Songs of Labor, and Other Poems

by Morris Rosenfeld

II

The Tkiyes*-man has blown his horn,
And swift the days’ declining;
The leaves drop off, in fields forlorn
Are tender grasses pining.

The earth will soon be cold and bare,
Her robe of glory falling;
Already to the mourner’s prayer
The last wild bird is calling.

He sings so sweetly and so sad
A song of friends who parted,
That even if it find you glad,
It leaves you broken hearted.

The copses shudder in the breeze,
Some dream-known terror fearing.
Awake! O great and little trees!
The Judgment-day is nearing!

O men! O trees in copses cold!
Beware the rising weather!
Or late or soon, both young and old
Shall strew the ground together... .

[*Tkiye: first blast of the Ram’s horn.]

[Depression]

All the striving, all the failing,
To the silent Nothing sailing.
Swiftly, swiftly passing by!
For the land of shadows leaving,
Where a wistful hand is weaving
Thy still woof, Eternity!

Gloomy thoughts in me awaken,
And with fear my breast is shaken,
Thinking: O thou black abyss;
All the toil and thrift of life,
All the struggle and the strife,
Shall it come at last to this?

With the grave shall be requited
Good and evil, and united
Ne’er to separate again?
What the light hath parted purely,
Shall the darkness join more surely?—
Was the vict’ry won in vain?

O mute and infinite extension,
O time beyond our comprehension,
Shall thought and deed ungarnered fall?
Ev’rything dost take and slay,
Ev’rything dost bear away,
Silent Nothing, silent All!...

[The Canary]

The free canary warbles
In leafy forest dell:
Who feels what rapture thrills her,
And who her joy can tell?

The sweet canary warbles
Where wealth and splendor dwell:
Who knows what sorrow moves her,
And who her pain can tell?

[Want And I]

Who’s there? who’s there? who was it tried
To force the entrance I’ve denied?
An ’twere a friend, I’d gladly borne it,
But no—’twas Want! I could have sworn it.
I heard thy voice, old witch, I know thee!
Avaunt, thou evil hag, beshrew thee!
God’s curse! why seekest thou to find me?
Away to all black years behind me!

To torture me was thine endeavor,
My body from my soul to sever,
Of pride and courage to deprive me,
And into beggary to drive me.
Begone, where thousand devils burn—
Begone, nor evermore return!
Begone, most wretched thou of creatures,
And hide for aye thine hateful features!
—Beloved, ope the door in pity!

No friend have I in all the city
Save thee, then open to my call!
The night is bleak, the snowflakes fall.
Thine own, old Want am I, believe me!
Ah, what delight, wilt thou receive me?
I found, when I from thee had parted,
No friend but he was fickle-hearted!

Away, old hag! Thou liest, lo,
Thou harbinger of pain and woe!
Away—am I thine only friend?
Thy lovers pale, they have no end!
Thou vile one, may the devil take thee!
Begone and no more visits make me!
For—Yiddish writers not to mention—
Men hold thee no such rare invention.

—’Tis true! yet those must wait my leisure.
To be with thee is now my pleasure.
I love thy black and curling hair,
I love thy wounded heart’s despair,
I love thy sighs, I love to swallow
Thy tears and all thy songs to follow.
Oh great indeed, might I but show it,
My love for thee, my pale-faced poet!

Away, I’ve heard all that before,
And am a writer, mark, no more.
Instead of verses, wares I tell,
And candy and tobacco sell.
My life is sweet, my life is bitter.
I’m ready and a prompt acquitter.
Oh, smarter traders there are many,
Yet live I well and turn a penny.

—A dealer then wilt thou remain,
Forever from the pen abstain?
Good resolutions time disperses:
Thou yet shalt hunger o’er thy verses,
But vainly seeking to excuse thee
Because thou dost, tonight, refuse me.
Then open, fool, I tell thee plain,
That we perforce shall meet again.

Begone the way that I direct thee!
I’ve millionaires now to protect me;
No need to beg, no need to borrow,
Nor fear a penniless tomorrow,
Nor walk with face of blackest omen
To thrill the hearts of stupid foemen,
Who fain my pride to earth would bring,
Because, forsooth, I sweetly sing!

