The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume II Part 4

IN MEMORIAM--REV. J. J. LYONS.

ROSH-HASHANAH, 5638.

The golden harvest-tide is here, the corn Bows its proud tops beneath the reaper's hand.

Ripe orchards' plenteous yields enrich the land; Bring the first fruits and offer them this morn, With the stored sweetness of all summer hours, The amber honey sucked from myriad flowers, And sacrifice your best first fruits to-day, With fainting hearts and hands forespent with toil, Offer the mellow harvest's splendid spoil, To Him who gives and Him who takes away.

Bring timbrels, bring the harp of sweet accord, And in a pleasant psalm your voice attune, And blow the cornet greeting the new moon.

Sing, holy, holy, holy, is the Lord, Who killeth and who quickeneth again, Who woundeth and who healeth mortal pain, Whose hand afflicts us, and who sends us peace.

Hail thou slim arc of promise in the West, Thou pledge of certain plenty, peace, and rest.

With the spent year, may the year's sorrows cease.

For there is mourning now in Israel, The crown, the garland of the branching tree Is plucked and withered. Ripe of years was he.

The priest, the good old man who wrought so well Upon his chosen globe. For he was one Who at his seed-plot toiled through rain and sun.

Morn found him not as one who slumbereth, Noon saw him faithful, and the restful night Stole o'er him at his labors to requite The just man's service with the just man's death.

What shall be said when such as he do pa.s.s?

Go to the hill-side, neath the cypress-trees, Fall midst that peopled silence on your knees, And weep that man must wither as the gra.s.s.

But mourn him not, whose blameless life complete Rounded its perfect orb, whose sleep is sweet, Whom we must follow, but may not recall.

Salute with solemn trumpets the New Year, And offer honeyed fruits as were he here, Though ye be sick with wormwood and with gall.

THE VALLEY OF BACA.

PSALM Lx.x.xIV.

A brackish lake is there with bitter pools Anigh its margin, brushed by heavy trees.

A piping wind the narrow valley cools, Fretting the willows and the cypresses.

Gray skies above, and in the gloomy s.p.a.ce An awful presence hath its dwelling-place.

I saw a youth pa.s.s down that vale of tears; His head was circled with a crown of thorn, His form was bowed as by the weight of years, His wayworn feet by stones were cut and torn.

His eyes were such as have beheld the sword Of terror of the angel of the Lord.

He pa.s.sed, and clouds and shadows and thick haze Fell and encompa.s.sed him. I might not see What hand upheld him in those dismal ways, Wherethrough he staggered with his misery.

The creeping mists that trooped and spread around, The smitten head and writhing form enwound.

Then slow and gradual but sure they rose, Those clinging vapors blotting out the sky.

The youth had fallen not, his viewless foes Discomfited, had left the victory Unto the heart that fainted not nor failed, But from the hill-tops its salvation hailed.

I looked at him in dread lest I should see, The anguish of the struggle in his eyes; And lo, great peace was there! Triumphantly The sunshine crowned him from the sacred skies.

"From strength to strength he goes," he leaves beneath The valley of the shadow and of death.

"Thrice blest who pa.s.sing through that vale of Tears, Makes it a well,"--and draws life-nourishment From those death-bitter drops. No grief, no fears a.s.sail him further, he may scorn the event.

For naught hath power to swerve the steadfast soul Within that valley broken and made whole.

THE BANNER OF THE JEW.

Wake, Israel, wake! Recall to-day The glorious Maccabean rage, The sire heroic, h.o.a.ry-gray, His five-fold lion-lineage: The Wise, the Elect, the Help-of-G.o.d, The Burst-of-Spring, the Avenging Rod.*

From Mizpeh's mountain-ridge they saw Jerusalem's empty streets, her shrine Laid waste where Greeks profaned the Law, With idol and with pagan sign.

Mourners in tattered black were there, With ashes sprinkled on their hair.

Then from the stony peak there rang A blast to ope the graves: down poured The Maccabean clan, who sang Their battle-anthem to the Lord.

Five heroes lead, and following, see, Ten thousand rush to victory!

Oh for Jerusalem's trumpet now, To blow a blast of shattering power, To wake the sleepers high and low, And rouse them to the urgent hour!

No hand for vengeance--but to save, A million naked swords should wave.

Oh deem not dead that martial fire, Say not the mystic flame is spent!

With Moses' law and David's lyre, Your ancient strength remains unbent.

Let but an Ezra rise anew, To lift the BANNER OF THE JEW!

A rag, a mock at first--erelong, When men have bled and women wept, To guard its precious folds from wrong, Even they who shrunk, even they who slept, Shall leap to bless it, and to save.

Strike! for the brave revere the brave!

*The sons of Mattathias--Jonanthan, John, Eleazer, Simon (also called the Jewel), and Jonas, the Prince

THE GUARDIAN OF THE RED DISK.

Spoken by a Citizen of Malta--1300.

A curious t.i.tle held in high repute, One among many honors, thickly strewn On my lord Bishop's head, his grace of Malta.