BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Hebrew Poems: Printed translations by Alice S. BlackwellTHE JEWISH TRIBUNE June 19, 1908 ZIONIST NOTES DR. HERZL's YARHZEIT At a meeting of the Executive Committee of the Federation of American Zionists, held on the evening of June 2 at the offices of the Federation, 204 East Broadway, New York, a letter was read from Professor Warburg, urging that on Dr. Herzl's Yahrzeit, on July 19, collections be everywhere made for the planting of olive trees in the Herzl Grove. The profits of the Herzl Grove are to be devoted to culture work in Palestine. It was resolved to issue a circular letter to the societies, requesting them to arrange Herzl memorial meetings on July 19, and to make collections at these meetings for the Herzl Grove. The Palestine Committee agreed to publish and distribute circulars explaining the purpose of the Herzl Grove. THE YIDDISH PUBLICATION COMMITTEE. The Yiddish Publication Committee submitted the following resolutions: 1. That the Convention urge all societies that have not yet paid for five shares of the Zion Press Association, as resolved by the last Convention, to do so at the earliest possible date. 2. That the Convention authorize the incoming Yiddish Publication Committee to raffle a set of the Jewish Encyclopedia, some shares of the Jewish Colonial Trust and of the Anglo-Palestine Company, etc., of a total value of $200, and issue 6,000 tickets at twenty-five cents each for the purpose. The Executive Committee approved the holding of such a raffle, but did not think its presentation to the Convention was necessary. The Yiddish Publication Committee reported that the cash receipts for the Yiddish Press Fund were $1907.60 to date, with $1,180.90 in outstanding subscriptions. The English Publication Committee was instructed to consider the publication of a Zionist annual and to report at the next meeting of the Executive Committee in detail. THE PALESTINE COMMITTEE The Palestine Committee reported the following receipts for the month of April and May, 1908: Olive Tree Fund, $113.50 ; Bezalel, $42.00; Pflanzungsverein,$15.00; one share in Palestine Land Development Company, $5.00. The Palestine Committee presented the following recommendations for the convention which were approved: 1. That every society be required to appoint a chairman on Palestine work. Such chairmen shall, by virtue of their office, constitute the Palestine Committee of the Federation. 2. That the fifteenth day of Shvat be permanently appointed as a Jewish Arbor Day, when collections shall be made for the Olive Tree Fund; that Lag b'Omer be similarly set aside for Bezalel propaganda; and that collections for the Herzl Grove shall be made on the anniversary of Dr. Herzl's death; and that all Zionist societies arrange mass meetings on these days. 3. That all of the Bezalel societies in the country organize themselves into a Bezalel Organization of America, which shall be represented on a joint Bezalel Committee together with the Poale Zion and the Federation of American Zionists. 4. That all moneys collected for the Bezalel in this country be turned over to the treasurer of the Joint Bezalel Committee, which shall create a special fund for the establishment of an American department manual training at the Bezalel School. A certain proportion of these moneys shall, however be devoted to the current expenditures of the Bezelel Schook, and shall be regularly remitted to the Verein Bezalel in Berlin. The chairman called the attention of the Executive Committee to the booklet recently issued by the German Federation on "Wirtschaftliche Tatigkeit in Palaestina," and proposed that it be translated and published at the expense of the Palestine Committee. A letter was presented from the National Farm School, in which it was submitted that the Federation establish a scholarship of $250 per annum for each young man who it may send to the school. It was decided to inform the National Farm School that the Federation cannot take any action in the matter at the present time. A statement was received from the Actions Comite to the effect that hereafter only those shekel payers would be entitled to vote for Congress delegates who had paid their shekel in the year preceding the Congress as well as in the Congress year. Mr. Lieberman reported that the annual election of the directors of the Maccabaen Publishing Company would be held during the month, and he was authorized to cast a vote for the Federation holdings of the Maccabaean stock. In the absence of the president, Dr. Magnes