Part 9 (1/2)

Hark! your olives shall be shaken, And your citrons and your limes Filled with fragrance. G.o.d shall waken.

Lead you as in olden times.

In the pastures by the river Ye once more your flocks shall tend.

Ye shall live, and live forever Happy lives that know no end.

No more wandering, no more sadness: Peace shall be your lot, and still Hero hearts shall throb with gladness 'Neath Moriah's silent hill.

Nevermore of dread afflictions Or oppression need ye tell: Filled with joy and benedictions In the old home shall ye dwell.

To the fatherland returning, Following the homeward path, Ye shall find the embers burning Still upon the ruined hearth!

The Feast Of Lights

Little candles glistening, Telling those are listening Legends manifold, Many a little story, Tales of blood and glory Of the days of old.

As I watch you flicker, As I list you bicker, Speak the ancient dreams: --You have battled, Jew, one time, You have conquer'd too, one time.

(G.o.d, how strange it seems!)

In your midst was order once, And within your border once Strangers took no part.

Jew, you had a land one time, And an armed hand, one time.

(How it moves the heart!)

Glisten, candles, glisten!

As I stand and listen All the grief in me, All the woe is stirred again, And the question heard again: What the end shall be?

Chanukah Thoughts

Not always as you see us now, Have we been used to weep and sigh, We too have grasped the sword, I trow, And seen astonished foemen fly!

We too have rushed into the fray, For our Belief the battle braved, And through the spears have fought our way, And high the flag of vict'ry waved.

But generations go and come, And suns arise and set in tears, And we are weakened now and dumb, Foregone the might of ancient years.

In exile where the wicked reign, Our courage and our pride expired, But e'en today each throbbing vein With Asmonean blood is fired.

Tho' cruel hands with mighty flail Have threshed us, yet we have not blenched: The sea of blood could naught prevail, That fire is burning, still unquenched.

Our fall is great, our fall is real, (You need but look on us to tell!) Yet in us lives the old Ideal Which all the nations shall not quell.

Sfere

I asked of my Muse, had she any objection To laughing with me,--not a word for reply!

You see, it is Sfere, our time for dejection,-- And can a Jew laugh when the rule is to cry?

You laughed then, you say? 'tis a sound to affright one!