May know the muse that graced the ancient days
Has not forgotten how to laud and praise.

If we have grown into such gracious worth,
And are assembled in this galaxy

To laud the work to which these years gave birth,

Is it not fitting that our thoughts shall be
Fashioned to form, a grateful aureole
For him whose labor led us to this goal?

Let mine the pride and pleasure be to-night

To sing his worth, who is our guide and friend; Who lifts a beacon by whose far-flung light

We seem to see the lingering anguish end, Scholar and jurist, need I speak the name That sheds on all of us its lustrous fame?

How shall I praise him fitly, or begin?—

Lauding endowments of th' absorbing mind,
Where all things ever known seem gathered in
To grow into rich blessings for mankind,
We but the medal's silver side behold-
Though fair its sheen, the other side is gold.

For wedded to this rare mentality,

There beats within his breast a Jewish heart, That pleads and throbs in ceaseless sympathy

To right the wrong 'neath which his brethren smart, The nameless wrong, to which he gave a name— To prove a Russian envoy's lasting shame.

Small need, in truth, to bring in proud array
The gracious giving of his bounteous thought.
Wherever Jewish learning lights our way,

His hand has labored and his genius wrought.
A man of men! 'Twill be our boast we knew
And held in love, our country's foremost Jew!
FELIX N. GERSON.

Isaac M. Wise

HE came into the Camp of Creed,

The Sword of Strength within his hand,

To scatter forth the bigot breed

And smite them from the Promised Land; To hew each hoary falsehood down

And humble ancient arrogance,

And Error fled before his frown

While Truth was glad beneath his glance.

He labored where his Duty led—
Unflinching stood in ev'ry storm
That beat about his fearless head,

And thundered forth the word "Reform!"
Earth's farthest nations heard his voice
Unto the utmost purple seas,
And all found reason to rejoice
From Polar lands to Pyrenees.

From depths of long, nigrescent nights
We grasp the gospel that he gave,
A message come from starry heights,
Sent forth to succor and to save.
If Jew or Gentile matters not,

For rights and righteousness of each,
Alike was wrought his toiling thought,
And flamed the splendor of his speech.

Our reaching reason gropes along
His lofty path toward the light,
Consoled and strengthened by the song
His spirit sends us from his flight.
We pray our searching souls may find
The higher things for which he stood-
He fought for freedom of the mind.
And for a broader brotherhood.

A modern Moses sent to lead

His people up to lustrous lands,

To free them from the chains of creed
And superstition's cruel bands;
To guide uncertain feet from out

The darkened paths in which they stray,
Amid the desert sands of doubt
Unto the everlasting day.

He told not of God's wrath, but taught
The lesson of His love instead,
Till narrow tenets came to naught
And fierce fanaticism fled.
Who knew his mental majesty,

Or felt his nature's gentle grace,

From pious prejudice was free

Nor nursed a senseless hate of race.

Yes, he was great as men are great
Who scorn the cramping lines of creed,
Who leave us still our earth's estate
Yet fill our nature's inmost need.
And so with each recurring Spring,
While roses blow and lilies bloom,
The world will tender tribute bring
To lay upon his hallowed tomb.

WALTER HURT.

("God's finger touched him and he slept!")

ABOVE the grief of Israel soars a voice

Rebuking him who weeps;

Bidding the righteous for his sake rejoice,
Who, clothed with honor, sleeps.

The victor, bearing home unsullied spoil,
The leader, whom God led,

Sleeps 'neath the laurels of completed toil,
That crowns his hoary head.

As Moses, through the wilderness of old,

His people led aright,

So he, from worn-out creeds and forms grown cold, Led on to warmth and light.

And as old shackles fell from Israel's feet,

And broader visions rose,

He rested not, until life's task complete
Had earned Death's sweet repose.

The tired hands upon his breast are crossed,
The noble heart is stilled!

Yet think not that God's promise shall be lost
Which he so long fulfilled.

His mantle shall descend, in God's own time,
Unto some worthy one

Who portions Israel heritage sublime
From sire to son.

Our leader sleeps; his spirit through the age
Shall live uncramped and free;

While angels wrote his name upon the page
Of immortality!

IDA GOLDSMITH MORRIS.

PEACE and remembrance! All the great

Of Israel's line his brothers are

Leader and prophet, priest and king;
Aye, and the bright and morning star!

With force and fire and lofty aim

He labored, all his crowded years: Order from chaos, light from gloom

He brought, and banished narrowing fears.

Nor bronze nor marble rear to him

Whose fame transcends their poor degree! His deeds are noblest monument;

His life is immortality!

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

AFAR the reaches of our land one day,

Grim tidings, visitants of grief confessed,
As wan the sun full orbed had died away
In sky-slopes, crimson sheen caressed-
"Our prince is gone among the blessed."

Entwined the olive branch with cypress bough,
Alternate tales of peace and woe shall tell
Unlanguaged glory of a man and how

God's angels kissed him ere he fell,
And sealed his eyes in slumber's spell.

Though Israel's heart-chords wrung with anguished love,

Now fain his peerless presence would reclaim;
Yet, free from weighing durance here; above

To high emprise he still doth aim,
Shrined Nestor dear of sainted name.

In legend heralded a school on high,

With seraphs' welcome waits our pilgrim guest; There, world-famed patriarchs his footfall nigh Now echoing hear in halls of rest,

His heart to theirs in love is prest.

Grief's floodgates pour their unstemmed tide amain,
Our prayers vying throng the stricken skies;
Oh, give us back your sunshine once again!
Undimmed let flash once more your eyes!
Our Father hears not, will not rise!

The flowers leagued have taken him away,
Wee velvet violets and smilax fair;
They called him at the close of shadowed day,
With amaranths to crown him where
God's garden greens for e'er and e'er.

Each day the nursling bud shall weep for him,
Their beaded tears the lucent dew shall be;