Part 34 (1/2)
Now fire! ... How badly you have shot!
Adieu, my land Tyrol”!
(From the German.)
STREAM AND SEA
A river flowed through a desert land On its way to find the sea, And saw naught else than glaring sand And scarcely a shady tree.
The distant stars looked down by night, And the burning sun by day, On the crystal stream, so pure and bright; But the sea was far away.
Sometimes at night the little stream Would sigh for the sea's embrace, And oft would see, as in a dream, The longed-for ocean's face.
At last one day it felt a thrill It had never known before, As it reached the brow of a lofty hill, And saw the wave-lapped sh.o.r.e.
And it flung itself with a mighty leap From the crest of the hill above, Till its waters mingled with the deep;-- And the name of the sea was Love.
RACHEL
'Twas sunset in Jerusalem; the light Still lingered on the city's walls, and crowned Mount Olivet with splendor, while below, Among the trees of dark Gethsemane And on the Kedron gloomy shadows lay, As if but waiting for the death of day To rise and mantle Zion in a shroud.
To one who watched it in that golden light, Across the gulf between the sunlit hills, The city seemed transfigured, lifted high Above the gloom and misery of earth,-- A fit abode for Israel's ancient kings.
The broad plateau, where Abram once had knelt, And where the hallowed Temple of the Jews Had glittered gorgeous with its gems and gold, Now bore, 'tis true, the stately Moslem mosque, But bore it as a captive bears his chains, Whose spirit is not crushed, but borne aloft By thrilling memories of a n.o.ble past.
The rays of dying day yet half illumed A dreary spot outside the city walls Where sat, apart, an old man and his child.
Beside them rose the cherished blocks of stone Which once had graced the Temple's sacred court; It was the ”Day of Wailing”, and the Jews,-- A poor scant remnant of their outcast race--, Had gathered there, as is their weekly wont, To read of all the glories they have lost, And count their endless list of shattered hopes.
Some moaned at thought of their contrasted lot, Some plucked their beards in anguish and despair, Some turned their tear-stained faces to the wall, And mutely kissed the precious blocks, as if The historic stones held sentient sympathy.
Their lamentations ended, all had gone To their poor dwellings, sadly, one by one, Save these two lingering mourners, who still sat With downcast eyes and slowly-dropping tears.
At length the old man raised his head, and spoke;--
”Our Fathers' G.o.d! whose all-protecting hand Led us, Thy people, to this chosen land, Through the cleft waters of a distant sea, That we might rear a temple here to Thee; Thou, who on Zion hadst Thy favorite shrine, And in Thy majesty and power divine Wast daily by our suppliant race adored As sovereign Jehovah, peerless Lord; Why hast Thou cast us off to toil and die In foreign countries' harsh captivity?
Our race is scattered now the wide world o'er; Our wailings rise to Thee from every sh.o.r.e; Baited or banished by the Christian Powers, Cursed by the Moslem mid our ruined towers, Like pariah dogs, an execrated race, We crouch to-day within our 'Wailing Place', Begging, and paying dearly for, the right To bathe with tears this consecrated site.
How long, O Israel's G.o.d, shall this endure?
Are not Thy promises to Jacob sure?
Oh, speed the day when once again Thy name Shall here be wors.h.i.+pped, and the sacred flame Of pure, atoning offerings shall rise, And smoke ascend from daily sacrifice!”
Tears choked his utterance, and the old man wept, His meagre frame convulsed with mighty sobs,-- Pathetic tokens of a broken heart.
His daughter crept beside him, drew his head,-- Adorned with thin, white hair,--upon her breast, And soothed him as a mother might her child; Then, when his grief abated, took his hands,-- So worn and white,--within her own soft palms, And chafed them gently with a loving care; Then pressed them to her lips, and lightly lay Her warm cheek next his own, while murmuring words Of tender, filial love in that old tongue Which once had rung in triumph on this spot, When poets of her race in glowing words Had sung their glorious, prophetic strains.
”Father,” she whispered, ”shall we now despair, When we at last inhale the sacred air Of our ancestral glory, and have come, Despite long years of waiting, to our home?
Didst thou not say, when far beyond the sea, In our dark days of want and misery, That thou hadst but one prayer,--to go to die Upon the hill where Zion's ruins lie?
Now this is granted, and thou hast attained Thy dearest wish, with ample wealth retained To keep us here from want, till on the breast Of Olivet's gray slope in death we rest.”
She paused, and faintly smiled, while at her voice Her father turned his tear-dimmed eyes to hers, As one who hears soft music with delight.
The sunset glow fell full upon her face,-- A rich, dark oval, crowned with raven hair; Her l.u.s.trous eyes were shrines of tenderness, Large, dark, profound, and tremulously bright, And fringed by lashes of the deepest hue, Which swept the downy smoothness of her cheek; While her full lips, inimitably arched And exquisitely mobile, told her thoughts, Ere their soft motion framed them into speech; Divinely there had Beauty set her seal; As who should say,--”Behold a perfect type Of southern loveliness, in whose warm veins The blood of good, ancestral stock runs pure, Maintained through centuries of Spanish suns.”
The old man fondly took her hands in his, And, bending forward, kissed her broad, fair brow; Then in a faint and weary voice replied;--
”Rachel, my well-belov'd, I have in thee The only blessing left on earth to me, The one sweet solace in my dreary life Of fourscore years of racial hate and strife; Dear Comforter, 'tis true, our feet now stand Within the limits of our people's land; Behind us are the obloquy and pain Endured in cruel, persecuting Spain, Yet feel I still more keenly here than there The degradation which our people share; Each object here speaks sadly to the Jew Of all the grandeur which his race once knew.