THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
Longfellow visits the old Jewish cemetery in Newport, Rhode Island, using it as a starting point to reflect on the entire history of Jewish suffering and resilience in Europe.
The poem
How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves, Close by the street of this fair seaport town, Silent beside the never-silent waves, At rest in all this moving up and down! The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, That pave with level flags their burial-place, Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down And broken by Moses at the mountain's base. The very names recorded here are strange, Of foreign accent, and of different climes; Alvares and Rivera interchange With Abraham and Jacob of old times. "Blessed be God! for he created Death!" The mourners said, "and Death is rest and peace"; Then added, in the certainty of faith, "And giveth Life that never more shall cease." Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, No Psalms of David now the silence break, No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue In the grand dialect the Prophets spake. Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green. How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, What persecution, merciless and blind, Drove o'er the sea--that desert desolate-- These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind? They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire; Taught in the school of patience to endure The life of anguish and the death of fire. All their lives long, with the unleavened bread And bitter herbs of exile and its fears, The wasting famine of the heart they fed, And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears. Anathema maranatha! was the cry That rang from town to town, from street to street; At every gate the accursed Mordecai Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet. Pride and humiliation hand in hand Walked with them through the world where'er they went; Trampled and beaten were they as the sand, And yet unshaken as the continent. For in the background figures vague and vast Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime, And all the great traditions of the Past They saw reflected in the coming time. And thus for ever with reverted look The mystic volume of the world they read, Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead. But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.
Longfellow visits the old Jewish cemetery in Newport, Rhode Island, using it as a starting point to reflect on the entire history of Jewish suffering and resilience in Europe. He traces the persecution — the ghettos, the expulsions, the hatred — that forced Jewish communities to cross the ocean, and he marvels at how a people so beaten down remained unbroken. The poem concludes on a somber note: the community has vanished, and Longfellow doubts that dead civilizations can return to life.
Line-by-line
How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves, / Close by the street of this fair seaport town,
The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep / Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath,
And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown, / That pave with level flags their burial-place,
The very names recorded here are strange, / Of foreign accent, and of different climes;
"Blessed be God! for he created Death!" / The mourners said, "and Death is rest and peace";
Closed are the portals of their Synagogue, / No Psalms of David now the silence break,
Gone are the living, but the dead remain, / And not neglected; for a hand unseen,
How came they here? What burst of Christian hate, / What persecution, merciless and blind,
They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, / Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire;
All their lives long, with the unleavened bread / And bitter herbs of exile and its fears,
Anathema maranatha! was the cry / That rang from town to town, from street to street;
Pride and humiliation hand in hand / Walked with them through the world where'er they went;
For in the background figures vague and vast / Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime,
And thus for ever with reverted look / The mystic volume of the world they read,
But ah! what once has been shall be no more! / The groaning earth in travail and in pain
Tone & mood
The tone shifts across various registers. It begins with a quiet, dreamlike wonder, then transitions into historical grief and moral outrage as Longfellow details the persecution that led to the cemetery's creation. In the middle stanzas, there's a sincere reverence for Jewish faith and resilience, while the poem concludes with a somber, almost fatalistic elegy. Throughout, Longfellow conveys a sense of being equally moved and troubled — respectful yet not sentimental, ultimately unable to provide solace.
Symbols & metaphors
- The cemetery — The physical space of the poem represents the entire history of Jewish life in America—a community that came, endured, and ultimately vanished, leaving only its deceased. It serves as both a resting place and a site of erasure.
- The broken tablets — The flat gravestones, in contrast to Moses's broken stone tablets, evoke the idea of a disrupted covenant. The Law was delivered, enduring through centuries of hardship, and then — at least here — fell silent. It paints a picture of religious life abruptly halted.
- Unleavened bread and bitter herbs — The Passover foods are taken out of their ritual context and turned into symbols of daily exile. The bread of haste and the herbs of slavery become the everyday diet of a people who are always on the go.
- The Hebrew book — Reading the world "backward, like a Hebrew book" reflects the notion that Jewish identity is rooted in the past — the patriarchs, the prophets, the covenant — as the foundation of meaning today. This phrase serves as both a cultural insight and a subtle metaphor for how memory nourishes a community.
