One might have elbowed in the public mart
Iscariot, nor suspected one's soul-peril.

Christ's blood! it sets my flesh a-creep to think!
We may breathe freely now, not fearing taint,
Praised be our good Lord Bishop! He keeps count
Of every Jew, and prints on cheek or chin
The scarlet stamp of separateness, of shame,

No beard, blue-black, grizzled or Judas-colored,
May hide that damning little wafer-flame.
When one appears therewith, the urchins know
Good sport's at hand; they fling their stones and mud,
Sure of their game. But most the wisdom shows
Upon the unbelievers' selves; they learn

Their proper rank; crouch, cringe, and hide,—lay by
Their insolence of self-esteem; no more

Flaunt forth in rich attire, but in dull weeds,
Slovenly donned, would slink past unobserved;
Bow servile necks and crook obsequious knees,
Chin sunk in hollow chest, eyes fixed on earth
Or blinking sidewise, but to apprehend
Whether or not the hated spot be spied.

I warrant my Lord Bishop has full hands,
Guarding the Red Disk-lest one rogue escape!

EMMA LAZARUS.

Rabbi Ben Ezra

ROW old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith: "A whole I planned,

*

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be

Look not thou down but up!

To uses of a cup,

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal,

The new wine's foaming flow,
The Master's lips aglow!

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then,

Thee, God, who mouldest men;

And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I to the wheel of life

With shapes and colors rife,

Bound dizzily-mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst.

So, take and use Thy work:
Amend what flaws may lurk,

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!

My times be in Thy hand!

Perfect the cup as planned!

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the

same!

ROBERT BROWNING.

The Angel

I

DREAMT I saw an angel in the sky,

Her face was calm and fair up there on high; She smiled at me-a strange and lovely smile That had in it no thought of earthly guile. She looked so fair, so strange and wondrous pure, That 'twas an angel, I was passing sure; She spoke her voice was music in the air; So sweet it was, it matched her person fair. She asked me, "Is there aught that I can do?" I humbly answered, "Make me fair as you." She smiled again, that strange unearthly smile, That made all mundane things seem crude and vile— "Thou art not ready yet," she seemed to say

And with a sigh, she floated far away.

DOROTHY S. SILVERMAN,

A Legend

TO the home of the rabbi a Lord in his splendor,
Comes riding at dead of night;

His glittering helmet with feathers is garnished,
With stains his breast is bedight.

In a room where the flame of a lamplet is glowing,
So wan and so lonely and dim;

The Lord of the Manor in quest of his learning,
Attentively listens to him.

And yet ere the church bells at dawn o' the morning
Their summons to prayer intone,

The Lord of the Manor rides forth from the Ghetto; To no one his secret is known.

By daylight the sage in his cloistered seclusion

Sees never the Lord of the night;

But the dreams and the deeds of the noble disciple,
Are fruit of the tree of his might.

And so through the squalor and dirt of the Ghetto,'
The Lord with his retinue rides,

And gazes with pensive and yearning attention,
At the home where his teacher abides.

JEHOASH.

(Translated by Elias Lieberman.)

The Rabbi's Song

IF thought ever reach to Heaven,

On Heaven let it dwell.

For fear that Thought be given
Like Power to reach to Hell;

For fear that Desolation

And darkness on thy mind

Perplex the habitation

Which thou hast left behind.

Our lives, our tears as water
Are poured upon the ground;
God giveth no man quarter,

Yet God a means hath found,
Tho' faith and hope have vanished
And even love grows dim,
A means whereby his banished

Be not expelled from Him.

RUDYARD KIpling.

A Sonnet

To the Beloved Memory of Robert Browning

SERENE, translucent as yon Maytime star
In sanctuary of its bliss superb,
Accept, O Bard! a sprig of Israel's herb,

In bitterness no less familiar

To you, than is the knell of surging bar,

When night-winds raving, dreamer's peace perturb, With blood and fire, and hell-groans from the curb, Shrined in the tales you wrote in days afar, Brave sharer in our nether fates, you bore

Israel's death-crown, voiced his feeble rights, Stood weeping by his side, and mourning wore, In those black days, whose memory still frights, Still casts its spectral hue athwart the brain, And feeds the heart with hopeless endless pain. M. L. R. Breslar.

G1

The Hebrew Mind

IFTS, as romantic as the cruse of oil,

Found in the days of mad Antiochus,

Were brewed by Hadrian from henbane; spruce For Israel's quaffing; potions, framed to foil A nation's growth, they met with swift recoil!

Tempt never genius, with devil's juice!
Vain arts, O Hadrian, and vain the ruse,-
When balked by birds, who garnered all the spoil.
For Hadrian, as for Vespasian,

History sheds a tear of wonder blind;

Mere vessels those, Balaam's sent to bless,

They scourged with fire and sword, till the dread ban Flowered, like Aaron's rod of loveliness,

And forged that wondrous thing, the Hebrew mind. M. L. R. Breslar.

Who Gives in Love

NAUGHT is there in life worth living,

Save it flavored be by love;
Naught is there in life worth giving,
Save it sanctioned be above.
Who in evil mood bestoweth,
In his heart the canker groweth ;
He who gives in truth and love
Shall a thousand pleasures prove.

An Invocation

OH, harp of Judah! wake again!

ISIDOR WISE.

Can no one deftly touch thy strings

To scatter far the sacred strain

Which from divinest patience springs!
Have all the strife-sown troublous years
No joys for happy song to cast?
Can love distil no hope from tears,
Or steal no beauty from the past?

Has music lost its spell and power
To summon hopes that only rest?
Endowed with truths, our lasting dower,
That mock the ages' wear and test;