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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Labor and Other Poems
by Morris Rosenfeld
translated by Rose Pastor Stokes and Helena Frank
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Title: Songs of Labor and Other Poems
Author: Morris Rosenfeld
translated by Rose Pastor Stokes and Helena Frank
Release Date: November, 2004 [EBook #6859]
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[This file was first posted on February 2, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS ***
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</pre>
<h1>Songs of Labor<br>
and Other Poems<br>
by Morris Rosenfeld</h1>
<P class="centered">Translated from the Yiddish by<br>
Rose Pastor Stokes and Helena Frank</p>
<p><img src="laborer.png" alt=""></p>
<hr>
<H2>Contents</H2>
<p><a href="#inthefactory">In the Factory</a><br>
<a href="#myboy">My Boy</a><br>
<a href="#thenightingale">The Nightingale to the Workman</a><br>
<a href="#whatistheworld">What is the World?</a><br>
<a href="#despair">Despair</a><br>
<a href="#whither">Whither?</a><br>
<a href="#fromdawntodawn">From Dawn to Dawn</a><br>
<a href="#thecandleseller">The Candle Seller</a><br>
<a href="#thepaleoperator">The Pale Operator</a><br>
<a href="#thebeggarfamily">The Beggar Family</a><br>
<a href="#amillionaire">A Millionaire</a><br>
<a href="#septembermelodies">September Melodies</a><br>
<a href="#depression">Depression</a><br>
<a href="#thecanary">The Canary</a><br>
<a href="#wantandi">Want and I</a><br>
<a href="#thephantomvessel">The Phantom Vessel</a><br>
<a href="#tomymisery">To my Misery</a><br>
<a href="#olongtheway">O Long the Way</a><br>
<a href="#tothefortuneseeker">To the Fortune Seeker</a><br>
<a href="#myyouth">My Youth</a><br>
<a href="#inthewilderness">In the Wilderness</a><br>
<a href="#iveoftenlaughed">I’ve Often Laughed</a><br>
<a href="#againisingmysongs">Again I Sing my Songs</a><br>
<a href="#liberty">Liberty</a><br>
<a href="#atreeintheghetto">A Tree in the Ghetto</a><br>
<a href="#thecemeterynightingale">The Cemetery Nightingale</a><br>
<a href="#thecreationofman">The Creation of Man</a><br>
<a href="#journalism">Journalism</a><br>
<a href="#penandshears">Pen and Shears</a><br>
<a href="#forhire">For Hire</a><br>
<a href="#afellowslave">A Fellow Slave</a><br>
<a href="#thejewishmay">The Jewish May</a><br>
<a href="#thefeastoflights">The Feast of Lights</a><br>
<a href="#chanukahthoughts">Chanukah Thoughts</a><br>
<a href="#sfere">Sfēré</a><br>
<a href="#measuringthegraves">Measuring the Graves</a><br>
<a href="#thefirstbathofablution">The First Bath of Ablution</a><br>
<a href="#atonementeveningprayer">Atonement Evening Prayer</a><br>
<a href="#exitholiday">Exit Holiday</a><br>
</p>
<hr>
<p class="centered">SONGS OF LABOR AND OTHER POEMS</p>
<hr>
<H2><a name="inthefactory">In the Factory</a></H2>
<p>Oh, here in the shop the machines roar so wildly,<br>
That oft, unaware that I am, or have been,<br>
I sink and am lost in the terrible tumult;<br>
And void is my soul... I am but a machine.<br>
I work and I work and I work, never ceasing;<br>
Create and create things from morning till e’en;<br>
For what?—and for whom—Oh, I know not! Oh, ask not!<br>
Who ever has heard of a conscious machine?</p>
<p>No, here is no feeling, no thought and no reason;<br>
This life-crushing labor has ever supprest<br>
The noblest and finest, the truest and richest,<br>
The deepest, the highest and humanly best.<br>
The seconds, the minutes, they pass out forever,<br>
They vanish, swift fleeting like straws in a gale.<br>
I drive the wheel madly as tho’ to o’ertake them,—<br>
Give chase without wisdom, or wit, or avail.</p>
<p>The clock in the workshop,—it rests not a moment;<br>
It points on, and ticks on: Eternity—Time;<br>
And once someone told me the clock had a meaning,—<br>
Its pointing and ticking had reason and rhyme.<br>
And this too he told me,—or had I been dreaming,—<br>
The clock wakened life in one, forces unseen,<br>
And something besides;... I forget what; Oh, ask not!<br>
I know not, I know not, I am a machine.</p>
<p>At times, when I listen, I hear the clock plainly;—<br>
The reason of old—the old meaning—is gone!<br>
The maddening pendulum urges me forward<br>
To labor and labor and still labor on.<br>
The tick of the clock is the Boss in his anger!<br>
The face of the clock has the eyes of a foe;<br>
The clock—Oh, I shudder—dost hear how it drives me?<br>
It calls me “Machine!” and it cries to me “Sew!”</p>
<p>At noon, when about me the wild tumult ceases,<br>
And gone is the master, and I sit apart,<br>
And dawn in my brain is beginning to glimmer,<br>
The wound comes agape at the core of my heart;<br>
And tears, bitter tears flow; ay, tears that are scalding;<br>
They moisten my dinner—my dry crust of bread;<br>
They choke me,—I cannot eat;—no, no, I cannot!<br>
Oh, horrible toil I born of Need and of Dread.</p>
<p>The sweatshop at mid-day—I’ll draw you the picture:<br>
A battlefield bloody; the conflict at rest;<br>
Around and about me the corpses are lying;<br>
The blood cries aloud from the earth’s gory breast.<br>
A moment... and hark! The loud signal is sounded,<br>
The dead rise again and renewed is the fight...<br>
They struggle, these corpses; for strangers, for strangers!<br>
They struggle, they fall, and they sink into night.</p>
<p>I gaze on the battle in bitterest anger,<br>
And pain, hellish pain wakes the rebel in me!<br>
The clock—now I hear it aright!—It is crying:<br>
“An end to this bondage! An end there must be!”<br>
It quickens my reason, each feeling within me;<br>
It shows me how precious the moments that fly.<br>
Oh, worthless my life if I longer am silent,<br>
And lost to the world if in silence I die.</p>
<p>The man in me sleeping begins to awaken;<br>
The thing that was slave into slumber has passed:<br>
Now; up with the man in me! Up and be doing!<br>
No misery more! Here is freedom at last!<br>
When sudden: a whistle!—the Boss—an alarum!—<br>
I sink in the slime of the stagnant routine;—<br>
There’s tumult, they struggle, oh, lost is my ego;—<br>
I know not, I care not, I am a machine!...</p>
<H2><a name="myboy">My Boy</a></H2>
<p>I have a little boy at home,<br>
A pretty little son;<br>
I think sometimes the world is mine<br>
In him, my only one.</p>
<p>But seldom, seldom do I see<br>
My child in heaven’s light;<br>
I find him always fast asleep...<br>
I see him but at night.</p>
<p>Ere dawn my labor drives me forth;<br>
’Tis night when I am free;<br>
A stranger am I to my child;<br>
And strange my child to me.</p>
<p>I come in darkness to my home,<br>
With weariness and—pay;<br>
My pallid wife, she waits to tell<br>
The things he learned to say.</p>
<p>How plain and prettily he asked:<br>
“Dear mamma, when’s ‘Tonight’?<br>
O when will come my dear papa<br>
And bring a penny bright?”</p>
<p>I hear her words—I hasten out—<br>
This moment must it be!—<br>
The father-love flames in my breast:<br>
My child must look at me!</p>
<p>I stand beside the tiny cot,<br>
And look, and list, and—ah!<br>
A dream-thought moves the baby-lips:<br>
“O, where is my papa!”</p>
<p>I kiss and kiss the shut blue eyes;<br>
I kiss them not in vain.<br>
They open,—O they see me then!<br>
And straightway close again.</p>
<p>“Here’s your papa, my precious one;—<br>
A penny for you!”—ah!<br>
A dream still moves the baby-lips:<br>
“O, where is my papa!”</p>
<p>And I—I think in bitterness<br>
And disappointment sore;<br>
“Some day you will awake, my child,<br>
To find me nevermore.”</p>
<H2><a name="thenightingale">The Nightingale to the Workman</a></H2>
<p>Fair summer is here, glad summer is here!<br>
O hark! ’tis to you I am singing:<br>
The sun is all gold in a heaven of blue,<br>
The birds in the forest are trilling for you,<br>
The flies ’mid the grasses are winging;<br>
The little brook babbles—its secret is sweet.<br>
The loveliest flowers would circle your feet,—<br>