acted as chairman. Present were Dr. Epstein, Messrs. Lewin-Epstein, Lipsky, Livingston, Lieberman, Newstad, Dr. Radin and the secretary. JUNIOR SOCIETIES CELEBRATE. Last Sunday witnessed the first large gatherings of young Zionists in this city and Brooklyn. Shebuoth was celebrated by entertainments entirely prepared and participated in by juniors. The larger of the two was held at Clinton Hall in the morning under the auspices of the Junior Council. Nearly seven hundred persons crowded into the hall, each circle marching in cheering and wearing Zionist banners. The entire program teemed with religious and Zionist thought. A Zionist drill, arranged and executed by the Sunbeams of Zion, girls of ten years, elicited great applause. Other features consisted of a play on Abraham by the Julie Herzl Club, a sketch on Ruth by the Young Zionist Association of the Bronx, an oratorio of Goldsmiths "Captivity" by Kohiloth Joshurun Hebrew School, a sketch by the Rose of Sharon, "Jews in Exile," and a play in Hebrew, "Hemroglim," by the Dr. Herzl Zion Club. When Dr. J. L. Magnes appeared he was greeted by continued cheering and waving of flags. He won immediate affection when he called the children his little brothers and sisters. The lengthy program was interspersed with songs and recitations in four languages. Another enthusiastic gathering of Junior Zionists was the afternoon entertainment at the Tiphereth Israel, Brooklyn, by a Junior Circle known as Young Israel. Here four hundred children crowded into the synagog, but the scarcity of room disappointed a large number. The children were given a lengthy entertainment and treated with refreshments. The success of these first gatherings of Junior Zionists ensures the celebration in the future of all Jewish holidays by young Zionists. SEVEN NEW RABBIS. The graduating exercises of the Jewish Theological Seminary were held on June 7 at the seminary building, 123d street, near Broadway. They opened with an invocation by the Rev. Dr. H. Pereira Mendes and an introductory address by Louis Marshall, chairman of the board of directors. Mr. Marshall said that the seminary was very much in need of money, but he wanted it understood that there was no danger of its closing the doors. He said: "We are not rich as is supposed. We should have an annual income of some $42,000, whereas we have only $33,000. We want to build a school for teachers, and every Jew in America ought to become a missionary for the institution. We must have help." President Solomon Schechter reminded the graduates that their troubles had just begun, and told them that they are to be "faithful servants of the Torah and not masters." Jacob H. Schiff said a few words to the graduates. "A Jewish minister," he said, "should be true to his ministry; he should bring out by his life the value of Judaism as a religion which does not make slaves of men." Those who graduated as rabbi were: Moses Abels, M. A. ; Louis Egelson, M. A. ; Joseph Heviah, M. A. ; Abel Hirsch, M. A. ; Elias Nathan Rabinowitz, B. A. ; Samuel Rosenger, M. A., and Herman Rubinovitz, B. A. The graduates of the teachers' course were: Miss Anna R. Abramson, Miss Anna Drucker, Samuel U. Kaplowitz, Miss Sarah N. Lowenkron and Mrs. L. S. Schiff. The Laemmlein Buttenwieser Bible prize, value $40, was awarded to Joseph Heviah. The Laemmleion Buttenwieser Talmud prize was awarded to Dr. Hirsch Goldberg. The Alexander Kohut memorial prize, value $40, was awarded to Moses J. S. Abels. The Seminary Alumni Association prize, value $100, was divided between the two contestants, Abel Hirsch and Elias N. Rabinowitz. JEWISH CHAUTAUQUA SOCIETY Plans are fast nearing completion of the Twelfth Annual Summer Assembly of the Jewish Chautauqua Society, which will be held at Buffalo on July 14-20, inclusive. The program has been arranged by a special committee in charge, is unusually attractive and contains a large number of representative speakers from all sections of the country. The final draft of the program will be ready for publication within the next ten days. Subjects of interest to Chautauqua workers will form a large part of the program and specimen lessons from various Chautauqua courses will be given throughout the sessions. In addition there will be popular lectures upon current subjects of national importance. The sessions will be varied by trips on almost every afternoon of the Assembly to a different one of the many vacation resorts within easy reach of Buffalo, such as Niagara Falls, Niagara-on-Lakes, Olcott Beach and the Chautauqua Colony on