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diff --git a/6859.txt b/6859.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b2f0e53 --- /dev/null +++ b/6859.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2435 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Songs of Labor and Other Poems, by Morris Rosenfeld + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Songs of Labor and Other Poems + +Author: Morris Rosenfeld + +Translator: Rose Pastor Stokes + Helena Frank + +Posting Date: March 17, 2014 [EBook #6859] +Release Date: November, 2004 +First Posted: February 2, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by S Goodman, David Starner and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + + + + + SONGS OF LABOR + AND OTHER POEMS BY + MORRIS ROSENFELD + + _Translated from the Yiddish by + Rose Pastor Stokes and Helena Frank_ + + + + + Contents + + + In the Factory + My Boy + The Nightingale to the Workman + What is the World? + Despair + Whither? + From Dawn to Dawn + The Candle Seller + The Pale Operator + The Beggar Family + A Millionaire + September Melodies + Depression + The Canary + Want and I + The Phantom Vessel + To my Misery + O Long the Way + To the Fortune Seeker + My Youth + In the Wilderness + I've Often Laughed + Again I Sing my Songs + Liberty + A Tree in the Ghetto + The Cemetery Nightingale + The Creation of Man + Journalism + Pen and Shears + For Hire + A Fellow Slave + The Jewish May + The Feast of Lights + Chanukah Thoughts + Sfere + Measuring the Graves + The First Bath of Ablution + Atonement Evening Prayer + Exit Holiday + + + + + SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS + + + + + + In the Factory + + + Oh, here in the shop the machines roar so wildly, + That oft, unaware that I am, or have been, + I sink and am lost in the terrible tumult; + And void is my soul... I am but a machine. + I work and I work and I work, never ceasing; + Create and create things from morning till e'en; + For what?--and for whom--Oh, I know not! Oh, ask not! + Who ever has heard of a conscious machine? + + No, here is no feeling, no thought and no reason; + This life-crushing labor has ever supprest + The noblest and finest, the truest and richest, + The deepest, the highest and humanly best. + The seconds, the minutes, they pass out forever, + They vanish, swift fleeting like straws in a gale. + I drive the wheel madly as tho' to o'ertake them,-- + Give chase without wisdom, or wit, or avail. + + The clock in the workshop,--it rests not a moment; + It points on, and ticks on: Eternity--Time; + And once someone told me the clock had a meaning,-- + Its pointing and ticking had reason and rhyme. + And this too he told me,--or had I been dreaming,-- + The clock wakened life in one, forces unseen, + And something besides;... I forget what; Oh, ask not! + I know not, I know not, I am a machine. + + At times, when I listen, I hear the clock plainly;-- + The reason of old--the old meaning--is gone! + The maddening pendulum urges me forward + To labor and labor and still labor on. + The tick of the clock is the Boss in his anger! + The face of the clock has the eyes of a foe; + The clock--Oh, I shudder--dost hear how it drives me? + It calls me "Machine!" and it cries to me "Sew!" + + At noon, when about me the wild tumult ceases, + And gone is the master, and I sit apart, + And dawn in my brain is beginning to glimmer, + The wound comes agape at the core of my heart; + And tears, bitter tears flow; ay, tears that are scalding; + They moisten my dinner--my dry crust of bread; + They choke me,--I cannot eat;--no, no, I cannot! + Oh, horrible toil I born of Need and of Dread. + + The sweatshop at mid-day--I'll draw you the picture: + A battlefield bloody; the conflict at rest; + Around and about me the corpses are lying; + The blood cries aloud from the earth's gory breast. + A moment... and hark! The loud signal is sounded, + The dead rise again and renewed is the fight... + They struggle, these corpses; for strangers, for strangers! + They struggle, they fall, and they sink into night. + + I gaze on the battle in bitterest anger, + And pain, hellish pain wakes the rebel in me! + The clock--now I hear it aright!--It is crying: + "An end to this bondage! An end there must be!" + It quickens my reason, each feeling within me; + It shows me how precious the moments that fly. + Oh, worthless my life if I longer am silent, + And lost to the world if in silence I die. + + The man in me sleeping begins to awaken; + The thing that was slave into slumber has passed: + Now; up with the man in me! Up and be doing! + No misery more! Here is freedom at last! + When sudden: a whistle!--the Boss--an alarum!