And you to your work ever clinging!...<br>
Come forth! Nature loves you. Come forth! Do not fear!<br>
Fair summer is here, glad summer is here,<br>
Full measure of happiness bringing.<br>
All creatures drink deep; and they pour wine anew<br>
In the old cup of life, and they wonder at you.<br>
Your portion is waiting since summer began;<br>
Then take it, oh, take it, you laboring man!</p>
<p>’Tis summer today; ay, summer today!<br>
The butterflies light on the flowers.<br>
Delightfully glistens the silvery rain,<br>
The mountains are covered with greenness again,<br>
And perfumed and cool are the bowers.<br>
The sheep frisk about in the flowery vale,<br>
The shepherd and shepherdess pause in the dale,<br>
And these are the holiest hours!...<br>
Delay not, delay not, life passes away!<br>
’Tis summer today, sweet summer today!<br>
Come, throttle your wheel’s grinding power!...<br>
Your worktime is bitter and endless in length;<br>
And have you not foolishly lavished your strength?<br>
O think not the world is with bitterness rife,<br>
But drink of the wine from the goblet of life.</p>
<p>O, summer is here, sweet summer is here!<br>
I cannot forever be trilling;<br>
I flee on the morrow. Then, you, have a care!<br>
The crow, from the perch I am leaving, the air<br>
With ominous cries will be filling.<br>
O, while I am singing to you from my tree<br>
Of love, and of life, and of joy yet to be,<br>
Arouse you!—O why so unwilling!...<br>
The heavens remain not so blue and so clear;—<br>
Now summer is here! Come, summer is here!<br>
Reach out for the joys that are thrilling!<br>
For like you who fade at your wheel, day by day,<br>
Soon all things will fade and be carried away.<br>
Our lives are but moments; and sometimes the cost<br>
Of a moment o’erlooked is eternity lost.</p>
<H2><a name="whatistheworld">What is the World?</a></H2>
<p>Well, say you the world is a chamber of sleep,<br>
And life but a sleeping and dreaming?<br>
Then I too would dream: and would joyously reap<br>
The blooms of harmonious seeming;<br>
The dream-flow’rs of hope and of freedom, perchance,<br>
The rich are so merrily reaping;—<br>
In Love’s eyes I’d fancy the joy of romance;<br>
No more would I dream Love is weeping.</p>
<p>Or say you the world is a banquet, a ball,<br>
Where everyone goes who is able?<br>
I too wish to sit like a lord in the hall<br>
With savory share at the table.<br>
I too can enjoy what is wholesome and good,<br>
A morsel both dainty and healthy;<br>
I have in my body the same sort of blood<br>
That flows in the veins of the wealthy.</p>
<p>A garden you say is the world, where abound<br>
The sweetest and loveliest roses?<br>
Then would I, no leave asking, saunter around<br>
And gather me handfuls of posies.<br>
Of thorns I am sure I would make me no wreath;<br>
(Of flowers I am very much fonder).<br>
And with my beloved the bowers beneath<br>
I’d wander, and wander, and wander.</p>
<p>But ah! if the world is a battlefield wild,<br>
Where struggle the weak with the stronger,<br>
Then heed I no storm and no wife and no child!—<br>
I stand in abeyance no longer;—<br>
Rush into the fire of the battle nor yield,<br>
And fight for my perishing brother;<br>
Well, if I am struck—I can die on the field;<br>
Die gladly as well as another....</p>
<H2><a name="despair">Despair</a></H2>
<p>No rest—not one day in the seven for me?<br>
Not one, from the maddening yoke to be free?<br>
Not one to escape from the boss on the prowl,<br>
His sinister glance and his furious growl,<br>
The cry of the foreman, the smell of the shop,—<br>
To feel for one moment the manacles drop?<br>
—<i>’Tis rest then you want, and you fain would forget?<br>
To rest and oblivion they’ll carry you yet.</i></p>
<p>The flow’rs and the trees will have withered ere long,<br>
The last bird already is ending his song;<br>
And soon will be leafless and shadeless the bow’rs...<br>
I long, oh I long for the perfume of flow’rs!<br>
To feel for a moment ere stripped are the trees,<br>
In meadow lands open, the breath of the breeze.<br>
—<i>You long for the meadow lands breezy and fair?<br>
O, soon enough others will carry you there.</i></p>
<p>The rivulet sparkles with heavenly light,<br>
The wavelets they glisten, with diamonds bedight.<br>
Oh, but for a moment to leap in the stream,<br>
And play in the waters that ripple and gleam!<br>
My body is weakened with terrible toil.—<br>
The bath would refresh me, renew me the while.<br>
—<i>You dream of a bath in the shimmering stream?<br>
’Twill come—when forever is ended your dream.</i></p>
<p>The sweatshop is smoky and gloomy and mean—<br>
I strive—oh, how vainly I strive to be clean!<br>
All day I am covered with grime and with dirt.<br>
You’d laugh,—but I long for a spotless white shirt!<br>
For life that is noble, ’tis needful, I ween,<br>
To work as a man should; and still be as clean.<br>
—<i>So now ’tis your wish all in white to be dressed?<br>
In white they will robe you, and lay you to rest.</i></p>
<p>The woods they are cool, and the woods they are free;—<br>
To dream and to wander, how sweet it would be!<br>
The birds their eternal glad holiday keep;<br>
With song that enchants you and lulls you to sleep.<br>
’Tis hot here,—and close! and the din will not cease.<br>
I long for the forest, its coolth and its peace.<br>
—<i>Ay, cool you will soon be; and not only cool,<br>
But cold as no forest can make you, O Fool!</i></p>
<p>I long for a friend who will comfort and cheer,<br>
And fill me with courage when sorrow is near;<br>
A comrade, of treasures the rarest and best,<br>
Who gives to existence its crown and its crest;<br>
And I am an orphan—and I am alone;<br>
No friend or companion to call me his own.<br>
—<i>Companions a-plenty—they’re numberless too;<br>
They’re swarming already and waiting for you.</i></p>
<H2><a name="whither">Whither?</a></H2>
<H3>(To a Young Girl)</H3>
<p>Say whither, whither, pretty one?<br>
The hour is young at present!<br>
How hushed is all the world around!<br>
Ere dawn—the streets hold not a sound.<br>
O whither, whither do you run?<br>
Sleep at this hour is pleasant.<br>
The flowers are dreaming, dewy-wet;<br>
The bird-nests they are silent yet.<br>
Where to, before the rising sun<br>
The world her light is giving?</p>
<p>“To earn a living.”</p>
<p>O whither, whither, pretty child,<br>
So late at night a-strolling?<br>
Alone—with darkness round you curled?<br>
All rests!—and sleeping is the world.<br>
Where drives you now the wind so wild?<br>
The midnight bells are tolling!<br>
Day hath not warmed you with her light;<br>
What aid can’st hope then from the night?<br>
Night’s deaf and blind!—Oh whither, child,<br>
Light-minded fancies weaving?</p>
<p>“To earn a living.”</p>
<H2><a name="fromdawntodawn">From Dawn to Dawn</a></H2>
<p>I bend o’er the wheel at my sewing;<br>
I’m spent; and I’m hungry for rest;<br>
No curse on the master bestowing,—<br>
No hell-fires within me are glowing,—<br>
Tho’ pain flares its fires in my breast.</p>
<p>I mar the new cloth with my weeping,<br>
And struggle to hold back the tears;<br>
A fever comes over me, sweeping<br>
My veins; and all through me goes creeping<br>
A host of black terrors and fears.</p>
<p>The wounds of the old years ache newly;<br>
The gloom of the shop hems me in;<br>
But six o’clock signals come duly:<br>
O, freedom seems mine again, truly...<br>
Unhindered I haste from the din.</p>
<p class="centered">* * * * *</p>
<p>Now home again, ailing and shaking,<br>
With tears that are blinding my eyes,<br>
With bones that are creaking and breaking,<br>
Unjoyful of rest... merely taking<br>
A seat; hoping never to rise.</p>
<p>I gaze round me: none for a greeting!<br>
By Life for the moment unpressed,<br>
My poor wife lies sleeping—and beating<br>
A lip-tune in dream false and fleeting,<br>
My child mumbles close to her breast.</p>
<p>I look on them, weeping in sorrow,<br>
And think: “When the Reaper has come—<br>
When finds me no longer the morrow—<br>