—Ho ho! ere thou art grown much older,
Thy millionaires will all grow colder.
Thou soon shalt be forgotten by them—
They’ve other things to occupy them!
Just now with thee they’re playing kindly,
But fortune’s wheel is turning blindly
To grind thy pleasures ere thou know it—
And thou art left to me, my poet!

[The Phantom Vessel]

Now the last, long rays of sunset
To the tree-tops are ascending,
And the ash-gray evening shadows
Weave themselves around the earth.

On the crest of yonder mountain,
Now are seen from out the distance
Slowly fading crimson traces;
Footprints of the dying day.

Blood-stained banners, torn and tattered,
Hanging in the western corner,
Dip their parched and burning edges
In the cooling ocean wave.

Smoothly roll the crystal wavelets
Through the dusky veils of twilight,
That are trembling down from heaven
O’er the bosom of the sea.

Soft a little wind is blowing
O’er the gently rippling waters—
What they whisper, what they murmur,
Who is wise enough to say?

Broad her snow-white sails outspreading
’Gainst the quiet sky of evening,
Flies a ship without a sailor,
Flies—and whither, who can tell?

As by magic moves the rudder;
Borne upon her snowy pinions
Flies the ship—as tho’ a spirit
Drove her onward at its will!

Empty is she, and deserted,
Only close beside the mainmast
Stands a lonely child, heartbroken,
Sobbing loud and bitterly.

Long and golden curls are falling
Down his neck and o’er his shoulders;
Now he glances backward sighing,
And the silent ship flies on!

With a little, shining kerchief,
Fluttering upon the breezes,
Unto me he sends a greeting,
From afar he waves farewell.

And my heart is throbbing wildly,
I am weeping—tell me wherefore?
God! that lovely child, I know him!
’Tis my youth that flies from me!

[To My Misery]

O Misery of mine, no other
In faithfulness can match with thee,
Thou more than friend, and more than brother,
The only thing that cares for me!

Where’er I turn, are unkind faces,
And hate and treachery and guile,
Thou, Mis’ry, in all times and places,
Dost greet me with thy pallid smile.

At birth I found thee waiting for me,
I knew thee in my cradle first,
The same small eyes and dim watched o’er me,
The same dry, bony fingers nursed.

And day by day when morning lightened,
To school thou led’st me—home did’st bring,
And thine were all the blooms that brightened
The chilly landscape of my spring.

And, thou my match and marriage monger,
The marriage deed by thee was read;
The hands foretelling need and hunger
Were laid in blessing on my head.

Thy love for me shall last unshaken,
No further proof I ask, for when
My hopes for aye were from me taken,
My Mis’ry, thou wert with me then;

And still, while sorrow’s storm is breaking
Above me, and my head I bow—
The kindly and the unforsaking,
Oh Mis’ry, thou art with me now.

Ay, still from out Fate’s gloomy towers
I see thee come to me again,
With wreaths of everlasting flowers,
And songs funereal in thy train.

And when life’s curses rock me nightly,
And hushed I lie in slumber’s hold,
Thy sable form comes treading lightly
To wrap me in its garments fold.

Thy brother let me be, and wholly
Repay thee all I owe, tho’ late:
My aching heart, my melancholy,
My songs to thee I dedicate.

[O Long The Way]

O long the way and short the day,
No light in tower or town,
The waters roar and far the shore—
My ship, my ship goes down!

’Tis all in vain to strive again,
My cry the billows drown,
The fight is done, the wind has won—
My ship, my ship goes down!

Bright sun, adieu! Thou’lt shine anew
When skies no longer frown,
But I—the deafening billows crash—
My ship, my ship goes down!

[To The Fortune Seeker]

A little more, a little less!—
O shadow-hunters pitiless,
Why then so eager, say!
What’er you leave the grave will take,
And all you gain and all you make,
It will not last a day!

Full soon will come the Reaper Black,
Cut thorns and flowers mark his track
Across Life’s meadow blithe.
Oppose him, meet him as you will,
Old Time’s behests he harkens still,
Unsparing wields his scythe.