Lake Chautauqua. As was the case last year, one of the chief features of interest for the coming Assembly will be the gathering of delegates sent from Chautauqua Circles in every section of the country. An unusual number of Circles have already signified their intention, by being represented by a duly accredited delegate, and in addition individual members of many of the Circles will also journey to Buffalo to be in attendance at the sessions. The field secretary, Miss Jeannette M. Goldberg, has returned to Philadelphia from her vacation and has assumed charge of preliminary arrangements. She may be addressed at the home office, which is 649 Drexel Building, which is fully equipped with all data concerning railroad rates to the Assembly, hotel fares, etc. Correspondence regarding any information of this kind is cordially invited. THE NIGHTINGALE TO THE TOILER. FROM THE YIDDISH OF MORRIS ROSENFELD. BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. It is summer today, lovely summer today! Do you list to the lay that I chant for your ear? The sun shines like gold in the deep azure sky, My airy friends sing in the wood, blithe and clear; The flies in the green grass are buzzing about, The flowers blossom brightly and shed rich perfume; Soft babbles the fountain, low murmurs the stream; You have lain long enough in the factory's gloom! Arise, Nature hates you not more than the rest: It is summer today, lovely summer today! A wealth of enjoyment, of hope and delight Now everyone breathes, and is happy and gay; And all now are asking why you are not there? You are not omitted in Nature's great plan; Your share, too, is there, yes, your portion is there- Then take it, now take it, O laboring man! It is summer today, lovely summer today! The butterflies dance on the flowers, far and near; Refreshingly drizzles the silvery rain; The mountains stand green, sharply outlined and clear. The air now is mingled with soft fragrant scents, The lambs in the blooming vale skip in their mirth, The shepherd the voice of the shepherdess hears; The year's sacred season has come to the earth. Delay not! Like lightning life passes away. Fair summer is here, lovely summer is here! The wheel may stand mute for awhile - you have toiled So long and so hard, without pleasure or cheer! Your strength, once like iron, you have squandered and spent So foolishly, passing laborious days Oh, do not believe it folly to live! The cup of enjoyment with gusto upraise! Fair summer is here, lovely summer is here! I shall not sing always the song I sing now; My hour for departure will come too at last; The black crow will then take my place on the bough, The sacred song sinks into silence and dies. Oh, while I still sing to you, clearly and strong, Of the sweet, golden vision of freedom and love, Rise, let me not have to invite you so long! The heaven remains not eternally blue. Fair summer is here, lovely summer is here! And, while it is here, but no longer, alas! We can pass our lives blithely, in you and good cheer. For like you, who are fading away at your wheel. Fade all things at last in the season of frost. Life and time are made up of brief moments alone: If a moment is missed, then the battle is lost. DORCHESTER, MASS. My Curse! From the Hebrew of Ezekiel Leavitt. In all of the houses of prayer in which Mary's son's worshippers meet, The multitudes greater had grown; the voice of loud chanting was heard. The priests of the household of falsehood their own disobedience hid, And to all of the folk of the city they preached pure morality's word. To the houses of prayer all the Christians were streaming, because on that day For them all it was holiday time; to-day is their great Easter feast. Their faces are beaming with joy in the clear, pleasant rays of the sun; The sun from the clouds has come forth, and the warmth of the air has increased. Bright now shines the sun in the heavens; his light is spread widely abroad, Like a canopy made all of gold, in the infinite height of the sky; And crowds upon crowds have walked out, and the fair city garden is filled As full as a nestful of birds ere the fledgelings have learned how to fly. The fair city garden is full; there is merriment, singing and joy; From near and from far on the air the notes of gay laughter are shed. Sweet winds as of Eden are blowing; the air is all balmy and mild, And like to a carpet unrolled, the heavens above are outspread. The trees, purifying themselves for the Spring, have their part in the feast; The flower joys in playing in love with the bud by the soft zephyr