What aid then?—from whom will they borrow<br>
The crust of dry bread and the home?</p>
<p>“What harbors that morrow,” I wonder,<br>
“For them when the breadwinner’s gone?<br>
When sudden and swift as the thunder<br>
The bread-bond is broken asunder,<br>
And friend in the world there is none.”</p>
<p>A numbness my brain is o’ertaking...<br>
To sleep for a moment I drop:<br>
Then start!... In the east light is breaking!—<br>
I drag myself, ailing and aching,<br>
Again to the gloom of the shop.</p>
<H2><a name="thecandleseller">The Candle Seller</a></H2>
<p>In Hester Street, hard by a telegraph post,<br>
There sits a poor woman as wan as a ghost.<br>
Her pale face is shrunk, like the face of the dead,<br>
And yet you can tell that her cheeks once were red.<br>
But love, ease and friendship and glory, I ween,<br>
May hardly the cause of their fading have been.<br>
Poor soul, she has wept so, she scarcely can see.<br>
A skeleton infant she holds on her knee.<br>
It tugs at her breast, and it whimpers and sleeps,<br>
But soon at her cry it awakens and weeps—<br>
“Two cents, my good woman, three candles will buy,<br>
As bright as their flame be my star in the sky!”</p>
<p>Tho’ few are her wares, and her basket is small,<br>
She earns her own living by these, when at all.<br>
She’s there with her baby in wind and in rain,<br>
In frost and in snow-fall, in weakness and pain.<br>
She trades and she trades, through the good times and slack—<br>
No home and no food, and no cloak to her back.<br>
She’s kithless and kinless—one friend at the most,<br>
And that one is silent: the telegraph post!<br>
She asks for no alms, the poor Jewess, but still,<br>
Altho’ she is wretched, forsaken and ill,<br>
She cries Sabbath candles to those that come nigh,<br>
And all that she pleads is, that people will buy.</p>
<p>To honor the sweet, holy Sabbath, each one<br>
With joy in his heart to the market has gone.<br>
To shops and to pushcarts they hurriedly fare;<br>
But who for the poor, wretched woman will care?<br>
A few of her candles you think they will take?—<br>
They seek the meat patties, the fish and the cake.<br>
She holds forth a hand with the pitiful cry:<br>
“Two cents, my good women, three candles will buy!”<br>
But no one has listened, and no one has heard:<br>
Her voice is so weak, that it fails at each word.<br>
Perchance the poor mite in her lap understood,<br>
She hears mother’s crying—but where is the good</p>
<p>I pray you, how long will she sit there and cry<br>
Her candles so feebly to all that pass by?<br>
How long will it be, do you think, ere her breath<br>
Gives out in the horrible struggle with Death?<br>
How long will this frail one in mother-love strong,<br>
Give suck to the babe at her breast? Oh, how long?<br>
The child mother’s tears used to swallow before,<br>
But mother’s eyes, nowadays, shed them no more.<br>
Oh, dry are the eyes now, and empty the brain,<br>
The heart well-nigh broken, the breath drawn with pain.<br>
Yet ever, tho’ faintly, she calls out anew:<br>
“Oh buy but two candles, good women, but two!”</p>
<p>In Hester Street stands on the pavement of stone<br>
A small, orphaned basket, forsaken, alone.<br>
Beside it is sitting a corpse, cold and stark:<br>
The seller of candles—will nobody mark?<br>
No, none of the passers have noticed her yet.<br>
The rich ones, on feasting are busily set,<br>
And such as are pious, you well may believe,<br>
Have no time to spare on the gay Sabbath eve.<br>
So no one has noticed and no one has seen.<br>
And now comes the nightfall, and with it, serene,<br>
The Princess, the Sabbath, from Heaven descends,<br>
And all the gay throng to the synagogue wends.</p>
<p>Within, where they pray, all is cleanly and bright,<br>
The cantor sings sweetly, they list with delight.<br>
But why in a dream stands the tall chandelier,<br>
As dim as the candles that gleam round a bier?<br>
The candles belonged to the woman, you know,<br>
Who died in the street but a short time ago.<br>
The rich and the pious have brought them tonight,<br>
For mother and child they have set them alight.<br>
The rich and the pious their duty have done:<br>
Her tapers are lighted who died all alone.<br>
The rich and the pious are nobly behaved:<br>
A body—what matters? But souls must be saved!</p>
<p>O synagogue lights, be ye witnesses bold<br>
That mother and child died of hunger and cold<br>
Where millions are squandered in idle display;<br>
That men, all unheeded, must starve by the way.<br>
Then hold back your flame, blessed lights, hold it fast!<br>
The great day of judgment will come at the last.<br>
Before the white throne, where imposture is vain,<br>
Ye lights for the soul, ye’ll be lighted again!<br>
And upward your flame there shall mount as on wings,<br>
And damn the existing false order of things!</p>
<H2><a name="thepaleoperator">The Pale Operator</a></H2>
<p>If but with my pen I could draw him,<br>
With terror you’d look in his face;<br>
For he, since the first day I saw him,<br>
Has sat there and sewed in his place.</p>
<p>Years pass in procession unending,<br>
And ever the pale one is seen,<br>
As over his work he sits bending,<br>
And fights with the soulless machine.</p>
<p>I feel, as I gaze at each feature,<br>
Perspiring and grimy and wan,<br>
It is not the strength of the creature,—<br>
The will only, urges him on.</p>
<p>And ever the sweat-drops are flowing,<br>
They fall o’er his thin cheek in streams,<br>
They water the stuff he is sewing,<br>
And soak themselves into the seams.</p>
<p>How long shall the wheel yet, I pray you,<br>
Be chased by the pale artisan?<br>
And what shall the ending be, say you?<br>
Resolve the dark riddle who can!</p>
<p>I know that it cannot be reckoned,—<br>
But one thing the future will show:<br>
When this man has vanished, a second<br>
Will sit in his place there and sew.</p>
<H2><a name="thebeggarfamily">The Beggar Family</a></H2>
<p>Within the court, before the judge,<br>
There stand six wretched creatures,<br>
They’re lame and weary, one and all,<br>
With pinched and pallid features.<br>
The father is a broken man,<br>
The mother weak and ailing,<br>
The little children, skin and bone,<br>
With fear and hunger wailing.</p>
<p>Their sins are very great, and call<br>
Aloud for retribution,<br>
For their’s (maybe you guess!) the crime<br>
Of hopeless destitution.<br>
They look upon the judge’s face,<br>
They know what judges ponder,<br>
They know the punishment that waits<br>
On those that beg and wander.</p>
<p>For months from justice they have fled<br>
Along the streets and highways,<br>
From farm to farm, from town to town,<br>
Along the lanes and byways.<br>
They’ve slept full oftentimes in jail,<br>
They’re known in many places;<br>
Yet still they live, for all the woe<br>
That’s stamped upon their faces.</p>
<p>The woman’s chill with fear. The man<br>
Implores the judge: “Oh tell us,<br>
What will you? With our children small<br>
Relentlessly expel us?<br>
Oh let us be! We’ll sleep at night<br>
In corners dark; the city<br>
Has room for all! And some kind soul<br>
Will give a crust in pity.</p>
<p>“For wife and children I will toil:<br>
It cannot be much longer<br>
(For God almighty is and good!)<br>
Ere I for work am stronger.<br>
Oh let us here with men remain,<br>
Nor drive us any further!<br>
Oh why our curses will you have,<br>
And not our blessings rather!”</p>
<p>And now the sick man quails before<br>
The judge’s piercing glances:<br>
“No, only two of you shall go<br>
This time and take your chances.<br>
Your wife and you! The children four<br>
You’ll leave, my man, behind you,<br>
For them, within the Orphan’s Home,<br>
Free places I will find you.”</p>
<p>The father’s dumb—the mother shrieks:<br>
“My babes and me you’d sever?<br>
If God there be, such cruel act<br>
Shall find forgiveness never!<br>
But first, oh judge, must you condemn<br>
To death their wretched mother—<br>
I cannot leave my children dear<br>
With you or any other!</p>
