Then to poesy he turneth
And in numbers sweet recites: Or he wakes the soul of music
In the harp whose chords he smites.
Once again we see him, crouching
On a devastated strand,
Silent as the Sphinx of Egypt
Billowed in the surging sand,
For the lash of persecution,
Heedless of all human right
Fell upon him, watching, waiting,
Till he sank beneath its might.
And he lies there, bruised and bleeding
But a brave old hero still,
Hoping for his destined future,
When his Fate has wrought its will.
Nations, do you know this Sentry,
Keeping guard, for ages long,
Over learning, arts, religion,
Through all cruelty and wrong?
Patient under dire oppression,
While the iron pierced his soul;
With no armor for protection;
With no weapon but a Scroll-
His one treasure; hear him crying,
"Though I die, let this be true!"
Is not his the voice of Jacob?
Yes! it is-it is the Jew.
Say you that his crime demanded
Punishment from God and men?
Nay! With God alone be vengeance;
He is merciful. But when
Man metes out his ruthless judgments,
With a mad presumption blind,
He wreaks cruelties of demons
On the weaker of his kind.
It is not for his defection
That the Jew has met the sword: Christians slay their fellow-Christians, In the name of their own Lord.
Has he sinned-this Jew immortal?
Ay; but he is not alone;
Christ is crucified forever
In the House He calls His own.
Multitudes bow down before Him
And profess to own his sway,
While their hearts are filled with idols,
And they, Judas-like, betray
Him who comes, as their Messiah,
And their fealty would claim;
But they pierce His soul with sorrows,
Shouting praises to His name.
Sinned the Jew? Well; he has suffered.
When he saw his judgment come
He bowed meekly to his sentence;
Like the shorn lamb, he was dumb:
Bearing shame, contempt, revilings,
Grief and anguish, pain and death;
Only saying: "God is holy;
He is One," with latest breath.
Like to Christ, in his submission
He has met a martyr's fate.
But his resurrection cometh;
Though it tarry, he can wait.
Yes! Already we perceive him,
Rising up on every hand;
Gliding into power and station,
With the world's wealth at command.
In the forum, in the senate,
Lo! he wins immortal fame,
Halls of learning, marts of commerce,
Ring with echoes of his name,
On each plane of high endeavor
He is foremost in the strife
Culling everlasting laurels
From the battlefields of Life.
So God's ancient, chosen people
As His Sentinel still stands
With the standard of Jehovah
In the strong, uplifted hands;
With his jewelled breastplate gleaming
On his proudly heaving chest;
And a lamp forever burning,
On his helmet's lofty crest;
While he welcomes the down-trodden
To his hospitable shores,
And in streams of richest bounty
Blessings on his brethren pours.
Standing thus, as great exemplar
To the world, the Jew appears;
Bringing hope, as well as warning,
To Humanity's late years,
Showing how, as King, God ruleth,
When mankind would test His sway,
Yet is tender as a Father
When, as children, they obey. Prophet, statesman, warrior, scholar, Israel's glories shall increase, When he claims his royal birthright; Brother to the Prince of Peace.
IBBIE MCCOLM WILSON.
WE have toiled, O Lord, with our blood and might
And have offered a hymn to Thee;
And in pain and rage we have spent our light,
And our nights in misery;
We have dug the trench and built the site,
That we might be near to Thee;
O Lord our God, we have spent our light
Garish culture we spurned as we spurned all things
That were not in the grace of Thee;
And we bowed our heads and our hearts to kings
Who wore crowns by their claims in Thee;
In the deep of night we have sung Thy praise,
Unperishing songs of Thee;
O Lord our God, we have spent our days
In praise of Thee..
We've preserved our flesh from the joys of lust
That we might be clean with Thee;
We have fed our souls on the dryest dust,
That we might keep true to Thee;
We have fought, and many the odds have stood,
We have conquered the world for Thee;
O Lord our God, we have spilled our blood
For love of Thee.
We have toiled, O Lord, with our blood and might, And have offered a hymn to Thee;
Yet our days You've cursed with the gloom of night,
And our nights with misery;
We have kept our faith through the bitterest strife,
Through the bitterest strife for Thee;
O Lord our God, take of our dust,
Our faith in Thee.
(Dedicated to Benjamin F. Peixotto)
IS dark face kindled in the East,
He walks our Europe like a dream,
And in his great beard gravely seem
To meet the poet and the priest;
His nation spent, his temple sacked,
A haughty exile under ban,
From pole to pole he holds intact
The ancient grandeur of the man.
Vain burnt the fires his frame to melt,
His tough will turned the rack to straw;
The granite tablets were his law,
And to the one high God he knelt!
Before his zeal fell hate and spite;
Wide grew the narrowness of marts,
Immortal, sole cosmopolite,
He gave for freedom all the arts!
Always the ages' argonaut,
The foremost sails he followed still,
Gave to the Christian thrift and skill,
And peace and trade to heathens taught.
If ran to greed his heart sometimes,
By reverend robbers wrung to pelf,
A child of genius in all climes,
He drew the muses to himself.
Of God's august historian heir,
Who made creation eloquent,
To themes occult and grand he bent
The realms of letters everywhere;
His pencil spurned, his marble crushed
When art to monks its lease resigned,
The splendor of his numbers hushed,
The rude music of mankind.
|