stirred; In the warm gentle light of the sun dance the butterflies, flitting about, And sometimes the birds, 'mid the boughs let the notes of their music be heard. But lo! on a sudden, a tumult, all blent with wild laughter, arose; It filled all the streets and the squares, and increased like the noise of a flood; Base creatures, mean, little and low, who had grown to be great in a night, Began now to shout with loud voices, all clamoring, "Plunder and blood!" "Destruction," they shouted, "destruction and death to the seed of the Jews! The Government thus has decreed, and already has given commands. Our arm is supreme; let us go forth to-day through the city in bands, And fill up our homes with rich booty (oh, joy!), which lies waiting our hands," And so they went forth, the destroyers, grandchildren of Satan-yea, all The messengers of the Inferno, the hateful companions of hell. And then the great slaughter began, they they slew old and young great and small; They cut down on the right and destroyed on the left, in their cruelty fell. The homes of the Jews they demolished, they razed them, foundations and all; They spared not the aged, nor pitied the nursing babe, blind to its fate; The maidens they outraged - crushed virgins were weltering there in the streets As refuse lies cast out unheeded, unpitied-their numbers, how great! They smote and they outraged - O Lord of the Universe, where wast thou then, When the hand of the stranger was mighty, uplifted to strike and to slay? Ah , why did thy thunders not hurl their deep voice from the heavens on high, To crush him, the foul, fiendish tyrant, destroy him and sweep him away? How long shall the government base of the Romanoffs yet hold its sway, The rule that breeds crime and brutality? God of salvation, I pray, Oh, list to my voice! Wipe it out! And the sceptre shall pass and depart, And vanish away from the land of its leader forever and aye! Oh, pour out, Almighty, I pray thee, they wrath on that country accurst, On Russia, that knows not compassion, that counts might for right in the strife! For the blood of thy servants thy vengeance among all the nations make known, And blot Russia out evermore from the book of existence and life! ALICE STONE BLACKWELL (Written for The Jewish Exponent.) TIME From the Russian of Ezekiel Leavitt Translated by ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Time, our enemy and our instructor, Thou our judge and our deliverer art, Executioner and strong defender; Joy and gladness, tears and grief of heart, Wailing and despairing lamentation, Love and hope, whate'er the soul elates- All these divers things time brings unto us; He it is destroys, and he creates. Time, I pray thee, give to me oblivion! In it my enjoyment I will find; Peaceful slumber after toilsome labor. Lure me not where dwell, to snare the mind, Hopes and happiness! Lo, cold and hunger, Dreariness and every bitter thing, For these many years my breast have wasted. Now I do not sing, I do not sing! I have sought in life for joy and gladness, I have sung and prayed and waited long, But I am discouraged and disheartened! Now a song of pain, a mournful song, May be sung-a song of castle-building, And of poverty, disgrace, defeat. Time, oh, let me die, or grant oblivion! In it I will find enjoyment sweet. Dorchester, Mass. (Written for the Jewish Exponent.) BE SILENT, POET Translated From the Russian of Ezekiel Leavitt By ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Poet, be mute! There is no need of songs. Be hushed, as silence now the world doth fill. Within the shade by reddening cherries cast Sits one who, like to thee, is waking still. It is the bard of love, the nightingale; O'er the soft rose he trills, within the glen. Night has descended with its dreamy hush. Poet, be silent! In the hearts of men Seek thou no welcome for thyself; alas! No sympathy among them thou wilt find. They cannot understand the poet's dreams; Thou all alone shall leave the world behind. Thou, by the crowd misunderstood, shalt go, One among all, a stranger to the rest, With all thy wondrous dreams within thy brain, And with thy loving heart within thy breast. They laugh at thee. But when the time is come Thou wilt begin to sing at eventide, And in a tranquil wave, all full of light, Songs shall gush forth and flow. Then, circling wide, And trilling, over thee shall rise and soar Thy nightingale, love's singer, from the glade. Like thee, the crowd can comprehend him not- One lonely poet in the branches' shade. Dorchester, Mass., February 1907. (Written for