A horrid mutiny by stealth
Breaks out,—of power, fame and wealth
Deserted you shall be!
The foam upon your lip is rife;
The last enigma now of Life
Shall Death resolve for thee.

You call for help—’tis all in vain!
What have you for your toil and pain,
What have you at the last?
Poor luckless hunter, are you dumb?
This way the cold pall-bearers come:
A beggar’s soul has passed!

A little less, a little more !—
Look forth, look forth! without the door
There stands a robber old.
He’ll force your ev’ry lock and spring,
And all your goods he’ll take and fling
On Stygian waters cold.

[My Youth]

Come, beneath yon verdant branches,
Come, my own, with me!
Come, and there my soul will open
Secret doors to thee.
Yonder shalt thou learn the secrets
Deep within my breast,
Where my love upsprings eternal;
Come! with pain opprest,
Yonder all the truth I’ll tell thee,
Tell it thee with tears...
(Ah, so long have we been parted,
Years of youth, sweet years!)

See’st thou the dancers floating
On a stream of sound?
There alone, the soul entrancing,
Happiness is found!
Magic music, hark! it calls us,
Ringing wild and sweet!
One, two, three!—beloved, haste thee,
Point thy dainty feet!
Now at last I feel that living
Is no foolish jest...
(O sweet years of youth departed,
Vanished with the rest!)

Fiddler, play a little longer!
Why this hurry, say?
I’m but half-way through a measure—
Yet a little play!
Smiling in her wreath of flowers
Is my love not fair?
See us in the charmed circle,
Flitting light as air!
Haste thee, loved one, for the music
Shall be hushed anon...
(O sweet years of youth departed,
Whither are ye gone?)

Gracious youth of mine, so quickly
Hath it come to this?
Lo, where flowed the golden river,
Yawns the black abyss!
Where, oh where is my beloved,
Where the wreath of flowers?
Where, oh where the merry fiddler,
Where those happy hours?
Shall I never hear the echoes
Of those songs again?
Oh, on what hills are they ringing,
O’er what sunny plain?
May not I from out the distance
Cast one backward glance
On that fair and lost existence,
Youth’s sweet dalliance?
Foolish dreamer! Time hath snatched it,
And, tho’ man implore,
Joys that he hath reaped and garnered
Bloom again no more!

[In The Wilderness]

Alone in desert dreary,
A bird with folded wings
Beholds the waste about her,
And sweetly, sweetly sings.

So heaven-sweet her singing,
So clear the bird notes flow,
’Twould seem the rocks must waken,
The desert vibrant grow.

Dead rocks and silent mountains
Would’st waken with thy strain,—
But dumb are still the mountains,
And dead the rocks remain.

For whom, O heavenly singer,
Thy song so clear and free?
Who hears or sees or heeds thee,
Who feels or cares for thee?

Thou may’st outpour in music
Thy very soul... ’Twere vain!
In stone thou canst not waken
A throb of joy or pain.

Thy song shall soon be silenced;
I feel it... For I know
Thy heart is near to bursting
With loneliness and woe.

Ah, vain is thine endeavor;
It naught availeth—nay;
For lonely as thou camest,
So shalt thou pass away.

[I’ve Often Laughed]

I’ve often laughed and oftener still have wept,
A sighing always through my laughter crept,
Tears were not far away...
What is there to say?

I’ve spoken much and oftener held by tongue,
For still the most was neither said nor sung.
Could I but tell it so...
What is there to know?

I’ve hated much and loved, oh so much more!
Fierce contrasts at my very heartstrings tore...
I tried to fight them—well...
What is there to tell?

[Again I Sing my Songs]

Once again my songs I sing thee,
Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
Songs of love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
Gladly, sadly bringing;—
Summer not a song would borrow—
Winter sets me singing.

O when life turns sad and lonely,
When our joys are dead;
When are heard the ravens only
In the trees o’erhead;
When the stormwind on the bowers
Wreaks its wicked will,
When the frost paints lying flowers,
How should I be still?