<p>“I bore and nursed them, struggling still<br>
To shelter and to shield them,<br>
Oh judge, I’ll beg from door to door,<br>
My very life-blood yield them!<br>
I know you do not mean it, judge,<br>
With us poor folk you’re jesting.<br>
Give back my babes, and further yet<br>
We’ll wander unprotesting.”</p>
<p>The judge, alas! has turned away,<br>
The paper dread unrolled,<br>
And useless all the mother’s grief,<br>
The wild and uncontrolled.<br>
More cruel can a sentence be<br>
Than that which now is given?<br>
Oh cursed the system ’neath whose sway<br>
The human heart is riven!</p>
<H2><a name="amillionaire">A Millionaire</a></H2>
<p>No, not from tuning-forks of gold<br>
Take I my key for singing;<br>
From Upper Seats no order bold<br>
Can set my music ringing;<br>
But groans the slave through sense of wrong,<br>
And naught my voice can smother;<br>
As flame leaps up, so leaps my song<br>
For my oppressed brother.</p>
<p>And thus the end comes swift and sure...<br>
Thus life itself must leave me;<br>
For what can these my brothers poor<br>
In compensation give me,<br>
Save tears for ev’ry tear and sigh?—<br>
(For they are rich in anguish).<br>
A millionaire of tears am I,<br>
And mid my millions languish.</p>
<H2><a name="septembermelodies">September Melodies</a></H2>
<H3>I</H3>
<p>The summer is over!<br>
’Tis windy and chilly.<br>
The flowers are dead in the dale.<br>
All beauty has faded,<br>
The rose and the lily<br>
In death-sleep lie withered and pale.</p>
<p>Now hurries the stormwind<br>
A mournful procession<br>
Of leaves and dead flowers along,<br>
Now murmurs the forest<br>
Its dying confession,<br>
And hushed is the holiest song.</p>
<p>Their “prayers of departure”<br>
The wild birds are singing,<br>
They fly to the wide stormy main.<br>
Oh tell me, ye loved ones,<br>
Whereto are ye winging?<br>
Oh answer: when come ye again?</p>
<p>Oh hark to the wailing<br>
For joys that have vanished!<br>
The answer is heavy with pain:<br>
Alas! We know only<br>
That hence we are banished—<br>
But God knows of coming again!</p>
<H3>II</H3>
<p>The Tkiyes*-man has blown his horn,<br>
And swift the days’ declining;<br>
The leaves drop off, in fields forlorn<br>
Are tender grasses pining.</p>
<p>The earth will soon be cold and bare,<br>
Her robe of glory falling;<br>
Already to the mourner’s prayer<br>
The last wild bird is calling.</p>
<p>He sings so sweetly and so sad<br>
A song of friends who parted,<br>
That even if it find you glad,<br>
It leaves you broken hearted.</p>
<p>The copses shudder in the breeze,<br>
Some dream-known terror fearing.<br>
Awake! O great and little trees!<br>
The Judgment-day is nearing!</p>
<p>O men! O trees in copses cold!<br>
Beware the rising weather!<br>
Or late or soon, both young and old<br>
Shall strew the ground together... .</p>
<p>[*Tkiye: first blast of the Ram’s horn.]</p>
<H2><a name="depression">Depression</a></H2>
<p>All the striving, all the failing,<br>
To the silent Nothing sailing.<br>
Swiftly, swiftly passing by!<br>
For the land of shadows leaving,<br>
Where a wistful hand is weaving<br>
Thy still woof, Eternity!</p>
<p>Gloomy thoughts in me awaken,<br>
And with fear my breast is shaken,<br>
Thinking: O thou black abyss;<br>
All the toil and thrift of life,<br>
All the struggle and the strife,<br>
Shall it come at last to this?</p>
<p>With the grave shall be requited<br>
Good and evil, and united<br>
Ne’er to separate again?<br>
What the light hath parted purely,<br>
Shall the darkness join more surely?—<br>
Was the vict’ry won in vain?</p>
<p>O mute and infinite extension,<br>
O time beyond our comprehension,<br>
Shall thought and deed ungarnered fall?<br>
Ev’rything dost take and slay,<br>
Ev’rything dost bear away,<br>
Silent Nothing, silent All!...</p>
<H2><a name="thecanary">The Canary</a></H2>
<p>The free canary warbles<br>
In leafy forest dell:<br>
Who feels what rapture thrills her,<br>
And who her joy can tell?</p>
<p>The sweet canary warbles<br>
Where wealth and splendor dwell:<br>
Who knows what sorrow moves her,<br>
And who her pain can tell?</p>
<H2><a name="wantandi">Want And I</a></H2>
<p>Who’s there? who’s there? who was it tried<br>
To force the entrance I’ve denied?<br>
An ’twere a friend, I’d gladly borne it,<br>
But no—’twas Want! I could have sworn it.<br>
I heard thy voice, old witch, I know thee!<br>
Avaunt, thou evil hag, beshrew thee!<br>
God’s curse! why seekest thou to find me?<br>
Away to all black years behind me!</p>
<p>To torture me was thine endeavor,<br>
My body from my soul to sever,<br>
Of pride and courage to deprive me,<br>
And into beggary to drive me.<br>
Begone, where thousand devils burn—<br>
Begone, nor evermore return!<br>
Begone, most wretched thou of creatures,<br>
And hide for aye thine hateful features!<br>
—Beloved, ope the door in pity!</p>
<p>No friend have I in all the city<br>
Save thee, then open to my call!<br>
The night is bleak, the snowflakes fall.<br>
Thine own, old Want am I, believe me!<br>
Ah, what delight, wilt thou receive me?<br>
I found, when I from thee had parted,<br>
No friend but he was fickle-hearted!</p>
<p>Away, old hag! Thou liest, lo,<br>
Thou harbinger of pain and woe!<br>
Away—am I thine only friend?<br>
Thy lovers pale, they have no end!<br>
Thou vile one, may the devil take thee!<br>
Begone and no more visits make me!<br>
For—Yiddish writers not to mention—<br>
Men hold thee no such rare invention.</p>
<p>—’Tis true! yet those must wait my leisure.<br>
To be with thee is now my pleasure.<br>
I love thy black and curling hair,<br>
I love thy wounded heart’s despair,<br>
I love thy sighs, I love to swallow<br>
Thy tears and all thy songs to follow.<br>
Oh great indeed, might I but show it,<br>
My love for thee, my pale-faced poet!</p>
<p>Away, I’ve heard all that before,<br>
And am a writer, mark, no more.<br>
Instead of verses, wares I tell,<br>
And candy and tobacco sell.<br>
My life is sweet, my life is bitter.<br>
I’m ready and a prompt acquitter.<br>
Oh, smarter traders there are many,<br>
Yet live I well and turn a penny.</p>
<p>—A dealer then wilt thou remain,<br>
Forever from the pen abstain?<br>
Good resolutions time disperses:<br>
Thou yet shalt hunger o’er thy verses,<br>
But vainly seeking to excuse thee<br>
Because thou dost, tonight, refuse me.<br>
Then open, fool, I tell thee plain,<br>
That we perforce shall meet again.</p>
<p>Begone the way that I direct thee!<br>
I’ve millionaires now to protect me;<br>
No need to beg, no need to borrow,<br>
Nor fear a penniless tomorrow,<br>
Nor walk with face of blackest omen<br>
To thrill the hearts of stupid foemen,<br>
Who fain my pride to earth would bring,<br>
Because, forsooth, I sweetly sing!</p>
<p>—Ho ho! ere thou art grown much older,<br>
Thy millionaires will all grow colder.<br>
Thou soon shalt be forgotten by them—<br>
They’ve other things to occupy them!<br>
Just now with thee they’re playing kindly,<br>
But fortune’s wheel is turning blindly<br>
To grind thy pleasures ere thou know it—<br>
And thou art left to me, my poet!</p>
<H2><a name="thephantomvessel">The Phantom Vessel</a></H2>
<p>Now the last, long rays of sunset<br>
To the tree-tops are ascending,<br>
And the ash-gray evening shadows<br>
Weave themselves around the earth.</p>
<p>On the crest of yonder mountain,<br>
Now are seen from out the distance<br>
Slowly fading crimson traces;<br>
Footprints of the dying day.</p>
<p>Blood-stained banners, torn and tattered,<br>
Hanging in the western corner,<br>
Dip their parched and burning edges<br>
In the cooling ocean wave.</p>
<p>Smoothly roll the crystal wavelets<br>
Through the dusky veils of twilight,<br>
That are trembling down from heaven<br>
O’er the bosom of the sea.</p>
<p>Soft a little wind is blowing<br>
O’er the gently rippling waters—<br>
What they whisper, what they murmur,<br>
Who is wise enough to say?</p>
<p>Broad her snow-white sails outspreading<br>
’Gainst the quiet sky of evening,<br>
Flies a ship without a sailor,<br>