the Jewish Exponent.) AFTER THE BASLE CONGRESS From the Russian of Ezekiel Leavitt By ALICE STONE BLACKWELL What is all this tumult in our nation? Tell me, darling, for I fain would know. For the sake of a great cause and holy, Forward, brethren, forward let us go! Say of what they now their songs are singing, All the brethren of our blood and race? All around a holy "Rise!" re-echoes, Expectation is on every face. All await-what comfort? Who will bring it? The Messiah, sought these many years? Wherefore are they weeping? Why rejoicing? Tell me why their joy is mixed with tears? Poor our brethren are, I know, my darling, And they are not suffered to complain; And they cannot laugh with freedom-strangers Drive them and oppress them, work them pain. But, my dear, what is this agitation Going on among them eagerly? What these rumors, spread abroad among us? Lively movement everywhere I see. Songs of a new life I hear them singing, Life of work and longed-for liberty. Yea, a life in our own native country! Can all this but an illusion be? Or perhaps, my dearest, I am dreaming. Mother, what my brothers read I heard. I remember all of their discussions. "It is time to waken!" was their word. Day is breaking and the hour approaches, When the dawn our souls from sleep shall rouse. We will go forth fearlessly and proudly To our own fields following the plows, Singing songs of toil. Let us go thither Where, well guarded by the centuries long, Stately palm trees grow, and where the daughters Of Jerusalem once sang their song. Where the myrtles and the roses blossom. Let us go o'er the mountain and through wood, In a company, all blithe and friendly, Fearless, brethren, cross the sea's wide flood. On, press onward, helmsman! We should fear not; The whole sea of pain we'll empty make, Drop by drop, and to the bottom drain it For our sacred old traditions's sake. In a silent prayer we'll name our martyrs. Storms will cease when to our native strand We have come. Messiah in full glory Will appear then in our fatherland. Tell me dear, our fatherland, where is it? Tell me, dearest, where? Do you not know? Do heaven's angels dwell there? Do birds sing there? There do lilies fair and roses blow? Wondrous stories heard I from my grandsire Of this father land, at eventide, When he kept my drowsy lids from closing, Whispering o'er me, sad and tearful-eyed; "It is time for me to rest forever; Aches my heart and shakes my aged hand. Lord I pray my grandchildren may see it, Holy Zion, our dear native land! "I believe that better times are coming, Our poor nation from its sleep shall start, And shall proudly raise the flag of freedom, Crying, 'Forward! on, with fearless heart!'" Why so often do they sing of Zion? Why do thoughts of it disturb your rest? Why now, mother, on all sides re-echoes "Zion, oh, our native country blest!"? "Zion!" thus the sorrowing mother whispered, Fondling her loved darling o'er and o'er. "Child! O dearest child of mine! In Zion We shall have our own dear home once more! "Zion is our faith, child"! "O, dear mother, I can understand it all today, And for that loved country of our fathers I with longing and tears will pray." Dorchester, Mass., May 1907. [*Hebrew Standard, May 3d 1907*] T The Lion and the Dogs.---A Fable. From the Yiddish of Ezekiel Leavitt. Once on a time the dogs felt much aggrieved Because the lion was so strong and proud, In consequence, they valiantly resolved To cast dirt on him till he should be cowed. "We must all stand together, and condemn The haughty fellow strongly, and cry 'Shame!' Till he grows small,"—('twas thus one dog called out) "We need but be united in our aim, "And bark at him with malice, one and all, And oft to him our sharpened teeth display." Thus spoke he, and immediately strove To show what he could do, in doggish way. He lifted up his tail with insolence, And at the lion with zeal began to pour A flood of filth; and to his aid there came Dogs without number, ever more and more. All impudently barked, and more than all One Liliputian dog of sable hue. He of his courage vehemently bragged, Painting the lion as black all through and through. Unto the lion soon there came reports About those dogs, whose barking echoes wide. "O, I could silence all the canine race!" ('Twas—thus—the lion quickly replied.) "But since of all the forest I am lord, It would not be a fitting thing for me To make a noise because of worthless curs That objects only of my scorn can be. "They cannot in their dirt envelop me; Far from me is their dust—it leaves no stain. They are but dogs—they have to bark and yelp. And I? the self-same lion I remain!" Alice Stone Blackwell. Dorchester, Mass. The Lion and the Dogs.