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Leopold Zunz

'O thee o'er whose fresh-closed tomb
The early violets and snowdrops bloom,

With these, for thee, I interweave

This votive wreath of laurel leaf.

Thine was a spirit of an earlier age,
When nobler triumphs graced the stage,
Whereon our country's heroes moved,
Who gloriously their guerdon proved.

And thine it was to flash a clearer light
O'er the tragedy of an age-long night,
And trace, in living words, the story

Of Israel's virile thought and former glory.

Wakening the echoes of a far-off time,
In strains scarce less sublime,

Than those the halls of Zion rang,
When, o'er the land her minstrels sang.

Leaving to Israel a lingering ray,

A promised dawn of a brighter day,

Long o'er thy mem'ry a nation's love will dwell, Nor soon nor yet will bid a last farewell.

J. F.

IF

Moritz Steinschneider

I had known, dear Master, when of late
I held thy hand within my own to say

The thousand things I'd thought of on the way, But sheer forgot for very awe to state;

If I had known the summons was so near

And that thy presence never more would grace The little room that was the trysting place

Of every scholar, booklover and seer

That came from North, from South, from East, and
West

To call himself thy pupil and be blest-
I fain would have besought thee to allow
My unclean lips to kiss the wizard hand
That made of learning such a wonderland,
And lost its matchless cunning only now.

GEORGE ALEXANDER KOHUT.

Simeon Singer

"OH, weep not for the dead." Alas! how weak

The solemn call to dry our tear-dimmed eyes, Or stay the drops which aching hearts bespeak, While hopeless grief in fruitless effort tries To scan the misty, drear and sombre space,

Which parts us from the presence that we love, And from those beaming eyes and saintly face And lips that taught the way, to realms above.

Strong, manly mind to gentle heart allied,
Fit partners of a noble soul that rose
To duty's highest calls, though sorely tried,
Scorning the urgent temptings of repose;
To him the heart of Childhood bounded forth,
And feeble Age forgot the weight of years,
And Youth reflected back the genial mirth,
Which turned to rippling joy their sight and tears.

Say when the bugle call of noble Cause,

Drew forth the lightning flashes from his eye;
In God's own work he knew not rest nor pause,
And Faith and Mercy made his pulses fly,
Nor recked he, when a knightly lance he broke

In chivalrous tilt for Progress and for Good,
Though in the clang of strife he felt the stroke,
Yet calm and strong and nobly dumb he stood.

Too soon, alas! did Time with heavy hand
Lay on his head his chaste prophetic snow,
And beckon to the far-off promised land,

The goal to reach with weary steps and slow,
With brave and dauntless heart he nobly strode
Along the path of duty, cheery, bright,
And uncomplaining bore his heavy load,
Till summoned out of darkness into light.

Though Earth our gentle Mother in her arms
Benignly folds thee in thy peaceful sleep,
And in her strong and all-embracing heart

The mortal fabric of thy frame doth keep,
Freed from the chains that bound thy earthly love,
Thy spirit joins the Choir of Saints above,
Whose joyous voices calling, welcome thee,
"An Angel of the Lord of Hosts is he."

TH

JOHN CHAPMAN.

My Father's Bible

'HERE is one book, far dearer than the rest, Upon my treasured shelves: It is not bound In costly skin or vellum, yet profound Is the esteem and rev'rence in my breast, As I now lift it from its wonted place, To bless it first, and read it for a space:It gives me comfort now, though time was when Fierce anguish smote my soul, as, all unseen,

The crumbled leaves I turned, and saw between
The crystal drops of sorrow once again
Which wrung my blessed father's spirit then;-
But now I read it, ever so serene,

And close the Bible gently, when I've done,
And kiss its covers, too, when I'm alone.

GEORGE ALEXANDER KOHUT.

David Kaufmann

AMID the murm'ring din and seething strife

Of all the world's contending victories," Thou, modest scholar, writing histories Hast caused Judæa's past to pulse with life; Hast conjured, with the magic of thy touch, Whose quiver had the thrill of the sublime, The soul from its clay; and hast rescued time From its only foe: oblivion's clutch, Which holds enthralled beneath its aged crust The teeming mysteries of throbbing thought So many tried to find, yet few have sought To read aright, and read aright, to trust. Great Poet-Thinker, Critic of the Past, Thine is a memory to live, to last!

GEORGE ALEXANDER KOHUT.

Gustav Gottheil

GOD healed him while he slept,
And took His shepherd home,

And many thousand tender hands
Now bear him to the tomb.

His life was crowded with the deeds
Which crown his calm repose,
Upon his gleaming coat of arms,
No guilty glory glows.

Dream on, O Prince in Israel, dream,
In thy celestial home,

While many thousand loyal friends

Chant Kaddish at the tomb.

GEORGE ALEXANDER KOHUT.

Sonnet*

TO SOLOMON SCHECHTER

THY spirit, Sage, is ever on the wing,

And, soaring midway 'twixt the earth and sky,
Those higher kindred of thy soul draw nigh
To whom thy lofty thoughts, transfigured, cling,
From wrinkled parchment and decaying script,

Thou lurest long-lost Wisdom fragmentwise,
Rejoicing and enlightening the eyes.

There's none in modern Jewry, thus equipped,"
To teach the truth and spread abroad The Law,
And with the peal of prophecy intone
How Beauty shines in Holiness alone,
And that to hold the Spirit well in awe
The letter must be guarded, not forsook,
Ye Race of Priests, Ye People of the Book!
GEORGE ALEXANDER KOHUT.

Solomon Schechter

ANOTHER Moses of our race

Was called to Heaven's holy place,

The Paradise where be the few
Who nearer Heaven daily grew,
Until on Pisgah heights of lore

They saw the Heavens' Promised Shore,
And God with kisses bade them be
Their living immortality.

t

O master, with the wizard's spell,
A sun of lore in your dying fell.
In error's night our pillar of light
Our Torah lost its bravest knight.
A godly Heine whose smile of grace
Made sham and folly hide their face.
A lion of learning, you

*Suggested by Professor Schechter's luminous epistle on "Spiritual Religion in the Jewish Chronicle, November 30, 1899.