Flies—and whither, who can tell?</p>
<p>As by magic moves the rudder;<br>
Borne upon her snowy pinions<br>
Flies the ship—as tho’ a spirit<br>
Drove her onward at its will!</p>
<p>Empty is she, and deserted,<br>
Only close beside the mainmast<br>
Stands a lonely child, heartbroken,<br>
Sobbing loud and bitterly.</p>
<p>Long and golden curls are falling<br>
Down his neck and o’er his shoulders;<br>
Now he glances backward sighing,<br>
And the silent ship flies on!</p>
<p>With a little, shining kerchief,<br>
Fluttering upon the breezes,<br>
Unto me he sends a greeting,<br>
From afar he waves farewell.</p>
<p>And my heart is throbbing wildly,<br>
I am weeping—tell me wherefore?<br>
God! that lovely child, I know him!<br>
’Tis my youth that flies from me!</p>
<H2><a name="tomymisery">To My Misery</a></H2>
<p>O Misery of mine, no other<br>
In faithfulness can match with thee,<br>
Thou more than friend, and more than brother,<br>
The only thing that cares for me!</p>
<p>Where’er I turn, are unkind faces,<br>
And hate and treachery and guile,<br>
Thou, Mis’ry, in all times and places,<br>
Dost greet me with thy pallid smile.</p>
<p>At birth I found thee waiting for me,<br>
I knew thee in my cradle first,<br>
The same small eyes and dim watched o’er me,<br>
The same dry, bony fingers nursed.</p>
<p>And day by day when morning lightened,<br>
To school thou led’st me—home did’st bring,<br>
And thine were all the blooms that brightened<br>
The chilly landscape of my spring.</p>
<p>And, thou my match and marriage monger,<br>
The marriage deed by thee was read;<br>
The hands foretelling need and hunger<br>
Were laid in blessing on my head.</p>
<p>Thy love for me shall last unshaken,<br>
No further proof I ask, for when<br>
My hopes for aye were from me taken,<br>
My Mis’ry, thou wert with me then;</p>
<p>And still, while sorrow’s storm is breaking<br>
Above me, and my head I bow—<br>
The kindly and the unforsaking,<br>
Oh Mis’ry, thou art with me now.</p>
<p>Ay, still from out Fate’s gloomy towers<br>
I see thee come to me again,<br>
With wreaths of everlasting flowers,<br>
And songs funereal in thy train.</p>
<p>And when life’s curses rock me nightly,<br>
And hushed I lie in slumber’s hold,<br>
Thy sable form comes treading lightly<br>
To wrap me in its garments fold.</p>
<p>Thy brother let me be, and wholly<br>
Repay thee all I owe, tho’ late:<br>
My aching heart, my melancholy,<br>
My songs to thee I dedicate.</p>
<H2><a name="olongtheway">O Long The Way</a></H2>
<p>O long the way and short the day,<br>
No light in tower or town,<br>
The waters roar and far the shore—<br>
My ship, my ship goes down!</p>
<p>’Tis all in vain to strive again,<br>
My cry the billows drown,<br>
The fight is done, the wind has won—<br>
My ship, my ship goes down!</p>
<p>Bright sun, adieu! Thou’lt shine anew<br>
When skies no longer frown,<br>
But I—the deafening billows crash—<br>
My ship, my ship goes down!</p>
<H2><a name="tothefortuneseeker">To The Fortune Seeker</a></H2>
<p>A little more, a little less!—<br>
O shadow-hunters pitiless,<br>
Why then so eager, say!<br>
What’er you leave the grave will take,<br>
And all you gain and all you make,<br>
It will not last a day!</p>
<p>Full soon will come the Reaper Black,<br>
Cut thorns and flowers mark his track<br>
Across Life’s meadow blithe.<br>
Oppose him, meet him as you will,<br>
Old Time’s behests he harkens still,<br>
Unsparing wields his scythe.</p>
<p>A horrid mutiny by stealth<br>
Breaks out,—of power, fame and wealth<br>
Deserted you shall be!<br>
The foam upon your lip is rife;<br>
The last enigma now of Life<br>
Shall Death resolve for thee.</p>
<p>You call for help—’tis all in vain!<br>
What have you for your toil and pain,<br>
What have you at the last?<br>
Poor luckless hunter, are you dumb?<br>
This way the cold pall-bearers come:<br>
A beggar’s soul has passed!</p>
<p>A little less, a little more !—<br>
Look forth, look forth! without the door<br>
There stands a robber old.<br>
He’ll force your ev’ry lock and spring,<br>
And all your goods he’ll take and fling<br>
On Stygian waters cold.</p>
<H2><a name="myyouth">My Youth</a></H2>
<p>Come, beneath yon verdant branches,<br>
Come, my own, with me!<br>
Come, and there my soul will open<br>
Secret doors to thee.<br>
Yonder shalt thou learn the secrets<br>
Deep within my breast,<br>
Where my love upsprings eternal;<br>
Come! with pain opprest,<br>
Yonder all the truth I’ll tell thee,<br>
Tell it thee with tears...<br>
(Ah, so long have we been parted,<br>
Years of youth, sweet years!)</p>
<p>See’st thou the dancers floating<br>
On a stream of sound?<br>
There alone, the soul entrancing,<br>
Happiness is found!<br>
Magic music, hark! it calls us,<br>
Ringing wild and sweet!<br>
One, two, three!—beloved, haste thee,<br>
Point thy dainty feet!<br>
Now at last I feel that living<br>
Is no foolish jest...<br>
(O sweet years of youth departed,<br>
Vanished with the rest!)</p>
<p>Fiddler, play a little longer!<br>
Why this hurry, say?<br>
I’m but half-way through a measure—<br>
Yet a little play!<br>
Smiling in her wreath of flowers<br>
Is my love not fair?<br>
See us in the charmed circle,<br>
Flitting light as air!<br>
Haste thee, loved one, for the music<br>
Shall be hushed anon...<br>
(O sweet years of youth departed,<br>
Whither are ye gone?)</p>
<p>Gracious youth of mine, so quickly<br>
Hath it come to this?<br>
Lo, where flowed the golden river,<br>
Yawns the black abyss!<br>
Where, oh where is my beloved,<br>
Where the wreath of flowers?<br>
Where, oh where the merry fiddler,<br>
Where those happy hours?<br>
Shall I never hear the echoes<br>
Of those songs again?<br>
Oh, on what hills are they ringing,<br>
O’er what sunny plain?<br>
May not I from out the distance<br>
Cast one backward glance<br>
On that fair and lost existence,<br>
Youth’s sweet dalliance?<br>
Foolish dreamer! Time hath snatched it,<br>
And, tho’ man implore,<br>
Joys that <i>he</i> hath reaped and garnered<br>
Bloom again no more!</p>
<H2><a name="inthewilderness">In The Wilderness</a></H2>
<p>Alone in desert dreary,<br>
A bird with folded wings<br>
Beholds the waste about her,<br>
And sweetly, sweetly sings.</p>
<p>So heaven-sweet her singing,<br>
So clear the bird notes flow,<br>
’Twould seem the rocks must waken,<br>
The desert vibrant grow.</p>
<p>Dead rocks and silent mountains<br>
Would’st waken with thy strain,—<br>
But dumb are still the mountains,<br>
And dead the rocks remain.</p>
<p>For whom, O heavenly singer,<br>
Thy song so clear and free?<br>
Who hears or sees or heeds thee,<br>
Who feels or cares for thee?</p>
<p>Thou may’st outpour in music<br>
Thy very soul... ’Twere vain!<br>
In stone thou canst not waken<br>
A throb of joy or pain.</p>
<p>Thy song shall soon be silenced;<br>
I feel it... For I know<br>
Thy heart is near to bursting<br>
With loneliness and woe.</p>
<p>Ah, vain is thine endeavor;<br>
It naught availeth—nay;<br>
For lonely as thou camest,<br>
So shalt thou pass away.</p>
<H2><a name="iveoftenlaughed">I’ve Often Laughed</a></H2>
<p>I’ve often laughed and oftener still have wept,<br>
A sighing always through my laughter crept,<br>
Tears were not far away...<br>
What is there to say?</p>
<p>I’ve spoken much and oftener held by tongue,<br>
For still the most was neither said nor sung.<br>
Could I but tell it so...<br>
What is there to know?</p>
<p>I’ve hated much and loved, oh so much more!<br>
Fierce contrasts at my very heartstrings tore...<br>
I tried to fight them—well...<br>
What is there to tell?</p>
<H2><a name="againisingmysongs">Again I Sing my Songs</a></H2>
<p>Once again my songs I sing thee,<br>
Now the spell is broken;<br>
Brothers, yet again I bring thee<br>
Songs of love the token.<br>
Of my joy and of my sorrow<br>
Gladly, sadly bringing;—<br>
Summer not a song would borrow—<br>
Winter sets me singing.</p>
<p>O when life turns sad and lonely,<br>
When our joys are dead;<br>
When are heard the ravens only<br>
In the trees o’erhead;<br>