---A Fable. From the Yiddish of Ezekiel Leavitt. Once on a time the dogs felt much aggrieved Because the lion was so strong and proud, In consequence, they valiantly resolved To cast dirt on him till he should be cowed. "We must all stand together, and condemn The haughty fellow strongly, and cry 'Shame!' Till he grows small,"—('twas thus one dog called out) "We need but be united in our aim. "And bark at him with malice, one and all, And oft to him our sharpened teeth display." Thus spoke he, and immediately strove To show what he could do, in doggish way. He lifted up his tail with insolence, And at the lion with zeal began to pour A flood of filth; and to his aid there came Dogs without number, ever more and more. All impudently barked, and more than all One Liliputian dog of sable hue. He of his courage vehemently bragged, Painting the lion as black all through and through. Unto the lion soon there came reports About those dogs, whose barking echoed wide. "O, I could silence all the canine race!" ('Twas—thus—the lion quickly replied). "But since of all the forest I am lord, It would not be a fitting thing for me To make a noise because of worthless curs That objects only of my scorn can be. "They cannot in their dirt envelop me; Far from me is their dust—it leaves no stain. They are but dogs—they have to bark and yelp. And I? the self-same lion I remain!" Alice Stone Blackwell. Dorchester, Mass.THE [JEWISH?] THE VOICE OF GOD. From the Hebrew of Ezekiel Leavitt. Day set; night fell—a wondrous, lovely night, A night of song, a balmy vernal night. In heaven on high already shone the moon ; The earth around was rapt in splendor bright. In the thick wood, among the hidden boughs, Already sang the mournful nightingale. Her sweet song streamed abroad—I sat and heard; With dreamy soul I listened to her tale. Around me trees and flowers were whispering, And in my heart old memories woke that night, Forgotten in the daytime's noise and strife ; And I sot dreaming in the moon's soft light. Then suddenly the sky's dark depths were oped, And a strong voice from heaven rolled down to me ; Like unto mighty waters was the sound ; "If God has caused His face to shine on thee, "And made the holy spirit rest on thee, And thou dost play the harp and sing aloud, Do not be soft and pliant like a rush! Bow not thy head before the rich and proud, "Who trust in wealth, to whom a sigh is strange, Who steel their heart, that ne'er with pity bleeds. Be not a rush! Upon them pour thy wrath! Proclaim aloud the foulness of their deeds! "Reading, perchance their hearts may softer grow, And from the worship of their wealth be freed. They may become the helpers of the poor, Who pass their days in poverty and need. "Bard, if thou seest evil reign supreme And strike down victims right and left, each hour, Lift a dread voice on high and shatter it! Rescue the robbed ones from the robbers' power, "Not by main force, but mild and gentle words. If insolent the low and young should be, If pleasant Falsehood in the place of Truth Strews for her creatures roses fair to see "At every step, then, poet, waken thou! On the despised lie bring thy tongue's lash down! If thou shouldst see a nation weak, bent low By a hard yoke, 'neath strong oppression's frown, "That cries for help, with none at hand to aid, To voice its wish, and its just cause defend, Then poet, let thy harpstrings strongly stir, And throughout all the world, from end to end, "Let there be heard a voice of loud complaint, Storming like thunder ere the lightning darts, Rushing with power, and breaking out in flame! Softened perchance will be the stony hearts; "They for the nation sore oppressed may pour Comfort, shed on it drops of dew of light, That make the body strong and cheer the heart. Fear not, but prophesy aloud, with might! "Ere from thy mother's womb thou camest forth, I to thy nation consecrated thee. Be thou to it a true and faithful son, And with thy words I still will present be!" Dorchester, Mass. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. THE [JEWISH?] A LAMENTATION. From the Yiddish of Ezekiel Leavitt. Already centuries have passed away Since the great woe befell our race and name, Enveloping our sky in darkest night. Since then we have endured the utmost shame ; For foreign sins a sacrifice are we ; We sigh, we weep—he laughs, our enemy! Three times already have they bent our pride ; To stifle down the spirit free they seek That gives us strength to suffer all this pain. To us the world has grown a graveyard bleak. And from the world, in terror and in dread, We must beg justice, as a beggar bread. We have no place where we may sit secure ; The cruel foe advances like a gale. A whirlwind, shattering all things in its path, And neither prayers nor tears can then avail. The Hebrew homes are soon a mass of flame, And Hebrew daughters suffer deadly shame. How great is our misfortune and our woe! We are tired out with waiting, hopes and fears. Bitter and heavy is our banishment ; Like slaves we bear the chains of these long years. We have no arms but what are powerless here— A lamentation sad, a prayer, a tear. Oh, many of us have in exile changed The Hebrew ways for foreign follies vain. Have left the Hebrew God for golden calves. And what has chanced? My nation, racked with pain! Lo! thou among the nations canst not rise ; They ridicule thee, and thy name despise! Oh, when at last shall be an end of tears? Oh, when shall we see rising, bright and clear, The Hebrew star above our pathway dark, So full of thorns for many a weary year? When will the noise of rushing waves be o'er? When will our little boat attain the shore? The shore of Zion, holy and beloved, Where, as we hope, again shall bloom and shine For us the flowers of Sharon, as of yore. Dear to me, Zion, each small stone of thine— Sacred and dear ; a love that can not fail Burns in my bosom for thy every vale! My heart will overbrim with happiness When thee, my Holy Land, at last I see, And on thy ruins press an ardent kiss. Meanwhile, I still am distant far from thee, And send to thee, O Zion, this my lay— An exile's greeting, breathed from far away! Dorchester, Mass. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL.The Jewish Exponent. A WEEKLY JOURNAL DEVOTED TO THE INTERESTS OF THE JEWISH PEOPLE Entered at the post-office at Philadelphia as second-class matter. Whole No. I02I. PHILADELPHIA AND BALTIMORE, Heshvan I4th, 5667.—November 2d, I906. (Written for The Jewish Exponent.) MY SONG IS POISONED ! By EZEKIEL LEAVITT. TRANSLATED FROM THE HEBREW BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. ["All My Songs are Poisoned."—HEINE.] 'Twas in the Russian land, where they dig graves For high ideals, and where the fist is law ; Where tyrants rule, whose kindness is like dew, Their righteousness like webs which spiders draw ; Russia, where dark fanaticism reigns, Land of oppression, blood-stained, filled with groans ; Russia, whose soul is but the penny-piece, Whose Emperor grinds fine the people's bones ; Russia, whose iron-clad heaven and brass-bound earth Are fortified from every ray of light ; The cruel land, whose noblest sons are chained And locked within grim prisons dark as night ; 'Twas in the Russian land, alas! dear friend, That I was born, and knew deep suffering ; There passed my youth, there vanished my life's spring, There I grew gray, not seeing one good thing. 'Twas there my grandmother my cradle rocked, Wept o'er me, sang a song of woe profound, Breathing her grief—so sad that in the wall E'en the stones shook and trembled at the sound. There on her withered cheeks I oft saw tears— Cheeks wrinkled ere the time by pain and care ; And in the hush of night I heard her sighs— Telling that she, poor woman, scarce could bear The burden that was laid on her by Fate— Hard, bitter Fate, which a t the poor doth laugh— Which crushes and breaks down the wretched soul Till she destroys it, as fire burns the chaff. My mother's sighs and all her bitter tears, Shed scalding hot, and seething like a fire, Poisoned my song, e'en in my tender youth ; And so my song is filled with poison dire! Dorchester, Mass., October, I906WHEREFORE? From the Russian of EZEKIEL LEAVITT. It was night. The stars above us Were lit up, in heaven to glow; In the streets, like shining diamonds, Sparkled bright the fluffy snow. And the bushy little pine tree, In a thick, white mantle dight, Nodded to is at the window With its top all snowy white. And it seemed to me that evening, It complained, the dark lonely tree, Of its lot, so dark and dreary, And its cruel destiny. In my humble, chamber sitting, I was lost in memory's maze -- Sad and bitter recollections, Thoughts of long-departed days. I recalled my mother-country, Far, forlorn, and wrapped in gloom, Where my early life I wasted, Where for joy I dug a tomb. Where I loved, with young heart glowing, Where I was beloved the while; Where I suffered, suffered, suffered -- Suddenly, with gentle smile, A wee girl comes up and