-- + I sink in the slime of the stagnant routine;-- + There's tumult, they struggle, oh, lost is my ego;-- + I know not, I care not, I am a machine!... + + + + + My Boy + + + I have a little boy at home, + A pretty little son; + I think sometimes the world is mine + In him, my only one. + + But seldom, seldom do I see + My child in heaven's light; + I find him always fast asleep... + I see him but at night. + + Ere dawn my labor drives me forth; + 'Tis night when I am free; + A stranger am I to my child; + And strange my child to me. + + I come in darkness to my home, + With weariness and--pay; + My pallid wife, she waits to tell + The things he learned to say. + + How plain and prettily he asked: + "Dear mamma, when's 'Tonight'? + O when will come my dear papa + And bring a penny bright?" + + I hear her words--I hasten out-- + This moment must it be!-- + The father-love flames in my breast: + My child must look at me! + + I stand beside the tiny cot, + And look, and list, and--ah! + A dream-thought moves the baby-lips: + "O, where is my papa!" + + I kiss and kiss the shut blue eyes; + I kiss them not in vain. + They open,--O they see me then! + And straightway close again. + + "Here's your papa, my precious one;-- + A penny for you!"--ah! + A dream still moves the baby-lips: + "O, where is my papa!" + + And I--I think in bitterness + And disappointment sore; + "Some day you will awake, my child, + To find me nevermore." + + + + + The Nightingale to the Workman + + + Fair summer is here, glad summer is here! + O hark! 'tis to you I am singing: + The sun is all gold in a heaven of blue, + The birds in the forest are trilling for you, + The flies 'mid the grasses are winging; + The little brook babbles--its secret is sweet. + The loveliest flowers would circle your feet,-- + And you to your work ever clinging!... + Come forth! Nature loves you. Come forth! Do not fear! + Fair summer is here, glad summer is here, + Full measure of happiness bringing. + All creatures drink deep; and they pour wine anew + In the old cup of life, and they wonder at you. + Your portion is waiting since summer began; + Then take it, oh, take it, you laboring man! + + 'Tis summer today; ay, summer today! + The butterflies light on the flowers. + Delightfully glistens the silvery rain, + The mountains are covered with greenness again, + And perfumed and cool are the bowers. + The sheep frisk about in the flowery vale, + The shepherd and shepherdess pause in the dale, + And these are the holiest hours!... + Delay not, delay not, life passes away! + 'Tis summer today, sweet summer today! + Come, throttle your wheel's grinding power!... + Your worktime is bitter and endless in length; + And have you not foolishly lavished your strength? + O think not the world is with bitterness rife, + But drink of the wine from the goblet of life. + + O, summer is here, sweet summer is here! + I cannot forever be trilling; + I flee on the morrow. Then, you, have a care! + The crow, from the perch I am leaving, the air + With ominous cries will be filling. + O, while I am singing to you from my tree + Of love, and of life, and of joy yet to be, + Arouse you!--O why so unwilling!... + The heavens remain not so blue and so clear;-- + Now summer is here! Come, summer is here! + Reach out for the joys that are thrilling! + For like you who fade at your wheel, day by day, + Soon all things will fade and be carried away. + Our lives are but moments; and sometimes the cost + Of a moment o'erlooked is eternity lost. + + + + + What is the World? + + + Well, say you the world is a chamber of sleep, + And life but a sleeping and dreaming? + Then I too would dream: and would joyously reap + The blooms of harmonious seeming; + The dream-flow'rs of hope and of freedom, perchance, + The rich are so merrily reaping;-- + In Love's eyes I'd fancy the joy of romance; + No more would I dream Love is weeping. + + Or say you the world is a banquet, a ball, + Where everyone goes who is able? + I too wish to sit like a lord in the hall + With savory share at the table. + I too can enjoy what is wholesome and good, + A morsel both dainty and healthy; + I have in my body the same sort of blood + That flows in the veins of the wealthy. + + A garden you say is the world, where abound + The sweetest and loveliest roses? + Then would I, no leave asking, saunter around + And gather me handfuls of posies. + Of thorns I am sure I would make me no wreath; + (Of flowers I am very much fonder). + And with my beloved the bowers beneath + I'd wander, and wander, and wander. + + But ah! if the world is a battlefield wild, + Where struggle the weak with the stronger, + Then heed I no storm and no wife and no child!