When the stormwind on the bowers<br>
Wreaks its wicked will,<br>
When the frost paints lying flowers,<br>
How should I be still?</p>
<p>When the clouds are low descending,<br>
And the sun is drowned;<br>
When the winter knows no ending,<br>
And the cold is crowned;<br>
When with evil gloom oppressed<br>
Lie the ruins bare;<br>
When a sigh escapes the breast,<br>
Takes us unaware;</p>
<p>When the snow-wrapped mountain dreams<br>
Of its summer gladness,<br>
When the wood is stripped and seems<br>
Full of care and sadness;<br>
When the songs are growing still<br>
As in Death’s repose,<br>
And the heart is growing chill,<br>
And the eyelids close;</p>
<p>Then, O then I can but sing<br>
For I dream her coming—<br>
May, sweet May! I see her bring<br>
Buds and wild-bee humming!<br>
Through the silence heart-appalling,<br>
As I stand and listen,<br>
I can hear her song-birds calling,<br>
See her green leaves glisten!</p>
<p>Thus again my songs I sing thee,<br>
Now the spell is broken;<br>
Brothers, yet again I bring thee<br>
Of my love the token.<br>
Of my joy and of my sorrow<br>
Gladly, sadly bringing,—<br>
Summer not a song would borrow!—<br>
Winter sets me singing.</p>
<H2><a name="liberty">Liberty</a></H2>
<p>When night and silence deep<br>
Hold all the world in sleep,<br>
As tho’ Death claimed the Hour,<br>
By some strange witchery<br>
Appears her form to me,<br>
As tho’ Magic were her dow’r.</p>
<p>Her beauty heaven’s light!<br>
Her bosom snowy white!<br>
But pale her cheek appears.<br>
Her shoulders firm and fair;<br>
A mass of gold her hair.<br>
Her eyes—the home of tears.</p>
<p>She looks at me nor speaks.<br>
Her arms are raised; she seeks<br>
Her fettered hands to show.<br>
On both white wrists a chain!—<br>
She cries and pleads in pain:<br>
“Unbind me!—Let me go!”</p>
<p>I burn with bitter ire,<br>
I leap in wild desire<br>
The cruel bonds to break;<br>
But God! around the chain<br>
Is coiled and coiled again<br>
A long and loathsome snake.</p>
<p>I shout, I cry, I chide;<br>
My voice goes far and wide,<br>
A ringing call to men:<br>
“Oh come, let in the light!<br>
Arise! Ye have the might!<br>
Set Freedom free again!”</p>
<p>They sleep. But I strive on.<br>
They sleep!... Can’st wake a stone?...<br>
That one might stir! but one!<br>
Call I, or hold my peace,<br>
None comes to her release;<br>
And hope for her is none.</p>
<p>But who may see her plight<br>
And not go mad outright!...<br>
“Now: up! For Freedom’s sake!”<br>
I spring to take her part:—<br>
“Fool!” cries a voice. I start...<br>
In anguish I awake.</p>
<H2><a name="atreeintheghetto">A Tree in the Ghetto</a></H2>
<p>There stands in th’ leafless Ghetto<br>
One spare-leaved, ancient tree;<br>
Above the Ghetto noises<br>
It moans eternally.</p>
<p>In wonderment it muses,<br>
And murmurs with a sigh:<br>
“Alas! how God-forsaken<br>
And desolate am I!</p>
<p>“Alas, the stony alleys,<br>
And noises loud and bold!<br>
Where are ye, birds of summer?<br>
Where are ye, woods of old?</p>
<p>“And where, ye breezes balmy<br>
That wandered vagrant here?<br>
And where, oh sweep of heavens<br>
So deep and blue and clear?</p>
<p>“Where are ye, mighty giants?<br>
Ye come not riding by<br>
Upon your fiery horses,<br>
A-whistling merrily.</p>
<p>“Of other days my dreaming,<br>
Of other days, ah me!<br>
When sturdy hero-races<br>
Lived wild and glad and free!</p>
<p>“The old sun shone, how brightly!<br>
The old lark sang, what song!<br>
O’er earth Desire and Gladness<br>
Reigned happily and long</p>
<p>“But see! what are these ant-hills?—<br>
These ants that creep and crawl?...<br>
Bereft of man and nature,<br>
My life is stripped of all!</p>
<p>“And I, an ancient orphan,<br>
What do I here alone?<br>
My friends have all departed,<br>
My youth and glory gone.</p>
<p>“Oh, tear me, root and branches!<br>
No longer let me be<br>
A living head-stone, brooding<br>
O’er the grave of liberty.”</p>
<H2><a name="thecemeterynightingale">The Cemetery Nightingale</a></H2>
<p>In the hills’ embraces holden,<br>
In a valley filled with glooms,<br>
Lies a cemetery olden,<br>
Strewn with countless mould’ring tombs.</p>
<p>Ancient graves o’erhung with mosses,<br>
Crumbling stones, effaced and green,—<br>
Venturesome is he who crosses,<br>
Night or day, the lonely scene.</p>
<p>Blasted trees and willow streamers,<br>
’Midst the terror round them spread,<br>
Seem like awe-bound, silent dreamers<br>
In this garden of the dead.</p>
<p>One bird, anguish stricken, lingers<br>
In the shadow of the vale,<br>
First and best of feathered singers,—<br>
’Tis the churchyard nightingale.</p>
<p>As from bough to bough he flutters,<br>
Sweetest songs of woe and wail<br>
Through his gift divine he utters<br>
For the dreamers in the vale.</p>
<p>Listen how his trills awaken<br>
Echoes from each mossy stone!<br>
Of all places he has taken<br>
God’s still Acre for his own.</p>
<p class="centered">* * * * *</p>
<p>Not on Spring or Summer glory,<br>
Not on god or angel story<br>
Loyal poet-fancy dwells!<br>
Not on streams for rich men flowing,<br>
Not on fields for rich men’s mowing,—<br>
Graves he sees, of graves he tells.<br>
Pain, oppression, woe eternal,<br>
Open heart-wounds deep, diurnal,<br>
Nothing comforts or allays;<br>
O’er God’s Acre in each nation<br>
Sings he songs of tribulation<br>
Tunes his golden harp and plays.</p>
<H2><a name="thecreationofman">The Creation Of Man</a></H2>
<p>When the world was first created<br>
By th’ all-wise Eternal One,<br>
Asked he none for help or counsel,—<br>
Simply spake, and it was done!</p>
<p>Made it for his own good pleasure,<br>
Shaped it on his own design,<br>
Spent a long day’s work upon it,<br>
Formed it fair and very fine.</p>
<p>Soon he thought on man’s creation,—<br>
Then perplexities arose,<br>
So the Lord His winged Senate<br>
Called, the question to propose:</p>
<p>Hear, my great ones, why I called ye,<br>
Hear and help me ye who can,<br>
Hear and tell me how I further<br>
Shall proceed in making man.</p>
<p>Ponder well before ye answer,<br>
And consider, children dear;—<br>
In our image I would make him,<br>
Free from stain, from blemish clear.</p>
<p>Of my holy fire I’d give him,<br>
Crowned monarch shall he be,<br>
Ruling with a sway unquestioned<br>
Over earth and air and sea.</p>
<p>Birds across the blue sky winging<br>
Swift shall fly before his face,—<br>
Silver fishes in the ocean,<br>
Savage lion in the chase.</p>
<p>—How? This toy of froth and vapor,<br>
Thought the Senate, filled with fear,<br>
If so wide his kingdom stretches,<br>
Shortly he will break in here!</p>
<p>So the Lord they answered, saying:—<br>
Mind and strength Thy creature give,<br>
Form him in our very image,<br>
Lord, but wingless let him live!</p>
<p>Lest he shame the soaring eagle<br>
Let no wings to man be giv’n,<br>
Bid him o’er the earth be ruler,<br>
Lord, but keep him out of heav’n!</p>
<p>Wisely said, the Lord made answer,<br>
Lo, your counsel fair I take!<br>
Yet, my Senate, one exception—<br>
One alone, I will to make.</p>
<p>One exception! for the poet,<br>
For the singer, shall have wings;<br>
He the gates of Heav’n shall enter,<br>
Highest of created things.</p>
<p>One I single from among ye,<br>
One to watch the ages long,<br>
Promptly to admit the poet<br>
When he hears his holy song.</p>
<H2><a name="journalism">Journalism</a></H2>
<p>Written today, and read today,<br>
And stale the news tomorrow!—<br>
Upon the sands I build... I <i>play!</i><br>
I play, and weep in sorrow:<br>
“Ah God, dear God! to find cessation<br>
From this soul-crushing occupation!<br>
If but one year ere Thou dost call me Thither,<br>
Lord, at this blighting task let me not wither.”</p>
<H2><a name="penandshears">Pen and Shears</a></H2>
<p>My tailor’s shears I scornèd then;<br>
I strove for something higher:<br>
To edit news—live by the pen—<br>
The pen that shall not tire!</p>
<p>The pen, that was my humble slave,<br>
Has now enslaved its master;<br>
And fast as flows its Midas-wave,<br>