- The unseen hand — Someone quietly tends to these graves, remaining unnamed and unannounced. This image suggests that memory and care can endure even after a community has vanished — that the dead are not entirely forgotten as long as someone keeps their memory alive.
- The Exodus — Longfellow uses "Exodus" to refer to both the biblical escape from Egypt and the concept of death. This dual meaning connects the Jewish history of forced migration with the common human experience of dying, suggesting that both are different expressions of the same narrative.
Historical context
Longfellow visited Newport, Rhode Island, in 1852 and explored the Touro Synagogue along with its nearby cemetery, which is one of the oldest Jewish burial sites in North America. The cemetery, established in 1677, contains the graves of Sephardic Jews—descendants of those expelled from Spain and Portugal during the Inquisitions in the late 15th century. By Longfellow's time, the Jewish community in Newport had mostly dispersed, leaving the synagogue closed and the cemetery cared for but devoid of worshippers. The poem was released in 1854, just a decade before the Civil War, during a time when issues of religious tolerance and the treatment of minorities were pressing political topics in America. Longfellow was one of the most popular poets in the United States, and by choosing to write thoughtfully about Jewish history—specifically addressing Christian persecution—he made a conscious moral statement rather than simply crafting a picturesque reflection on a graveyard.
FAQ
On the surface, it appears to be a meditation on a real Jewish cemetery in Newport, Rhode Island. However, it soon transforms into a poem reflecting on the long history of Jewish persecution in Europe — the ghettos, the Inquisition, the expulsions — and explores what it means for a community to endure such trials only to fade away quietly in the end.
He's tapping into two meanings simultaneously. The Exodus refers to the biblical narrative of the Jewish people escaping Egypt, which is profoundly connected to Jewish identity. However, Longfellow also uses it to signify death — the ultimate journey we all undertake. He suggests that for this community, death represents another form of exodus, another departure from a place they never completely belonged to.
In the Bible, Ishmael is Abraham's son and Hagar is his mother. They were sent into the desert by Abraham's wife, Sarah, making them the classic outcasts of the Hebrew scriptures. Longfellow uses their story as a metaphor for the Jewish people who were driven from European countries due to Christian persecution — a people forced out of the community of nations and made to wander.
It's a formal curse from early Christian tradition, blending a Greek word for condemnation with an Aramaic phrase that translates to "the Lord comes" or "let him be accursed." Longfellow employs it to highlight the bitter irony of Christians — who received their scriptures from Jewish tradition — cursing and persecuting Jewish people. The phrase echoed through European streets, signaling that Jews were to be ridiculed and expelled.
He clearly admires them; the middle of the poem shows a deep respect for their endurance and faith. However, the ending reveals his genuine historical perspective: civilizations and communities eventually die, and they don’t return. "Dead nations never rise again" expresses grief rather than contempt. The bleakness is intentional—despite all the suffering and resilience, the community is lost. It's a lament, not a dismissal.
Hebrew is written and read from right to left, which feels "backward" to English readers. Longfellow uses this as a metaphor for the Jewish approach to history: they consistently look back to the patriarchs and prophets to find meaning in the present. This is a warm and insightful observation about how a tradition grounded in ancient texts influences how its people perceive their own lives.
It's sympathetic, and it doesn't hold back. Longfellow directly calls out Christian hatred as the source of Jewish suffering — a bold statement for a 19th-century American audience. He respectfully quotes Jewish liturgy, praises Jewish resilience, and frames the persecution as a moral failing of Christian civilization. Some modern readers have criticized the poem for depicting Jewish people as a tragic, passive subject instead of acknowledging them as active agents in their own narrative, but it's clear that the poem's intent is to mourn and morally condemn the persecutors.
The Touro Synagogue in Newport, Rhode Island, is the oldest surviving synagogue building in the United States, constructed in 1763. By the time Longfellow visited in 1852, the congregation had scattered, and the building was no longer in use. In his poem, Longfellow actually describes the nearby cemetery, which dates back to 1677. The shuttered synagogue — "no Psalms of David now the silence break" — symbolizes a community that once thrived, endured, and ultimately disappeared from that location.