-- + I stand in abeyance no longer;-- + Rush into the fire of the battle nor yield, + And fight for my perishing brother; + Well, if I am struck--I can die on the field; + Die gladly as well as another.... + + + + + Despair + + + No rest--not one day in the seven for me? + Not one, from the maddening yoke to be free? + Not one to escape from the boss on the prowl, + His sinister glance and his furious growl, + The cry of the foreman, the smell of the shop,-- + To feel for one moment the manacles drop? + --_'Tis rest then you want, and you fain would forget? + To rest and oblivion they'll carry you yet._ + + The flow'rs and the trees will have withered ere long, + The last bird already is ending his song; + And soon will be leafless and shadeless the bow'rs... + I long, oh I long for the perfume of flow'rs! + To feel for a moment ere stripped are the trees, + In meadow lands open, the breath of the breeze. + --_You long for the meadow lands breezy and fair? + O, soon enough others will carry you there._ + + The rivulet sparkles with heavenly light, + The wavelets they glisten, with diamonds bedight. + Oh, but for a moment to leap in the stream, + And play in the waters that ripple and gleam! + My body is weakened with terrible toil.-- + The bath would refresh me, renew me the while. + --_You dream of a bath in the shimmering stream? + 'Twill come--when forever is ended your dream._ + + The sweatshop is smoky and gloomy and mean-- + I strive--oh, how vainly I strive to be clean! + All day I am covered with grime and with dirt. + You'd laugh,--but I long for a spotless white shirt! + For life that is noble, 'tis needful, I ween, + To work as a man should; and still be as clean. + --_So now 'tis your wish all in white to be dressed? + In white they will robe you, and lay you to rest._ + + The woods they are cool, and the woods they are free;-- + To dream and to wander, how sweet it would be! + The birds their eternal glad holiday keep; + With song that enchants you and lulls you to sleep. + 'Tis hot here,--and close! and the din will not cease. + I long for the forest, its coolth and its peace. + --_Ay, cool you will soon be; and not only cool, + But cold as no forest can make you, O Fool!_ + + I long for a friend who will comfort and cheer, + And fill me with courage when sorrow is near; + A comrade, of treasures the rarest and best, + Who gives to existence its crown and its crest; + And I am an orphan--and I am alone; + No friend or companion to call me his own. + --_Companions a-plenty--they're numberless too; + They're swarming already and waiting for you._ + + + + + Whither? + + (To a Young Girl) + + + Say whither, whither, pretty one? + The hour is young at present! + How hushed is all the world around! + Ere dawn--the streets hold not a sound. + O whither, whither do you run? + Sleep at this hour is pleasant. + The flowers are dreaming, dewy-wet; + The bird-nests they are silent yet. + Where to, before the rising sun + The world her light is giving? + + "To earn a living." + + O whither, whither, pretty child, + So late at night a-strolling? + Alone--with darkness round you curled? + All rests!--and sleeping is the world. + Where drives you now the wind so wild? + The midnight bells are tolling! + Day hath not warmed you with her light; + What aid can'st hope then from the night? + Night's deaf and blind!--Oh whither, child, + Light-minded fancies weaving? + + "To earn a living." + + + + + From Dawn to Dawn + + + I bend o'er the wheel at my sewing; + I'm spent; and I'm hungry for rest; + No curse on the master bestowing,-- + No hell-fires within me are glowing,-- + Tho' pain flares its fires in my breast. + + I mar the new cloth with my weeping, + And struggle to hold back the tears; + A fever comes over me, sweeping + My veins; and all through me goes creeping + A host of black terrors and fears. + + The wounds of the old years ache newly; + The gloom of the shop hems me in; + But six o'clock signals come duly: + O, freedom seems mine again, truly... + Unhindered I haste from the din. + + * * * * * + + Now home again, ailing and shaking, + With tears that are blinding my eyes, + With bones that are creaking and breaking, + Unjoyful of rest... merely taking + A seat; hoping never to rise. + + I gaze round me: none for a greeting! + By Life for the moment unpressed, + My poor wife lies sleeping--and beating + A lip-tune in dream false and fleeting, + My child mumbles close to her breast. + + I look on them, weeping in sorrow, + And think: "When the Reaper has come-- + When finds me no longer the morrow-- + What aid then?--from whom will they borrow + The crust of dry bread and the home? + + "What harbors that morrow," I wonder, + "For them when the breadwinner's gone? + When sudden and swift as the thunder + The bread-bond is broken asunder, + And friend in the world there is none." + + A numbness my brain is o'ertaking... + To sleep for a moment I drop: + Then start!... In the east light is breaking!