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.

IRE from high, holy heaven down-drawn,

FIR

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
The genius of the Jew.

stirred

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

JAMES MAURICE THOMPSON,

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

Thy soul would sing to us a touching songan

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

Thy words are lacking, and the many moods
That brought us cheer.

A

Where are the bright inspiring tones of lover.0
That gave us rest;

And taught us by their ever-charméd linesd od
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.

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. ROBERT BRIDGES.

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.

Mrs. Ellis A. Franklin

T was not granted to her she should lead

IT

A mighty cause or grace a learned throng, The humbler task was hers; she lived among Her children and she taught them to succeed To her inheritance of faith and deed.

And what she wrought, unwitting of all wrong,
Unwitting of her worth, she let belong

To others, and to others left the meed.
The tower to its eminence on high

Would not have risen at the author's will
Alone; those who builded it may die,

The name of the designer never will.

So those whose fame and work no records hold
Inspire the deeds that live for time untold.

ANONYMOUS.

Oscar Cohen

OH, that death should lay thee low,
With thy fame not zenith high!-
Ah, the pity that the foe

Should have thought thee ripe to die!

Like the greatest one of old—

Moses, strong of heart and hand-
Thou hast led thy wandering fold
Onward to the promised land.

Stranger to thy creed and race,
Alien to the older Word,
Yet I loved thee! On thy face
Shone the glory of the Lord.

H. B. GAYFER.

.

Leo N. Levi

LET no lament break forth but rather sing
Hosannas to the Everlasting King;
Let Hallelujahs everywhere resound
And animate the newly hallowed ground.
Where lovingly a garland we may place

To symbolize the homage of his race.

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No wringing hands, nor shrill-voiced grief shall lift
Our hero from his consecrated crypt;—
If ye would truly honor him, who bore
The ensign of the fathers to the fore,
Then follow on, and raise the battle-flag,
And hasten on each footstep that would lag.
Unfold forsooth the ancient standard, and
Obey our leader's clarion-toned command.

GEORGE ALEXANDER KOHUT.

Esther J. Ruskay

E meet to-day to call upon thy name,

WE

With wistful eyes to contemplate and trace Each feature of thy well-remembered face; And as we light the faint memorial flame To hear above the cadence of our prayer The brush of wings across the tranquil air, As though thy radiant spirit rustled there;To see thee once again, ere yet we go.

Our devious ways, unmindful of the gloom, And know that though we robed thee for the tomb Thou livest yet, transfigured and aglow,

In far-off fields of fragrant asphodel,

Where seraphs and thy starry kindred dwell

Revered and loved and mourned in Israel.

GEORGE ALEXANDER KOHUT.