Rosh-Hashanah
STOOD, to-day, in a temple,
Like one of the olden time;
And I dreamt a dream recalling
The scenes in an Orient clime; And I felt, though somewhat strangely, An influence sublime!
And before me hung the tablets
Of the old Mosaic law;
And the white-robed ancient Rabbis,
Again, in that dream I saw;
And the Hebrew psalms are chanted,
Those hymns of praise and awe.
And Israel's pristine splendor
Arose, as in days of old,
When each prophet after prophet
His tale of promise told;
And the shades of by-gone glories
Before my vision rolled.
'Tis the New Year of the Hebrew;
That ancient sacred day,
When the memories of the ages,
Awake from time's decay,
And the hopes of future glories
Are bright as the morning's ray!
I beheld the chosen children
Of the Great Eternal God,
Still bend in mute submission
To sorrow's painful rod;
Desirous still to follow
The road by their fathers trod.
And I asked if a faith so lofty
Could be but a passing show?
And the echoes of the by-gone
Replied to my doubtings, "No."
And I felt in their constant waiting,
Their strength must nobler grow!
ACROSS the life-path of our destiny
Chill mists of doubt, dread harbingers of ill
Assail the soul.
Behind the veil that hides our future fate
We stand in fear,
While yet the shaft of day illumes the dawn
Of this New Year.
How far along the road of life shall be
Our pilgrimage?
Or has the book of our day's journey reached
Its farthest page?
Will star-crowned joy breathe in our ear sweet songs
Of love and mirth,
Or will sad grief with tear-filled eyes bow down
Our hearts to earth?
Our times are in His hand,
And guards our feet thro' darkness and thro' storm
5666-New Year-1905
'ROM old to new, with broadening sweep,
The stream of life moves on;
And still its changing currents keep
A changeless undertone.
In prophet word and martyr faith,
Visions of saint and seer,
The poet's song, the hero's death-
That undertone we hear.
A sense we have of things unseen,
Transcending thing of time;
We catch earth's broken chords between
The everlasting chime.
And light breaks through the rifted haze
In shining vistas broad;
We stand amid the eternal ways,
Held by the hand of God.
'M but a child, and childish toys
Make up the sum of all my joys-
But hark! while I am playing here
A strange sound falls upon my ear,
A note of music weird and wild,
And lo, I am a changeling child—
Where I stand with my childish feet,
The centuries around me meet;
Though fresh the laughter in mine eyes,
And on my lips, yet full of sighs
The air about me, and I seem
To live and move as in a dream.
With that strange music rise and swell
Old memories of what befel
The children of my ancient race.
The Shofar brings me face to face
With all the martyrdoms of old
That are in song and story told;
And as its tones ring shrill and loud,
They make me feel both sad and proud
That I am heir to all this woe,
That all this glory I should know.
And though I see strange children play
With all the baubles of the day,
I know I have more precious things;
My gifts are from the King of kings,
Whose angels He before me sent,
And to them of His glory lent.
The Shofar, hark! it tells my soul
That as the ages onward roll,
I more and more shall feel and hear
The Spirit's speech around and near.
My feet shall forward, upward press,
Until a perfect wilderness
Of flowers springs where'er I tread,
And blessings rain down on my head.
So may the Shofar peal on peal,
The heart unto itself reveal;
'Till thou again, O Israel,
In "Jacob's goodly tents" shall dwell.
IN lonely hours of thought I long
To hear again that sacred song,
So solemn, beautiful and soft,
Which years ago I heard so oft!
No song of war or jilted love,
Nor of the moon and stars above;
A wandering tribe without a goal
Asks pardon from its very soul.
Kol Nidré, masterpiece of art,
Thou outcry of a weary heart,
Sublime, seraphic, seems to me
The sweetness of thy melody.
No other song is half so rich,
And none may ever so bewitch
Like thee-For magic is thy spell.
O hymn of Israel.
O! above the mourntul chanting,
Rise the fuller-sounded wailings
Of the soul's most solemn anthem.
Hark! the strains of deep Kol Nidré-
Saddest music ever mortal
Taught his lips to hymn or sound!
Not the heart of one lone mortal
Told his anguish in that strain;
All the sorrow, pain, and struggles
Of a people in despair,
Gathered from the vale of weeping,
Through the ages of distress.
'Tis a mighty cry of beings
Held in bondage and affliction;
All the wailing and lamenting
Of a homeless people, roaming
O'er the plains and scattered hamlets
Of a world without a refuge,
All the sorrows, trials, bereavements,-
Loss of country, home, and people,-
In one mighty strain uniting,
Chant for every age its wail;
Make the suffering years re-echo
With the wounds and pains of yore;
Give a voice to every martyr
Ever hushed to death by pain,
Every smothered shriek of laughter
Burned upon the fagot's bier;
Bring the wander-years and exile,
|