-- + I drag myself, ailing and aching, + Again to the gloom of the shop. + + + + + The Candle Seller + + + In Hester Street, hard by a telegraph post, + There sits a poor woman as wan as a ghost. + Her pale face is shrunk, like the face of the dead, + And yet you can tell that her cheeks once were red. + But love, ease and friendship and glory, I ween, + May hardly the cause of their fading have been. + Poor soul, she has wept so, she scarcely can see. + A skeleton infant she holds on her knee. + It tugs at her breast, and it whimpers and sleeps, + But soon at her cry it awakens and weeps-- + "Two cents, my good woman, three candles will buy, + As bright as their flame be my star in the sky!" + + Tho' few are her wares, and her basket is small, + She earns her own living by these, when at all. + She's there with her baby in wind and in rain, + In frost and in snow-fall, in weakness and pain. + She trades and she trades, through the good times and slack-- + No home and no food, and no cloak to her back. + She's kithless and kinless--one friend at the most, + And that one is silent: the telegraph post! + She asks for no alms, the poor Jewess, but still, + Altho' she is wretched, forsaken and ill, + She cries Sabbath candles to those that come nigh, + And all that she pleads is, that people will buy. + + To honor the sweet, holy Sabbath, each one + With joy in his heart to the market has gone. + To shops and to pushcarts they hurriedly fare; + But who for the poor, wretched woman will care? + A few of her candles you think they will take?-- + They seek the meat patties, the fish and the cake. + She holds forth a hand with the pitiful cry: + "Two cents, my good women, three candles will buy!" + But no one has listened, and no one has heard: + Her voice is so weak, that it fails at each word. + Perchance the poor mite in her lap understood, + She hears mother's crying--but where is the good + + I pray you, how long will she sit there and cry + Her candles so feebly to all that pass by? + How long will it be, do you think, ere her breath + Gives out in the horrible struggle with Death? + How long will this frail one in mother-love strong, + Give suck to the babe at her breast? Oh, how long? + The child mother's tears used to swallow before, + But mother's eyes, nowadays, shed them no more. + Oh, dry are the eyes now, and empty the brain, + The heart well-nigh broken, the breath drawn with pain. + Yet ever, tho' faintly, she calls out anew: + "Oh buy but two candles, good women, but two!" + + In Hester Street stands on the pavement of stone + A small, orphaned basket, forsaken, alone. + Beside it is sitting a corpse, cold and stark: + The seller of candles--will nobody mark? + No, none of the passers have noticed her yet. + The rich ones, on feasting are busily set, + And such as are pious, you well may believe, + Have no time to spare on the gay Sabbath eve. + So no one has noticed and no one has seen. + And now comes the nightfall, and with it, serene, + The Princess, the Sabbath, from Heaven descends, + And all the gay throng to the synagogue wends. + + Within, where they pray, all is cleanly and bright, + The cantor sings sweetly, they list with delight. + But why in a dream stands the tall chandelier, + As dim as the candles that gleam round a bier? + The candles belonged to the woman, you know, + Who died in the street but a short time ago. + The rich and the pious have brought them tonight, + For mother and child they have set them alight. + The rich and the pious their duty have done: + Her tapers are lighted who died all alone. + The rich and the pious are nobly behaved: + A body--what matters? But souls must be saved! + + O synagogue lights, be ye witnesses bold + That mother and child died of hunger and cold + Where millions are squandered in idle display; + That men, all unheeded, must starve by the way. + Then hold back your flame, blessed lights, hold it fast! + The great day of judgment will come at the last. + Before the white throne, where imposture is vain, + Ye lights for the soul, ye'll be lighted again! + And upward your flame there shall mount as on wings, + And damn the existing false order of things! + + + + + The Pale Operator + + + If but with my pen I could draw him, + With terror you'd look in his face; + For he, since the first day I saw him, + Has sat there and sewed in his place. + + Years pass in procession unending, + And ever the pale one is seen, + As over his work he sits bending, + And fights with the soulless machine. + + I feel, as I gaze at each feature, + Perspiring and grimy and wan, + It is not the strength of the creature,-- + The will only, urges him on. + + And ever the sweat-drops are flowing, + They fall o'er his thin cheek in streams, + They water the stuff he is sewing, + And soak themselves into the seams. + + How long shall the wheel yet, I pray you, + Be chased by the pale artisan? + And what shall the ending be, say you? + Resolve the dark riddle who can! + + I know that it cannot be reckoned,-- + But one thing the future will show: + When this man has vanished, a second + Will sit in his place there and sew. + + + + + The Beggar Family + + + Within the court, before