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Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew


Till life became a Legend of the Dead.

But ah! what once has been shall be no more!

The groaning earth in travail and in pain

Brings forth its races, but does not restore,

And the dead nations never rise again.



WHAT infinite abundance marks the


That Mother Nature keeps in store for those

Who seek her daily! What a fount of cheer

For all her children! What continuous joy

Should stamp existence! Yet unthinking crowds

Still stir the mire of hate and foul revenge,

That keeps the earth in shadow and in gloom.

Should not the Jew and Gentile meet as friends?

Why not affiliate as neighbors, too? And why should not our children's joys be one?

Are we not one-the children of one God?

Why teach our little ones to throw the taunt:

"Our mothers say we cannot play with

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Disfigures man, and stamps him as a fool.

The Roman, Greek and Protestant alike Should think a while. For Jesus was a Jew;

Jesus, the God-man, if you will-not God.

ARCHIBALD Ross. (Published New York, 1908.)



YE may not rear it now,-though some


The eye of man shall see it where it stood,

The glittering House of God, with cedar-wood

Well builded, and with olive and with fir,

Cunningly carved with wide-winged cherubim,

And flowers full-blown, and palmtrees fair and slim.

The ancient, unforgetting Eastern skyBlue as the sapphire in the breastplate set,

That watching waits, may not behold it yet;

Though there be breasts where longing will not die;

Though still Jerusalem's holy earth be shed,

Dear symbol, o'er the unalienated dead!


Yet unto you, O sons of Israel!

This year, this day, this hour, and in this land,

'Tis given to lend with joy the helping hand.

To rear a mighty Temple builded well. Its blocks young souls, unhewn yet by the keen

Steel of the desecrating world, and clean.

Bring, bring bright gold, and melt it in the fire.

So shall that faithful offering overspread

A spiritual altar, be ye sure;

So to the Strength of Israel shall aspire

From lamps of many branches flamelets pure,

The light of lives with oil of knowledge fed!



FROM HIS PUPIL AND FRIEND. "Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom there was no guile."

'TIS midnight on the solemn sea:

Slow sails the stately ship along: Pale moonlight silvers o'er the scene, And wanly lights a trembling throng Of strangers, gathered round the bier

Of One whom distant hearts hold dear; Who wait his coming to their shore; But shall behold his face no more!

Encircled by the saddened band,
A lifeless Form, the Rabbi lay;
Untended by those loving hands

Waiting to serve him, far away;
Yet swathed in cerements of such grave
As lies beneath the surging wave:
Its pall the banner of the free,
The stars and stripes of Liberty.

O, heart that beat for all mankind,
Is thy warm tide forever chilled?
O, hand that labored for thy race,

Why are thy potent pulses stilled? Great mind to plan the good he wrought;

Teacher who practiced what he taught; Brave champion of God's high laws, Could he forsake Truth's holy cause?

He answers not: those lips are dumb. That ear, though never dull before, Heeds no appeal. His eyes are closed On earthly sights forever more.

At last that teeming brain is still;
Nor hand nor foot obeys his will
Who, ever at the call of grief,
Hastened with comfort and relief.

Then, through the stillness of the night,
Rises the voice of fervent prayer,
In plaintive, cadenced Hebrew strains

That thrill upon the shuddering air. Each head is bowed; all knees are bent, Under the starry firmament,

As, reverently, there, is said

The solemn service for the dead.

"O Lord and Father, righteous Judge, Blest be thy Name, and blest be Thou!

Sole King of all the Universe,

Before thy throne we meekly bow.
Thou givest life to sons of men:
'Tis thou that takest it again.

Thy mighty arm is strong to save:
Thy mercies reach beyond the grave.
"God of our Fathers, bend thine ear,
And hear our supplicating cries,
For this true son of Israèl,

Who under Death's dominion lies.
With faith like Abraham's of old,
As Moses meek, as Daniel bold,

He sang to David's tuneful lyre,
And preached with great Isaiah's fire.

"Lord of the Spirits of all Flesh,

To thy sure mercies we commend The soul that has departed hence,

Thy faithful servant, and our friend.
Thy Law was ever in his heart;
He lived its treasures to impart.
Grant him forever blest to be
In thy supreme felicity.

"And oh! for those who hold him dear,
Shield and Protector, hear us pray,
Those stricken but unconscious ones
Who wait the sorrows of this day.
Thy balm of Gilead bestow,
And heal the desolating woe

Of hearts that fondly round him twine,
And his dear memory enshrine."

Scarce died the mournful tones away When one low whispered word was said.

Then, launched alone upon the sea,

Sank to its nameless, lowly bed The body of so grand a man,

That, though his years filled not life's span,

In him, the world through which he trod,

Beheld the noblest work of God.

The heaving bosom of the deep
Received him to its close embrace
And in old Ocean's tireless arms
This scion of a noble race
Will sleep until it shall be said:
"Remorseless Sea, give up thy Dead!"
So large a heart could scarce find room
In any narrower, shallower tomb.