My rebel tears flow faster.</p>
<p>The world I clad once, tailor-hired,<br>
Whilst I in tatters quakèd,<br>
Today, you see me well attired,<br>
Who lets the world go naked.</p>
<p>What human soul, how’er oppressed,<br>
Can feel my chained soul’s yearning!<br>
A monster woe lies in my breast,<br>
In voiceless anguish burning.</p>
<p>Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!<br>
I’ll bear as ne’er I bore it.<br>
My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!...<br>
Now less I’ll blame you for it.</p>
<p>I’ll stitch as ne’er in former years;<br>
I’ll drive the mad wheel faster;<br>
Slave will I be but to the shears;<br>
The pen shall know its master!</p>
<H2><a name="forhire">For Hire</a></H2>
<p>Work with might and main,<br>
Or with hand and heart,<br>
Work with soul and brain,<br>
Or with holy art,<br>
Thread, or genius’ fire—<br>
Make a vest, or verse—<br>
If ’tis done for hire,<br>
It is done the worse.</p>
<H2><a name="afellowslave">A Fellow Slave</a></H2>
<p>Pale-faced is he, as in the door<br>
He stands and trembles visibly,—<br>
With diffidence approaches me,<br>
And says: “Dear editor,</p>
<p>“Since write you must, in prose or rhyme,<br>
Expose my master’s knavery,<br>
Condemn, I pray, the slavery<br>
That dominates our time.</p>
<p>“I labor for a wicked man<br>
Who holds o’er all my being sway,—<br>
Who keeps me harnessed night and day.<br>
Since work I first began.</p>
<p>“No leisure moments do I store,<br>
Yet harsh words only will he speak;<br>
My days are his, from week to week,<br>
But still he cries for more.</p>
<p>“Oh print, I beg you, all I’ve said,<br>
And ask the world if this be right:<br>
To give the worker wage so slight<br>
That he must want for bread.</p>
<p>“See, I have sinews powerful,<br>
And I’ve endurance, subtle skill,—<br>
Yet may not use them at my will,<br>
But live a master’s tool.</p>
<p>“But oh, without avail do I<br>
Lay bare the woes of workingmen!<br>
Who earns his living by the pen,<br>
Feels not our misery.”</p>
<p>The pallid slave yet paler grew,<br>
And ended here his bitter cry...<br>
And thus to him I made reply:<br>
“My friend, you judge untrue.</p>
<p>“My strength and skill, like yours, are gain<br>
For others... Sold!... You understand?<br>
Your master—well—he owns your hand,<br>
And mine—he owns my brain.”</p>
<H2><a name="thejewishmay">The Jewish May</a></H2>
<p>May has come from out the showers,<br>
Sun and splendor in her train.<br>
All the grasses and the flowers<br>
Waken up to life again.<br>
Once again the leaves do show,<br>
And the meadow blossoms blow,<br>
Once again through hills and dales<br>
Rise the songs of nightingales.</p>
<p>Wheresoe’er on field or hillside<br>
With her paint-brush Spring is seen,—<br>
In the valley, by the rillside,<br>
All the earth is decked with green.<br>
Once again the sun beguiles<br>
Moves the drowsy world to smiles.<br>
See! the sun, with mother-kiss<br>
Wakes her child to joy and bliss.</p>
<p>Now each human feeling presses<br>
Flow’r like, upward to the sun,<br>
Softly, through the heart’s recesses,<br>
Steal sweet fancies, one by one.<br>
Golden dreams, their wings outshaking,<br>
Now are making<br>
Realms celestial,<br>
All of azure,<br>
New life waking,<br>
Bringing treasure<br>
Out of measure<br>
For the soul’s delight and pleasure.</p>
<p>Who then, tell me, old and sad,<br>
Nears us with a heavy tread?<br>
On the sward in verdure clad,<br>
Lonely is the strange newcomer,<br>
Wearily he walks and slow,—<br>
His sweet springtime and his summer<br>
Faded long and long ago!</p>
<p>Say, who is it yonder walks<br>
Past the hedgerows decked anew,<br>
While a fearful spectre stalks<br>
By his side the woodland through?<br>
’Tis our ancient friend the Jew!<br>
No sweet fancies hover round him,<br>
Naught but terror and distress.<br>
Wounds unhealed<br>
Where lie revealed<br>
Ghosts of former recollections,<br>
Corpses, corpses, old affections,<br>
Buried youth and happiness.</p>
<p>Brier and blossom bow to meet him<br>
In derision round his path;<br>
Gloomily the hemlocks greet him<br>
And the crow screams out in wrath.<br>
Strange the birds and strange the flowers,<br>
Strange the sunshine seems and dim,<br>
Folk on earth and heav’nly powers!—<br>
Lo, the May is strange to him!</p>
<p>Little flowers, it were meeter<br>
If ye made not quite so bold:<br>
Sweet ye are, but oh, far sweeter<br>
Knew he in the days of old!<br>
Oranges by thousands glowing<br>
Filled his groves on either hand,—<br>
All the plants were God’s own sowing<br>
In his happy, far-off land!</p>
<p>Ask the cedars on the mountain!<br>
Ask them, for they know him well!<br>
Myrtles green by Sharon’s fountain,<br>
In whose shade he loved to dwell!<br>
Ask the Mount of Olives beauteous,—<br>
Ev’ry tree by ev’ry stream!—<br>
One and all will answer duteous<br>
For the fair and ancient dream....</p>
<p>O’er the desert and the pleasance<br>
Gales of Eden softly blew,<br>
And the Lord His loving Presence<br>
Evermore declared anew.<br>
Angel children at their leisure<br>
Played in thousands round His tent,<br>
Countless thoughts of joy and pleasure<br>
God to His beloved sent.</p>
<p>There in bygone days and olden,<br>
From a wond’rous harp and golden<br>
Charmed he music spirit-haunting,<br>
Holy, chaste and soul-enchanting.<br>
Never with the ancient sweetness,<br>
Never in its old completeness<br>
Shall it sound: his dream is ended,<br>
On a willow-bough suspended.</p>
<p>Gone that dream so fair and fleeting!<br>
Yet behold: thou dreamst anew!<br>
Hark! a <i>new</i> May gives thee greeting<br>
From afar. Dost hear it, Jew?<br>
Weep no more, altho’ with sorrows<br>
Bow’d e’en to the grave: I see<br>
Happier years and brighter morrows,<br>
Dawning, Israel, for thee!<br>
Hear’st thou not the promise ring<br>
Where, like doves on silver wing,<br>
Thronging cherubs sweetly sing<br>
Newmade songs of what shall be?</p>
<p>Hark! your olives shall be shaken,<br>
And your citrons and your limes<br>
Filled with fragrance. God shall waken.<br>
Lead you as in olden times.<br>
In the pastures by the river<br>
Ye once more your flocks shall tend.<br>
Ye shall live, and live forever<br>
Happy lives that know no end.<br>
No more wandering, no more sadness:<br>
Peace shall be your lot, and still<br>
Hero hearts shall throb with gladness<br>
’Neath Moriah’s silent hill.<br>
Nevermore of dread afflictions<br>
Or oppression need ye tell:<br>
Filled with joy and benedictions<br>
In the old home shall ye dwell.<br>
To the fatherland returning,<br>
Following the homeward path,<br>
Ye shall find the embers burning<br>
Still upon the ruined hearth!</p>
<H2><a name="thefeastoflights">The Feast Of Lights</a></H2>
<p>Little candles glistening,<br>
Telling those are listening<br>
Legends manifold,<br>
Many a little story,<br>
Tales of blood and glory<br>
Of the days of old.</p>
<p>As I watch you flicker,<br>
As I list you bicker,<br>
Speak the ancient dreams:<br>
—You have battled, Jew, one time,<br>
You have conquer’d too, one time.<br>
(God, how strange it seems!)</p>
<p>In your midst was order once,<br>
And within your border once<br>
Strangers took no part.<br>
Jew, you had a land one time,<br>
And an armèd hand, one time.<br>
(How it moves the heart!)</p>
<p>Glisten, candles, glisten!<br>
As I stand and listen<br>
All the grief in me,<br>
All the woe is stirred again,<br>
And the question heard again:<br>
What the end shall be?</p>
<H2><a name="chanukahthoughts">Chanukah Thoughts</a></H2>
<p>Not always as you see us now,<br>
Have we been used to weep and sigh,<br>
We too have grasped the sword, I trow,<br>
And seen astonished foemen fly!</p>
<p>We too have rushed into the fray,<br>
For our Belief the battle braved,<br>
And through the spears have fought our way,<br>
And high the flag of vict’ry waved.</p>
<p>But generations go and come,<br>
And suns arise and set in tears,<br>
And we are weakened now and dumb,<br>
Foregone the might of ancient years.</p>