the judge, + There stand six wretched creatures, + They're lame and weary, one and all, + With pinched and pallid features. + The father is a broken man, + The mother weak and ailing, + The little children, skin and bone, + With fear and hunger wailing. + + Their sins are very great, and call + Aloud for retribution, + For their's (maybe you guess!) the crime + Of hopeless destitution. + They look upon the judge's face, + They know what judges ponder, + They know the punishment that waits + On those that beg and wander. + + For months from justice they have fled + Along the streets and highways, + From farm to farm, from town to town, + Along the lanes and byways. + They've slept full oftentimes in jail, + They're known in many places; + Yet still they live, for all the woe + That's stamped upon their faces. + + The woman's chill with fear. The man + Implores the judge: "Oh tell us, + What will you? With our children small + Relentlessly expel us? + Oh let us be! We'll sleep at night + In corners dark; the city + Has room for all! And some kind soul + Will give a crust in pity. + + "For wife and children I will toil: + It cannot be much longer + (For God almighty is and good!) + Ere I for work am stronger. + Oh let us here with men remain, + Nor drive us any further! + Oh why our curses will you have, + And not our blessings rather!" + + And now the sick man quails before + The judge's piercing glances: + "No, only two of you shall go + This time and take your chances. + Your wife and you! The children four + You'll leave, my man, behind you, + For them, within the Orphan's Home, + Free places I will find you." + + The father's dumb--the mother shrieks: + "My babes and me you'd sever? + If God there be, such cruel act + Shall find forgiveness never! + But first, oh judge, must you condemn + To death their wretched mother-- + I cannot leave my children dear + With you or any other! + + "I bore and nursed them, struggling still + To shelter and to shield them, + Oh judge, I'll beg from door to door, + My very life-blood yield them! + I know you do not mean it, judge, + With us poor folk you're jesting. + Give back my babes, and further yet + We'll wander unprotesting." + + The judge, alas! has turned away, + The paper dread unrolled, + And useless all the mother's grief, + The wild and uncontrolled. + More cruel can a sentence be + Than that which now is given? + Oh cursed the system 'neath whose sway + The human heart is riven! + + + + + A Millionaire + + + No, not from tuning-forks of gold + Take I my key for singing; + From Upper Seats no order bold + Can set my music ringing; + But groans the slave through sense of wrong, + And naught my voice can smother; + As flame leaps up, so leaps my song + For my oppressed brother. + + And thus the end comes swift and sure... + Thus life itself must leave me; + For what can these my brothers poor + In compensation give me, + Save tears for ev'ry tear and sigh?-- + (For they are rich in anguish). + A millionaire of tears am I, + And mid my millions languish. + + + + + September Melodies + + + I + + + The summer is over! + 'Tis windy and chilly. + The flowers are dead in the dale. + All beauty has faded, + The rose and the lily + In death-sleep lie withered and pale. + + Now hurries the stormwind + A mournful procession + Of leaves and dead flowers along, + Now murmurs the forest + Its dying confession, + And hushed is the holiest song. + + Their "prayers of departure" + The wild birds are singing, + They fly to the wide stormy main. + Oh tell me, ye loved ones, + Whereto are ye winging? + Oh answer: when come ye again? + + Oh hark to the wailing + For joys that have vanished! + The answer is heavy with pain: + Alas! We know only + That hence we are banished-- + But God knows of coming again! + + + 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 scorned 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 quaked, + 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 armed 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. + + + + + Sfere + + + I asked of my Muse, had she any objection + To laughing with me,--not a word for reply! + You see, it is Sfere, 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 Sfere,--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 versed + In metre and measure, whenever he hears + The pitiful song of the Jewish dispersed, + 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 Sfere, 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! + + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Songs of Labor and Other Poems, by Morris Rosenfeld + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 6859.txt or 6859.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/6/8/5/6859/ + +Produced by S Goodman, David Starner and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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