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!