heavy burden o’er the earth,
  To wander from Armenia’s distant hills,
  Through desert places now, and now through vales
  That flow with plenty; now through sordid towns,
  Until at last I reach the western seas;
  Then, ever homeless, to repeat my steps? 
  Death were a blessing, yea, a gentle sleep—­
  To feel delicious numbness seize my limbs,
  Mine eyes grow heavy, and the weary flight
  Of immemorial time forever stayed
  In sleep, in dreamless sleep—­would I might die! 
  I am so weary, weary of it all.

[He sinks down upon a bench, and is silent for a moment, in deep thought; a smile flits over his face, as at a pleasing memory, then the worn, hunted look returns.]

  Faint shadows nicker ’round me, and at times
  Vague dreams of joy experienced long ago
  Beguile me for a moment, then I wake;
  Dim musings of that time when, yet a child,
  I prattled in the shade of Judah’s hills
  And trod her leafy valleys aimlessly—­
  But that was long, long centuries ago. 
  Sometimes I dream, that when God bade my soul
  To leave its blest abode and come to earth
  In this vile guise, all-terrified it prayed
  This trial and affliction to be spared;
  But all in vain. 
          And now the curse of God
  Is on that soul.  The darkness hideth not,
  Oh, Lord, from thee; night shineth as the day. 
  What weariness unspeakable is mine!

[He throws himself down on the bench in utter dejection.  Suddenly he lifts his head—­footsteps approach.]

SCENE III. [Enter ANSELM.  At first, not aware of another’s presence, he kneels before the Virgin’s shrine, and mutters a short prayer in Latin.  Then he arises and advances slowly, absorbed in meditation.]

ANSELM.  This is the eve—­the sacred eve of Christ. 
  The wind is wild, and stormy is the night,
  And yet methinks despite the elements
  A holy peace pervades the solemn world—­
  As when amid the hush of earthly strife
  The blessed Child was born.

[The Jew groans to himself, and the monk starts, then looks with half-seeing eyes.]

  A stranger!  Peace be unto you, my son,
  And may God’s holy calm be yours amid
  The strife and turmoil of the outer world.

[AHASUERUS sits motionless.  A bell sounds.]