When the clouds are low descending,
And the sun is drowned;
When the winter knows no ending,
And the cold is crowned;
When with evil gloom oppressed
Lie the ruins bare;
When a sigh escapes the breast,
Takes us unaware;

When the snow-wrapped mountain dreams
Of its summer gladness,
When the wood is stripped and seems
Full of care and sadness;
When the songs are growing still
As in Death’s repose,
And the heart is growing chill,
And the eyelids close;

Then, O then I can but sing
For I dream her coming—
May, sweet May! I see her bring
Buds and wild-bee humming!
Through the silence heart-appalling,
As I stand and listen,
I can hear her song-birds calling,
See her green leaves glisten!

Thus again my songs I sing thee,
Now the spell is broken;
Brothers, yet again I bring thee
Of my love the token.
Of my joy and of my sorrow
Gladly, sadly bringing,—
Summer not a song would borrow!—
Winter sets me singing.

[Liberty]

When night and silence deep
Hold all the world in sleep,
As tho’ Death claimed the Hour,
By some strange witchery
Appears her form to me,
As tho’ Magic were her dow’r.

Her beauty heaven’s light!
Her bosom snowy white!
But pale her cheek appears.
Her shoulders firm and fair;
A mass of gold her hair.
Her eyes—the home of tears.

She looks at me nor speaks.
Her arms are raised; she seeks
Her fettered hands to show.
On both white wrists a chain!—
She cries and pleads in pain:
“Unbind me!—Let me go!”

I burn with bitter ire,
I leap in wild desire
The cruel bonds to break;
But God! around the chain
Is coiled and coiled again
A long and loathsome snake.

I shout, I cry, I chide;
My voice goes far and wide,
A ringing call to men:
“Oh come, let in the light!
Arise! Ye have the might!
Set Freedom free again!”

They sleep. But I strive on.
They sleep!... Can’st wake a stone?...
That one might stir! but one!
Call I, or hold my peace,
None comes to her release;
And hope for her is none.

But who may see her plight
And not go mad outright!...
“Now: up! For Freedom’s sake!”
I spring to take her part:—
“Fool!” cries a voice. I start...
In anguish I awake.

[A Tree in the Ghetto]

There stands in th’ leafless Ghetto
One spare-leaved, ancient tree;
Above the Ghetto noises
It moans eternally.

In wonderment it muses,
And murmurs with a sigh:
“Alas! how God-forsaken
And desolate am I!

“Alas, the stony alleys,
And noises loud and bold!
Where are ye, birds of summer?
Where are ye, woods of old?

“And where, ye breezes balmy
That wandered vagrant here?
And where, oh sweep of heavens
So deep and blue and clear?

“Where are ye, mighty giants?
Ye come not riding by
Upon your fiery horses,
A-whistling merrily.

“Of other days my dreaming,
Of other days, ah me!
When sturdy hero-races
Lived wild and glad and free!

“The old sun shone, how brightly!
The old lark sang, what song!
O’er earth Desire and Gladness
Reigned happily and long

“But see! what are these ant-hills?—
These ants that creep and crawl?...
Bereft of man and nature,
My life is stripped of all!

“And I, an ancient orphan,
What do I here alone?
My friends have all departed,
My youth and glory gone.

“Oh, tear me, root and branches!
No longer let me be
A living head-stone, brooding
O’er the grave of liberty.”

[The Cemetery Nightingale]

In the hills’ embraces holden,
In a valley filled with glooms,
Lies a cemetery olden,
Strewn with countless mould’ring tombs.

Ancient graves o’erhung with mosses,
Crumbling stones, effaced and green,—
Venturesome is he who crosses,
Night or day, the lonely scene.

Blasted trees and willow streamers,
’Midst the terror round them spread,
Seem like awe-bound, silent dreamers
In this garden of the dead.

One bird, anguish stricken, lingers
In the shadow of the vale,
First and best of feathered singers,—
’Tis the churchyard nightingale.

As from bough to bough he flutters,
Sweetest songs of woe and wail
Through his gift divine he utters
For the dreamers in the vale.

