Gifts

OH, World-God, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian

cried.

His prayer was granted. High as heaven, behold Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide

Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold. Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet;

World-circling traffic roared through mart and street; His priests were gods; his spice-balmed kings enshrined, Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep. Seek Pharaoh's race to-day, and ye shall find

Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

"Oh, World-God, give me Beauty!" cried the Greek. His prayer was granted. All the earth became Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak,

Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,

Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.
The lyre was his, and his the breathing might
Of the immortal marble; his the play

Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue
Go seek the sunshine-race, ye find to-day
A broken column and a lute unstrung.

“Oh, World-God, give me Power!" the Roman cried. His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained

A captive to the chariot of his pride.

The blood of myriad provinces was drained

To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart.

Invulnerably bulwarked every part

With serried legions and with close-meshed Code; Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home;

A roofless ruin stands where once abode

Th' imperial race of everlasting Rome.

"Oh, Godhead, give me Truth!" the Hebrew cried. His prayer was granted. He became the slave Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,

Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to

save.

The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.
Beauty he hath forsworn, and Wealth and Power.
Seek him to-day, and find in every land;

No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
Immortal through the lamp within his hand.

EMMA LAZARUS.

Hebrew Cradle Song
NIGHT has on the earth descended,

All around is silence deep,

Sleep, my darling, I am with thee;
Sleep a calm and peaceful sleep.

I no lullabies shall sing thee;
Songs are at an end to-night;
Sleep in peace, oh, sleep on sweetly,
Long as sleep thou canst, my light.

In our native fields aforetime,
Wondrous songs we used to sing,
Improvising them in gardens

Turning green with early spring.

Where grew daffodils and myrtles,
Stately palms upreared their heights,
Cypress trees spread wide their branches,
Splendid roses blossomed bright.

But those notes are hushed and silenced;
Ruined now our Zion lies;

Mourning sounds instead of singing;
Yea, for songs we hear but sighs;

All thou needs must know, my darling,
Of thy nation's piteous plight,
Thou wilt learn and weep for sorrow,
As thy mother weeps to-night.

But why now in vain disturb thee?
Let thy tranquil slumber last,
Until over thee, my dearest,

The dark day of rain hath passed!

To the school, my son, I'll lead thee
By the hand; there thou shalt learn
All our Bible and our knowledge.
Wondrous pearls thou wilt discern-

Pearls of wisdom in our Talmud,
Gems our sages' lore affords;

Thou shalt taste of prayer's first sweetness
And the charm of God's great words.

Ne'er forget thou art a Hebrew!

Little son, remember well,

Even to the grave, the stories

That thy mother used to tell!

EZEKIEL LEAVITT.

(Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell.)

Jewish Lullaby

MY harp is on the willow-tree,

Else would I sing, O love, to thee
A song of long ago-

Perchance the song that Miriam sung
Ere yet Judea's heart was wrung

By centuries of woe.

I ate my crust in tears today,
As scourged I went upon my way-
And yet my darling smiled;

Aye, beating at my breast, he laughed-
My anguish curdled not the draught—
'Twas sweet with love, my child!

The shadow of the centuries lies
Deep in thy dark and mournful eyes;
But, hush! and close them now,
And in the dreams that thou shalt dream
The light of other days shall seem
To glorify thy brow!

Our harp is on the willow-tree-
I have no song to sing to thee,
As shadows round us roll;

But, hush and sleep, and thou shalt hear
Jehovah's voice that speaks to cheer
Judea's fainting soul!

EUGENE FIELD.

Το

Patriotism

From the Persian

'O each his country dearer far
Than the throne of Solomon;

Thorns from home, too, dearer are
Than myrtle or than cinnamon.

Joseph, in the pride of State,

Ruling over Egypt's strand

Sighed, and would have changed his fate.

For poverty in Canaan's Land.

Translated by ROBERT NEEDHAM CUST.

THE

Optimism

HE rose is hid by prickly thorn,
Behind each night there lurks a morn,
Amidst most threat'ning sombre skies
The many colored rainbow lies.
No night was e'er so hopeless black
That it at least one star did lack;
So pleasure lies conceal'd midst pain
And joy is found in sorrow's train.

To My Lyre

I. Z. JOSEPHSON.

WONDERFUL is my love

The love that my songs ye inspire;

My spirit, my flame and my fire,
My trophies, my treasures of old.
My temples, my silver, my gold,
My garden of flowers, my dove,
My comfort, my balm and my lyre
The hopes my years are in ye
More sweet than the world above

And the sweets of the world to be.

JOSEPH MASSel.

To Walter Lionel de Rothschild on His Bar-Mitzvah

THINE is the heritage of ancient birth,

Age upon age hath dawned since first thy race Was cradled in the empurpled East: the place Whence seer and king have sprung-the great of earth. And thine the heritage of higher worth;

The large-souled Charity, whose pitying grace Hath left nor land nor sea without its trace, And raised a plenteous harvest 'midst the dearth, But thine a greater heritage than these;