Bar Kochba

JEEP, Israel! your tardy meed outpour

WEEP,

Of grateful homage on his fallen head, That never coronal of triumph wore,

Untombed, dishonored, and unchapleted. If Victory makes the hero, raw Success

t

The stamp of virtue, unremembered
Be then the desperate strife, the storm and stress
Of the last Warrior Jew. But if the man
Who dies for freedom, loving all things less,

Against world-legions, mustering his poor clan;
The weak, the wronged, the miserable, to send
Their death-cry's protest through the ages' span-
If such an one be worthy, ye shall lend

Eternal thanks to him, eternal praise, Nobler the conquered than the conqueror's end! EMMA LAZARUS.

The Jewish Exile

1

After the suppression of Bar Kochba's revolt, the Jews were debarred by Hadrian from entering Jerusalem. They obtained the privilege, however, of assembling once a year, upon the Mount of Olives, on the anniversary of the burning of the Temple; and from that eminence the patriots took a distant look at the beloved city.

Y/HEREFORE weep our brethren yonder,
Gathered from afar and near;

Wherefore, father, tell me, wherefore
Are these weary pilgrims here?

Ah, my child, a day of mourning
Brings together Israel's fold;

Many of these weary pilgrims

Once were warriors, strong and bold.

See, my child, the city yonder,
That was once thy father's home;
Now dishonored and forsaken,
'Tis the seat of hated Rome.

But the great decree of Heaven
Was against our glorious band;
And at Bethar's bloody battle.
Died the noblest of the land.

Yet the fierce and vengeful Roman,
Not content with such a prize,
Heeded not our women's mourning,
Heeded not our children's cries.

But he cast them from their country,
From their own and native soil;
Sold them into dreadful bondage,
To a life of hated toil.

Then defiled the sacred places

With a ruthless hand and bold; And the heathen dwells unpunished Where the priesthood dwelt of old.

They have changed the walks of Zion,
Even changed her sacred name;
They have reared a heathen temple
On the ruins of our fame.

And to fill the cup of sorrow,
And to fill it to the brim,
Hadrian hurled his mighty fiat
With a purpose stern and grim,

That within yon sacred portals
Israel's foot may never tread,
Though beneath that soil lie buried
All the dearest of our dead.

Bitter, child, are all the tortures
Of a cruel, heartless foe;
Yet a life of hopeless exile
Is by far the greatest woe.

Here upon the Mount of Olives,
Once a year, we still may meet,
Where the city of our fathers

May our tearful vision greet.

So we gather from the mountains
And we gather from the plain;
Here, amid her desolation,

We behold her once again.

Till the sturdy sons of Judah

Break the Roman's haughty pride,
Never shall I cease my mourning
Never shall my tears be dried.

For I trust, the Lord in heaven,
Mindful of his chosen gem,

Will some day restore to glory
Israel and Jerusalem.

LEON HÜHNER.

The Jewish Pilgrim

ARE these the ancient holy hills

Where angels walked of old?.

Is this the land our story fills

With glory not yet cold?
For I have passed by many a shrine
O'er many a land and sea;

But still, oh! promised Palestine,
My dreams have been of thee.

I see thy mountain cedar green,
Thy valleys fresh and, fair,

With summers bright as they have been
When Israel's home was there.

Tho' o'er thee sword and time have passed, And cross and crescent shone,

And heavily the chain has pressed

Oh! they are still our own.

Thine are the wandering race that go
Unblest through every land,

Whose blood hath stained the polar snow,
And quench'd the desert sand.

And thine the home of hearts that turn
From all earth's shrines to thee
With their lone faith for ages born
In sleepless memory.

For throngs have fallen, nations gone
Before the march of time,

And where the ocean rolled alone
Are forests in their prime.

Since gentile ploughshares marr'd the brow
Of Zion's holy hill

Where are the Roman eagles now?
Yet Judah wanders still.

And hath she wandered thus in vain
A pilgrim of the past?

No! long deferred her hope hath been
But it shall come at last.

For in her wastes a voice I hear,
As from a prophet's urn,

It bids the nations build not there
For Jacob shall return.

Oh! lost and loved Jerusalem

Thy pilgrim may not stay

To see the glad earth's harvest home
In thy redeeming day.