Listen how his trills awaken
Echoes from each mossy stone!
Of all places he has taken
God’s still Acre for his own.

* * * * *

Not on Spring or Summer glory,
Not on god or angel story
Loyal poet-fancy dwells!
Not on streams for rich men flowing,
Not on fields for rich men’s mowing,—
Graves he sees, of graves he tells.
Pain, oppression, woe eternal,
Open heart-wounds deep, diurnal,
Nothing comforts or allays;
O’er God’s Acre in each nation
Sings he songs of tribulation
Tunes his golden harp and plays.

[The Creation Of Man]

When the world was first created
By th’ all-wise Eternal One,
Asked he none for help or counsel,—
Simply spake, and it was done!

Made it for his own good pleasure,
Shaped it on his own design,
Spent a long day’s work upon it,
Formed it fair and very fine.

Soon he thought on man’s creation,—
Then perplexities arose,
So the Lord His winged Senate
Called, the question to propose:

Hear, my great ones, why I called ye,
Hear and help me ye who can,
Hear and tell me how I further
Shall proceed in making man.

Ponder well before ye answer,
And consider, children dear;—
In our image I would make him,
Free from stain, from blemish clear.

Of my holy fire I’d give him,
Crowned monarch shall he be,
Ruling with a sway unquestioned
Over earth and air and sea.

Birds across the blue sky winging
Swift shall fly before his face,—
Silver fishes in the ocean,
Savage lion in the chase.

—How? This toy of froth and vapor,
Thought the Senate, filled with fear,
If so wide his kingdom stretches,
Shortly he will break in here!

So the Lord they answered, saying:—
Mind and strength Thy creature give,
Form him in our very image,
Lord, but wingless let him live!

Lest he shame the soaring eagle
Let no wings to man be giv’n,
Bid him o’er the earth be ruler,
Lord, but keep him out of heav’n!

Wisely said, the Lord made answer,
Lo, your counsel fair I take!
Yet, my Senate, one exception—
One alone, I will to make.

One exception! for the poet,
For the singer, shall have wings;
He the gates of Heav’n shall enter,
Highest of created things.

One I single from among ye,
One to watch the ages long,
Promptly to admit the poet
When he hears his holy song.

[Journalism]

Written today, and read today,
And stale the news tomorrow!—
Upon the sands I build... I play!
I play, and weep in sorrow:
“Ah God, dear God! to find cessation
From this soul-crushing occupation!
If but one year ere Thou dost call me Thither,
Lord, at this blighting task let me not wither.”

[Pen and Shears]

My tailor’s shears I scornèd then;
I strove for something higher:
To edit news—live by the pen—
The pen that shall not tire!

The pen, that was my humble slave,
Has now enslaved its master;
And fast as flows its Midas-wave,
My rebel tears flow faster.

The world I clad once, tailor-hired,
Whilst I in tatters quakèd,
Today, you see me well attired,
Who lets the world go naked.

What human soul, how’er oppressed,
Can feel my chained soul’s yearning!
A monster woe lies in my breast,
In voiceless anguish burning.

Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!
I’ll bear as ne’er I bore it.
My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!...
Now less I’ll blame you for it.

I’ll stitch as ne’er in former years;
I’ll drive the mad wheel faster;
Slave will I be but to the shears;
The pen shall know its master!

[For Hire]

Work with might and main,
Or with hand and heart,
Work with soul and brain,
Or with holy art,
Thread, or genius’ fire—
Make a vest, or verse—
If ’tis done for hire,
It is done the worse.

[A Fellow Slave]

Pale-faced is he, as in the door
He stands and trembles visibly,—
With diffidence approaches me,
And says: “Dear editor,

“Since write you must, in prose or rhyme,
Expose my master’s knavery,
Condemn, I pray, the slavery
That dominates our time.

“I labor for a wicked man
Who holds o’er all my being sway,—
Who keeps me harnessed night and day.
Since work I first began.

“No leisure moments do I store,
Yet harsh words only will he speak;
My days are his, from week to week,
But still he cries for more.

“Oh print, I beg you, all I’ve said,
And ask the world if this be right:
To give the worker wage so slight
That he must want for bread.