<p>In exile where the wicked reign,<br>
Our courage and our pride expired,<br>
But e’en today each throbbing vein<br>
With Asmonean blood is fired.</p>
<p>Tho’ cruel hands with mighty flail<br>
Have threshed us, yet we have not blenched:<br>
The sea of blood could naught prevail,<br>
That fire is burning, still unquenched.</p>
<p>Our fall is great, our fall is real,<br>
(You need but look on us to tell!)<br>
Yet in us lives the old Ideal<br>
Which all the nations shall not quell.</p>
<H2><a name="sfere">Sfēré</a></H2>
<p>I asked of my Muse, had she any objection<br>
To laughing with me,—not a word for reply!<br>
You see, it is Sfēré, our time for dejection,—<br>
And can a Jew laugh when the rule is to cry?</p>
<p>You laughed then, you say? ’tis a sound to affright one!<br>
In Jewish delight, what is worthy the name?<br>
The laugh of a Jew! It is never a right one,<br>
For laughing and groaning with him are the same.</p>
<p>You thought there was zest in a Jewish existence?<br>
You deemd that the star of a Jew could be kind?<br>
The Spring calls and beckons with gracious insistence,—<br>
Jew,—sit down in sackcloth and weep yourself blind!</p>
<p>The garden is green and the woodland rejoices:<br>
How cool are the breezes, with fragrance how blent!<br>
But Spring calls not <i>you</i> with her thousand sweet voices!—<br>
With you it is Sfēré,—sit still and lament!</p>
<p>The beautiful summer, this life’s consolation,<br>
In moaning and sighing glides quickly away.<br>
What hope can it offer to one of my nation?<br>
What joy can he find in the splendors of May?</p>
<p>Bewildered and homeless, of whom whoso passes<br>
May fearlessly stop to make sport at his ease,—<br>
Say, is it for him to seek flowers and grasses,<br>
For him to be thinking on meadows and trees?</p>
<p>And if for a moment, forgetting to ponder<br>
On grief and oppression, song breaks out anew,<br>
I hear in his lay only: “Wander and wander!”<br>
And ev’ry note tells me the singer’s a Jew.</p>
<p>A skilful musician, and one who is verséd<br>
In metre and measure, whenever he hears<br>
The pitiful song of the Jewish disperséd,<br>
It touches his heart and it moves him to tears.</p>
<p>The blast of the Ram’s-horn that quavers and trembles,—<br>
On this, now, alone Jewish fancy is bent.<br>
To grief and contrition its host it assembles,<br>
And causes the stoniest heart to relent.</p>
<p>The wail that went up when the Temple was shattered,—<br>
The song of Atonement, the Suppliant’s psalm,—<br>
These only he loves, since they took him—and scattered,—<br>
Away from the land of the balsam and balm.</p>
<p>Of all the sweet instruments, shiver’d and broken,<br>
That once in the Temple delighted his ear,<br>
The Ram’s-horn alone has he kept, as a token,<br>
And sobs out his soul on it once in the year.</p>
<p>Instead of the harp and the viol and cymbal,<br>
Instead of the lyre, the guitar and the flute,<br>
He has but the dry, wither’d Ram’s-horn, the symbol<br>
Of gloom and despondence; the rest all are mute.</p>
<p>He laughs, or he breaks into song, but soon after,<br>
Tho’ fain would he take in man’s gladness a part,<br>
One hears, low resounding athwart the gay laughter,<br>
The Suppliant’s psalm, and it pierces the heart.</p>
<p>I asked of my Muse, had she any objection<br>
To laughing with me,—not a word for reply!<br>
You see, it is Sfēré, our time for dejection,—<br>
And can a Jew laugh when the rule is to cry?</p>
<H2><a name="measuringthegraves">Measuring the Graves</a></H2>
<p>First old Minna, bent and lowly,<br>
Eyes with weeping nearly blind;<br>
Pessyeh-Tsvaitel, slowly, slowly,<br>
With the yarn creeps on behind.</p>
<p>On the holy book of Minna<br>
Fall the tear-drops—scarce a word<br>
(For the heart is moved within her)<br>
Of her praying can be heard.</p>
<p>“Mighty Lord, whose sovereign pleasure<br>
Made all worlds and men of dust,<br>
I, Thy humble handmaid, measure,<br>
God, the dwellings of the just.</p>
<p>“Speechless here the ground they cumber,<br>
Where the pious, gracious God,<br>
Where Thy heart’s beloved slumber<br>
Underneath the quiet sod.</p>
<p>“They who sing in jubilation,<br>
Lord, before Thy holy seat,<br>
Each one from his habitation,<br>
Through the dream for ever sweet.</p>
<p>“From the yarn with which I measure,<br>
Pessyeh-Tsvaitel, filled with awe,<br>
Wicks will make, to search the treasure,<br>
Nightly, of Thy holy Law.</p>
<p>Praying still, by faith sustained:<br>
’Thou with whom the holy dwell,<br>
Scorn not Jacob’s prayer unfeigned,<br>
Mark the tears of Israel!’”</p>
<H2><a name="thefirstbathofablution">The First Bath of Ablution</a></H2>
<p>The wind is keen, the frost is dread,<br>
Toward the icy water,<br>
By aunt and mother forth is led<br>
The fisher’s lovely daughter.</p>
<p>“Dive in, dive in, my child, with haste!<br>
There’s naught whereon to ponder,<br>
The time, dear heart, we must not waste:<br>
The sun has set out yonder.</p>
<p>“God’s mercy, child, is great and sure:<br>
Fear not but He will show it!<br>
Leap in,—leap out! and you are pure,—<br>
’Tis over ere you know it!”</p>
<p>The frost and cold with cruel knife<br>
The tender form assail.<br>
Ah, would you be a Jewish wife,<br>
You must not weep and quail!</p>
<p>And in—and out,—she leaps. Once more!<br>
Poor girl, it has not served you.<br>
No purer are you than before:<br>
A Gentile has observed you!</p>
<p>And into th’ icy flood again,<br>
In terror wild she leaps!<br>
The white limbs shudder... all in vain!<br>
The Christian still he peeps.</p>
<p>The frost and cold, they burn and bite,<br>
The women rub their fingers,<br>
The lovely child grows white and white,<br>
As on the bank she lingers.</p>
<p>“The Law, my child, we must fulfill,<br>
The scoundrel see depart!<br>
Yet once! ’tis but a moment’s chill,<br>
’Tis but a trifling smart!”</p>
<p>The white-faced child the Law has kept,<br>
The covenant unstained,<br>
For in the waters deep she leapt,<br>
And there below remained.</p>
<H2><a name="atonementeveningprayer">Atonement Evening Prayer</a></H2>
<p>Atonement Day—evening pray’r—sadness profound.<br>
The soul-lights, so clear once, are dying around.<br>
The reader is spent, and he barely can speak;<br>
The people are faint, e’en the basso is weak.<br>
The choristers pine for the hour of repose.<br>
Just one—two chants more, and the pray’r book we close!</p>
<p>And now ev’ry Jew’s supplication is ended,<br>
And Nilah* approaching, and twilight descended.<br>
The blast of the New Year is blown on the horn,<br>
All go; by the Ark I am standing forlorn,<br>
And thinking: “How shall it be with us anon,<br>
When closed is the temple, and ev’ryone gone!”</p>
<p>[* Ne’ilah, (Hebrew) Conclusion, concluding prayer.]</p>
<H2><a name="exitholiday">Exit Holiday</a></H2>
<p>Farewell to the feast-day! the pray’r book is stained<br>
With tears; of the booth scarce a trace has remained;<br>
The lime branch is withered, the osiers are dying,<br>
And pale as a corpse the fair palm-frond is lying;<br>
The boughs of grey willow are trodden and broken—<br>
Friend, these are your hopes and your longings unspoken!</p>
<p>Lo, there lie your dreamings all dimm’d and rejected,<br>
And there lie the joys were so surely expected!<br>
And there is the happiness blighted and perished,<br>
And all that aforetime your soul knew and cherished,<br>
The loved and the longed for, the striven for vainly—<br>
Your whole life before you lies pictured how plainly!</p>
<p>The branches are sapless, the leaves will decay,<br>
An end is upon us, and whence, who shall say?<br>
The broom of the beadle outside now has hustled<br>
The lime and the palm that so pleasantly rustled.<br>
There blew a cold gust, from our sight all is banished—<br>
The shaft from a cross-bow less swiftly had vanished!</p>
<pre>
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Labor and Other Poems
by Morris Rosenfeld
translated by Rose Pastor Stokes and Helena Frank
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