III

This was her home-aye, hers, whose noble pride Had that dear name denied

To soil whereon her brothers suffered wrong:

Yet of another country she was free,

The golden vales, the fields of Arcady,

The woods that whispered, and the streams of song! Among the lucent marbles of the Greek

'Twas hers to pass, and charm grand lips to speak, But as in siren palace reared apart,

One born to lead his people through the sea, Saw the Egyptian smite, and felt the smart Quickening the fire-seed in his Hebrew heart To burst in blaze-so she!

Yea, in that bitterest year

When Russia spurned the Jew,

She, too, ah, from a lovelier land she, too, Went forth, and left, for service more austere, Pure Beauty smiling in the fair white fane (The strong sweet voice we nevermore shall hear) Thrilled sword-like through the ear

Of whoso slept, though sleep were dull as death! O strange, O holiest hour

Of rapture and of power,

When a great soul is girded with a Cause! Finding at length, led on by deep hid laws, That Deed to do, wherefore God lent His breath, O Awful Hour more strange,

Of chill surprise and change,

Command most stern that bids the doer pause

Ere yet that Deed is done,

The trump be silent, ere the field is won!

How green, in coming years,

For her the glistening victor-palm had sprung!
Woe for the words unsaid, the song unsung!
Speech falters into tears

Tears-but such tears as fed the vital root
Of Hope, and haste the time of bloom and leaf.
None shall forbid high Grief:

But doubt she had forbidden, who deeply know
The vigor of that stem whence life she drew,
The sure succession, the unfailing fruit!

IV

O faithful Israel, that keep'st aflame

The Lamp perpetual with remembrance due
Of the undying deed! Be this her fame:
The source of steadfast purpose, tireless borne.
If, in some dazzling morn

That breaks on e'en the blank eyes of the blind,
The flag of Judah shall indeed unfurl,

The hero-Ezra on his arm shall bind

No lordlier hand, no subtler amulet
Than her linkék songs of pearl,

And rubies passion-red as with rare life-blood wet!
We, too, we, too, have claim

On this uniting name!

We of the West may bow where Israel weeps. Beneath our clear stars, never veiled in shame She woke to life, and now, alas, she sleeps,

(Proud May-time heap her painless rest with flowers!) Under no skies but ours!

HELEN GRAY CONE.

ONCE more a singing soul's most airy vessel
Hath on its journey sped;

Once more we linger by the shadowy waters,
Mourning a spirit fled.

Yet, lingering here, we catch the tender vision

Of Beauty, throned above,

As fondly welcoming a spirit laden

With beauty and with love;

For she who left us hath with love deep freighted Her spirit's ample powers

She filled her life, her very name with beauty.

Like a rare urn with flowers.

ALLAN EASTMAN CROSS.

A RARE, sweet daughter of a wondrous race

She flamed with all the old-time prophet's fire, And woke again the echoes of that lyre

That from the haunted Saul the clouds could chase,
In her own might the heart of Miriam trace,
Or Deborah, aroused to holy ire

When her loved people did her soul inspire;
Yet lacked she nothing of a woman's grace.
Would she had lived to right her people's wrongs,
To thrill and lift them, with her grand soul's might,
And make them worthy of her noble thought!
But let her Israel still sing her songs,

And in her counsels learn to find delight, And not in vain her suffering soul has wrought.

MINOT JUDSON Savage.

FIRE from high, holy heaven down-drawn,
By her strong soul and true,

Flashed over Israel, a sudden dawn

With star-song wild and new,

A moment silent in her fair, firm hand
The harp of David lay,

Then gulfs of hopeless, sorrowing years were spanned

When she began to play,

Hers was a woman's song, whose martial force

All preludes down-hurled

Razed every wall that barred its noble course

Around the hindering world.

On far blood-hallowed hills the trampled dust
Of patriarch sires did glow,

And matchless swords, long buried in their rust,
Leaped eager for the blow.

In their lone tombs the Hebrew heroes heard,
The prophets felt and knew.

How once again divinest courage stirred

The genius of the Jew.

A Maccabean influence thrilled the sky,
And shone from star and sun, 1
The banner of old days was passing by
With toph and clarion!

JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON,

a

COULDST thou have lived to share with us this

hour

Of grateful praise,

When minds of men are turned towards the far

Columbus days,

Then would thy lyre spell out thy wond'rous thoughts
In sweetest strain.

Thy soul would sing to us a touching song
Of fitful Spain;

Of monarchs that thrust forth a helpless band
Into the night;

Of monarchs that bade speed to him who found
This land of light.

Ah! now we

e miss thee. More and more to-day
We wish thee here,

Thy words are lacking, and the many moods

That brought us cheer.

Where are the bright inspiring tones of love
That gave us rest;

And taught us by their ever-charméd lines à ne
That thou wert blest? ....

Gone! Gone! 'Tis true, but not without their good In lustre shed,

Through hearts whose flames were kindled by the light

Of one since dead.

i 540 HENRY COHEN.

Joseph Joachim

BELOV'D of all to whom the muse is dear,
Who hid her spirit of rapture from the Greek
Whereby our art excelleth the antique,
Perfecting formal beauty to the ear:
Thou hast been in England many a year
The interpreter who left us nought to seek,
Making Beethoven's inmost passion speak,
Bringing the soul of great Sebastian near.
Their music liveth ever and 'tis just

That thou good Joachim so high thy skill
Rank (as thou shalt upon the heavenly hill)
Laurel'd with them, for thy ennobling trust

Remembered when thy loving hand is still And every ear that heard thee stopt with dust.

Frederic David Mocatta

OF what avail in low estate to weep,

To take our harps from off the willow trees? Will harp or tablet wake him from his sleep? Our tears run down-of what avail are these? For him, the scholar's hope, the poor man's need, Who knew the art to benefit unknown,

Who cast at eve and morn the holy seed

On rugged valleys neither eared nor sown.
Though many a tongue a ready writer's pen,
Of many kindnesses might tell the tale,
Of what avail these words of many men
Or dirge, or episode of what avail?

Be strong and of good courage! freed from ill,
Fast in life's bundle thy sweet soul is tied,

Sleep! loosed from this low world by God's own will,
And wake! with God's own likeness, satisfied!

JAMES MEW.