“See, I have sinews powerful,
And I’ve endurance, subtle skill,—
Yet may not use them at my will,
But live a master’s tool.

“But oh, without avail do I
Lay bare the woes of workingmen!
Who earns his living by the pen,
Feels not our misery.”

The pallid slave yet paler grew,
And ended here his bitter cry...
And thus to him I made reply:
“My friend, you judge untrue.

“My strength and skill, like yours, are gain
For others... Sold!... You understand?
Your master—well—he owns your hand,
And mine—he owns my brain.”

[The Jewish May]

May has come from out the showers,
Sun and splendor in her train.
All the grasses and the flowers
Waken up to life again.
Once again the leaves do show,
And the meadow blossoms blow,
Once again through hills and dales
Rise the songs of nightingales.

Wheresoe’er on field or hillside
With her paint-brush Spring is seen,—
In the valley, by the rillside,
All the earth is decked with green.
Once again the sun beguiles
Moves the drowsy world to smiles.
See! the sun, with mother-kiss
Wakes her child to joy and bliss.

Now each human feeling presses
Flow’r like, upward to the sun,
Softly, through the heart’s recesses,
Steal sweet fancies, one by one.
Golden dreams, their wings outshaking,
Now are making
Realms celestial,
All of azure,
New life waking,
Bringing treasure
Out of measure
For the soul’s delight and pleasure.

Who then, tell me, old and sad,
Nears us with a heavy tread?
On the sward in verdure clad,
Lonely is the strange newcomer,
Wearily he walks and slow,—
His sweet springtime and his summer
Faded long and long ago!

Say, who is it yonder walks
Past the hedgerows decked anew,
While a fearful spectre stalks
By his side the woodland through?
’Tis our ancient friend the Jew!
No sweet fancies hover round him,
Naught but terror and distress.
Wounds unhealed
Where lie revealed
Ghosts of former recollections,
Corpses, corpses, old affections,
Buried youth and happiness.

Brier and blossom bow to meet him
In derision round his path;
Gloomily the hemlocks greet him
And the crow screams out in wrath.
Strange the birds and strange the flowers,
Strange the sunshine seems and dim,
Folk on earth and heav’nly powers!—
Lo, the May is strange to him!

Little flowers, it were meeter
If ye made not quite so bold:
Sweet ye are, but oh, far sweeter
Knew he in the days of old!
Oranges by thousands glowing
Filled his groves on either hand,—
All the plants were God’s own sowing
In his happy, far-off land!

Ask the cedars on the mountain!
Ask them, for they know him well!
Myrtles green by Sharon’s fountain,
In whose shade he loved to dwell!
Ask the Mount of Olives beauteous,—
Ev’ry tree by ev’ry stream!—
One and all will answer duteous
For the fair and ancient dream....

O’er the desert and the pleasance
Gales of Eden softly blew,
And the Lord His loving Presence
Evermore declared anew.
Angel children at their leisure
Played in thousands round His tent,
Countless thoughts of joy and pleasure
God to His beloved sent.

There in bygone days and olden,
From a wond’rous harp and golden
Charmed he music spirit-haunting,
Holy, chaste and soul-enchanting.
Never with the ancient sweetness,
Never in its old completeness
Shall it sound: his dream is ended,
On a willow-bough suspended.

Gone that dream so fair and fleeting!
Yet behold: thou dreamst anew!
Hark! a new May gives thee greeting
From afar. Dost hear it, Jew?
Weep no more, altho’ with sorrows
Bow’d e’en to the grave: I see
Happier years and brighter morrows,
Dawning, Israel, for thee!
Hear’st thou not the promise ring
Where, like doves on silver wing,
Thronging cherubs sweetly sing
Newmade songs of what shall be?