There, with his canopy the skies,

The burning stars his tapers bright, The winds and waves in symphonies

His ceaseless "Kadesh" shall recite. But aching hearts must still weep on, Mourning the joy forever gone. And vainly moan the burden o'er: "Alas! he can return no more!"

But has his spirit perished? "No!"

A thousand thundering waves reply. The garb of flesh that robed his soul

Beneath the ocean's waste may lie: But borne by angel hands away

From its frail tenement of clay,
His spirit mounts to realms above,
Where reign eternal peace and love.

Father divine, to fashion men,

Shalt thou omnipotence employ, And Death be ever able, then,

Thy loving children to destroy? Perish the thought that souls made pure

Shall not eternally endure;

That spirits grown devoutly wise
Live not forever in the skies.

"And shall our narrow, biased bounds,
Or limits of mere human creeds,
Or the warped zealot's prejudice,
Annul a life of noble deeds?
Speak, Christian Priests, who by his

Fraternal "Pater Nosters" said,
Would you deny this saintly soul
The guerdon of a heavenly goal?

No: your own Holy Writ declares,
That as in Adam all have died,
So all mankind shall live again,

Through that slain Tew, the Crucified.
And who dare ban God's chosen race
Beyond the reach of boundless grace?
Or bar from his eternal rest
The people God himself hath blest?
So, Lord and Father, while we mourn,
Thy holy Name we still can bless
For thy departed servant's life

Of piety and righteousness: And pray thee take his spirit rare Under thine own almighty care, While waits in peace his sacred dust The resurrection of the just.


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Crisp, everlasting-flowers,
Yellow and black, on the graves.

Half blind, palsied, in pain,
Hither to come, from the streets'
Uproar, surely not loath
Wast thou, Heine!-to lie
Quiet, to ask for closed
Shutters, and darken'd room,
And cool drinks, and an eased
Posture, and opium, no more!
Hither to come, and to sleep
Under the wings of Renown.

Ah! not little, when pain
Is most quelling, and man
Easily quell'd, and the fine
Temper of genius so soon
Thrills at each smart, is the praise
Not to have yielded to pain!
No small boast, for a weak
Son of mankind, to the earth
Pinn'd by the thunder, to rear
His bolt-scathed front to the stars;
And, undaunted, retort
'Gainst thick-crashing, insane,
Tyrannous tempests of bale,
Arrowy lightnings of soul!

Hark! through the alley resounds
Mocking laughter! A film
Creeps o'er the sunshine; a breeze
Ruffles the warm afternoon,
Saddens my soul with its chill.
Gibing of spirits in scorn
Shakes every leaf of the grove,
Mars the benignant repose

Of this amiable home of the dead.

Bitter spirits! ye claim
Heine? Alas, he is yours!
Only a moment I long'd
Here in the quiet to snatch

From such mates the outworn
Poet, and steep him in calm.
Only a moment! I knew
Whose he was who is here
Buried-I knew he was yours!
Ah, I knew that I saw
Here no sepulchre built

In the laurell'd rock, o'er the blue
Naples bay, for a sweet
Tender Virgil! no tomb

On Ravenna sands, in the shade
Of Ravenna pines, for a high
Austere Dante! no grave

By the Avon side, in the bright Stratford meadows, for thee, Shakespeare! loveliest of souls, Peerless in radiance, in joy.

What, then, so harsh and malign, Heine! distils from thy life? Poisons the peace of the grave?

I chide with thee not, that thy sharp
Upbraidings often assail'd
England, my country-for we,
Heavy and sad, for her sons,
Long since, deep in our hearts,
Echo the blame of her foes.
We, too, sigh that she flags;
We, too, say that she now-
Scarce comprehending the voice
Of her greatest, golden-mouth'd sons
Of a former age any more-
Stupidly travels her round
Of mechanic business, and lets
Slow die out of her life
Glory, and genius, and joy.

So thou arraign'st her, her foe;
So we arraign her, her sons.

Yes, we arraign her! but she,
The weary Titan, with deaf
Ears, and labour-dimm'd eyes,
Regarding neither to right
Nor left, goes passively by,
Staggering on to her goal;
Bearing on shoulders immense,
Atlantean, the load,
Wellnigh not to be borne,

Of the too vast orb of her fate.

But was it thou-I think
Surely it was!-that bard
Unnamed, who, Goethe said,

Had every other gift, but wanted love;
Love, without which the tongue
Even of angels sounds amiss?

Charm is the glory which makes
Song of the poet divine,
Love is the fountain of charm.
How without charm wilt thou draw,
Poet! the world to thy way?
Not by the lightnings of wit-
Not by the thunder of scorn!
These to the world, too, are given;
Wit it possesses, and scorn-
Charm is the poet's alone.

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