Hark! your olives shall be shaken,
And your citrons and your limes
Filled with fragrance. God shall waken.
Lead you as in olden times.
In the pastures by the river
Ye once more your flocks shall tend.
Ye shall live, and live forever
Happy lives that know no end.
No more wandering, no more sadness:
Peace shall be your lot, and still
Hero hearts shall throb with gladness
’Neath Moriah’s silent hill.
Nevermore of dread afflictions
Or oppression need ye tell:
Filled with joy and benedictions
In the old home shall ye dwell.
To the fatherland returning,
Following the homeward path,
Ye shall find the embers burning
Still upon the ruined hearth!

[The Feast Of Lights]

Little candles glistening,
Telling those are listening
Legends manifold,
Many a little story,
Tales of blood and glory
Of the days of old.

As I watch you flicker,
As I list you bicker,
Speak the ancient dreams:
—You have battled, Jew, one time,
You have conquer’d too, one time.
(God, how strange it seems!)

In your midst was order once,
And within your border once
Strangers took no part.
Jew, you had a land one time,
And an armèd hand, one time.
(How it moves the heart!)

Glisten, candles, glisten!
As I stand and listen
All the grief in me,
All the woe is stirred again,
And the question heard again:
What the end shall be?

[Chanukah Thoughts]

Not always as you see us now,
Have we been used to weep and sigh,
We too have grasped the sword, I trow,
And seen astonished foemen fly!

We too have rushed into the fray,
For our Belief the battle braved,
And through the spears have fought our way,
And high the flag of vict’ry waved.

But generations go and come,
And suns arise and set in tears,
And we are weakened now and dumb,
Foregone the might of ancient years.

In exile where the wicked reign,
Our courage and our pride expired,
But e’en today each throbbing vein
With Asmonean blood is fired.

Tho’ cruel hands with mighty flail
Have threshed us, yet we have not blenched:
The sea of blood could naught prevail,
That fire is burning, still unquenched.

Our fall is great, our fall is real,
(You need but look on us to tell!)
Yet in us lives the old Ideal
Which all the nations shall not quell.

[Sfēré]

I asked of my Muse, had she any objection
To laughing with me,—not a word for reply!
You see, it is Sfēré, our time for dejection,—
And can a Jew laugh when the rule is to cry?

You laughed then, you say? ’tis a sound to affright one!
In Jewish delight, what is worthy the name?
The laugh of a Jew! It is never a right one,
For laughing and groaning with him are the same.

You thought there was zest in a Jewish existence?
You deemd that the star of a Jew could be kind?
The Spring calls and beckons with gracious insistence,—
Jew,—sit down in sackcloth and weep yourself blind!

The garden is green and the woodland rejoices:
How cool are the breezes, with fragrance how blent!
But Spring calls not you with her thousand sweet voices!—
With you it is Sfēré,—sit still and lament!

The beautiful summer, this life’s consolation,
In moaning and sighing glides quickly away.
What hope can it offer to one of my nation?
What joy can he find in the splendors of May?

Bewildered and homeless, of whom whoso passes
May fearlessly stop to make sport at his ease,—
Say, is it for him to seek flowers and grasses,
For him to be thinking on meadows and trees?

And if for a moment, forgetting to ponder
On grief and oppression, song breaks out anew,
I hear in his lay only: “Wander and wander!”
And ev’ry note tells me the singer’s a Jew.

A skilful musician, and one who is verséd
In metre and measure, whenever he hears
The pitiful song of the Jewish disperséd,
It touches his heart and it moves him to tears.

The blast of the Ram’s-horn that quavers and trembles,—
On this, now, alone Jewish fancy is bent.
To grief and contrition its host it assembles,
And causes the stoniest heart to relent.

The wail that went up when the Temple was shattered,—
The song of Atonement, the Suppliant’s psalm,—
These only he loves, since they took him—and scattered,—
Away from the land of the balsam and balm.

Of all the sweet instruments, shiver’d and broken,
That once in the Temple delighted his ear,
The Ram’s-horn alone has he kept, as a token,
And sobs out his soul on it once in the year.

Instead of the harp and the viol and cymbal,
Instead of the lyre, the guitar and the flute,
He has but the dry, wither’d Ram’s-horn, the symbol
Of gloom and despondence; the rest all are mute.

He laughs, or he breaks into song, but soon after,
Tho’ fain would he take in man’s gladness a part,
One hears, low resounding athwart the gay laughter,
The Suppliant’s psalm, and it pierces the heart.

I asked of my Muse, had she any objection
To laughing with me,—not a word for reply!
You see, it is Sfēré, our time for dejection,—
And can a Jew laugh when the rule is to cry?

[Measuring the Graves]

First old Minna, bent and lowly,
Eyes with weeping nearly blind;
Pessyeh-Tsvaitel, slowly, slowly,
With the yarn creeps on behind.

On the holy book of Minna
Fall the tear-drops—scarce a word
(For the heart is moved within her)
Of her praying can be heard.

“Mighty Lord, whose sovereign pleasure
Made all worlds and men of dust,
I, Thy humble handmaid, measure,
God, the dwellings of the just.

“Speechless here the ground they cumber,
Where the pious, gracious God,
Where Thy heart’s beloved slumber
Underneath the quiet sod.

“They who sing in jubilation,
Lord, before Thy holy seat,
Each one from his habitation,
Through the dream for ever sweet.

“From the yarn with which I measure,
Pessyeh-Tsvaitel, filled with awe,
Wicks will make, to search the treasure,
Nightly, of Thy holy Law.

Praying still, by faith sustained:
’Thou with whom the holy dwell,
Scorn not Jacob’s prayer unfeigned,
Mark the tears of Israel!’”

[The First Bath of Ablution]

The wind is keen, the frost is dread,
Toward the icy water,
By aunt and mother forth is led
The fisher’s lovely daughter.

“Dive in, dive in, my child, with haste!
There’s naught whereon to ponder,
The time, dear heart, we must not waste:
The sun has set out yonder.

“God’s mercy, child, is great and sure:
Fear not but He will show it!
Leap in,—leap out! and you are pure,—
’Tis over ere you know it!”

The frost and cold with cruel knife
The tender form assail.
Ah, would you be a Jewish wife,
You must not weep and quail!

And in—and out,—she leaps. Once more!
Poor girl, it has not served you.
No purer are you than before:
A Gentile has observed you!

And into th’ icy flood again,
In terror wild she leaps!
The white limbs shudder... all in vain!
The Christian still he peeps.

The frost and cold, they burn and bite,
The women rub their fingers,
The lovely child grows white and white,
As on the bank she lingers.

“The Law, my child, we must fulfill,
The scoundrel see depart!
Yet once! ’tis but a moment’s chill,
’Tis but a trifling smart!”

The white-faced child the Law has kept,
The covenant unstained,
For in the waters deep she leapt,
And there below remained.

[Atonement Evening Prayer]

Atonement Day—evening pray’r—sadness profound.
The soul-lights, so clear once, are dying around.
The reader is spent, and he barely can speak;
The people are faint, e’en the basso is weak.
The choristers pine for the hour of repose.
Just one—two chants more, and the pray’r book we close!

And now ev’ry Jew’s supplication is ended,
And Nilah* approaching, and twilight descended.
The blast of the New Year is blown on the horn,
All go; by the Ark I am standing forlorn,
And thinking: “How shall it be with us anon,
When closed is the temple, and ev’ryone gone!”

[* Ne’ilah, (Hebrew) Conclusion, concluding prayer.]

[Exit Holiday]

Farewell to the feast-day! the pray’r book is stained
With tears; of the booth scarce a trace has remained;
The lime branch is withered, the osiers are dying,
And pale as a corpse the fair palm-frond is lying;
The boughs of grey willow are trodden and broken—
Friend, these are your hopes and your longings unspoken!

Lo, there lie your dreamings all dimm’d and rejected,
And there lie the joys were so surely expected!
And there is the happiness blighted and perished,
And all that aforetime your soul knew and cherished,
The loved and the longed for, the striven for vainly—
Your whole life before you lies pictured how plainly!

The branches are sapless, the leaves will decay,
An end is upon us, and whence, who shall say?
The broom of the beadle outside now has hustled
The lime and the palm that so pleasantly rustled.
There blew a cold gust, from our sight all is banished—
The shaft from a cross-bow less swiftly had vanished!