whispers, "Please remember, uncle dear, That some pretty little stories You have promised I should hear." And her small black head bent toward me, In her innocent desire, And her eyes like stars were shining, Lighted up with living fire. "Say, then, charming child, what stories Do you want, that you have heard? Of the Czarevitch, young Ivan? Of the wolf? The fairy bird? "Or about the beauteous daughter Of the king, beyond the seas?" "No," the little girl made answer, "No, I wish for none of these. "From dear grandma I have heard them, From my darling nurse as well. From a lovely book, too, mother Used those tales to read and tell. " 'Tis enough! No more I want them. And she turned her little head, Pouting: "Tell me about people!" Thus the tiny maiden said. "But I know not what to tell you." "Listen, then, my uncle dear; I will ask and you shall answer. This is what I want to hear: "Tell me, why, from early morning, Ere the dawn begins to peep, My papa so hard must labor -- Why he slaves, and cannot sleep?" "For a rich man he is working, To get money --this is why-- That for you, Mamma, your brothers, Charming presents he may buy." "But what presents can he give us? Oftentimes for bread, black bread, Do we wait with eager longing. Gray already in his head. "Father comes home bent and pallid, While in some delightful spot He keeps holiday, that rich man, Living high and toiling not. "Uncle dear, oh, tell me wherefore All things are arranged so ill -- Why one hand, with greedy grasping, Seizes everything at will? "Why at the expense of others Do the rich men live? Oh, why?" And her eyes with tears were darkened, Like the sun when clouds float by. "In the world there are bad people; They have wrought these wrongs so deep. You will know when you are older; Now to be off, and go to sleep!" And she went. To me creation Deaf and dumb all seemed to lie; In my ears one cry was ringing: "Wherefore, wherefore? Why, of why?" ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Dorchester, Mass. Wildt?ri? Nov. 1906. 110 THE MACCABAEAN. The Prophet By Ezekiel Leavitt (Translated from the Hebrew by Alice Stone Blackwell.) When from heaven's veil the morning star comes forth, Making her way 'twixt clouds with dawn aflush, And in the boundless height her fair light spreads, While o'er the world yet reigns a solemn hush,— All eyes shut fast, earth wrapped in quiet sweet,— The prophet is awake, and walks the street! Slowly he walks, musing with head down-bent, His brows of wrinkles full, and sad his face. His eyes are glowing like two coals of fire, But on his lips a tender smile has place; 'Tis full of pity, full of sorrow mute. And black his garments are from head to foot. Silent the prophet walks. A wondrous day, A day of spring! It seems, divine repose Broods o'er the earth around; the sun darts fire, The tall trees wave their leaves, the green grass grows; The roses all with dewy freshness gleam, As if they had been bathing in the stream. As it would breathe a secret to the earth, A soft and balmy wind is murmuring low; It clings to her with yearnings of a son. Sometimes the green leaves flicker to and fro, And each to each in its own language says, "The world is beautiful and full of grace!" Mute walks the prophet, full of bitter grief. The sun with golden rays illumes his way, And on his head pours light and warmth in floods. He looks not on the splendor of the day; His heart is moved by utmost misery: He cannot tell it: "Dumb and silent be!" He cannot! All around are trickling tears, The tears of the oppressed, grown used to grief, Hated by fate, and by misfortune loved, Who live in spirit, and whose days are brief; Who in their own hot tears their bread must steep— Their dry bread, earned with toil and anguish deep. The prophet walks.—"The prophet is insane!" Sometimes the wind brings to his ears this cry. "Senseless he is; he opes his mouth in vain!" Thus speak among themselves the passers-by, Who break the Lord's commands, of shameless life, Loving contention, calling out for strife. The prophet walks. But now and then he halts, And cries aloud, "Ye men of blood, woe, woe! How long will ye plot harm against the poor? How long will ye oppress the needy! Lo, [*X*] MY CONSOLATION. [*X*] By Ezekiel Leavitt. Translated from the Yiddish by Alice Stone Blackwell. MY life was struggle, from my childhood's days; Fate gave me but Job's pains, to vex my heart— Pains without end, and troubles numberless; And one by one I saw my hopes depart. Alas! my friend, I found them nevermore, Although full oft I sought them, o'er and o'er. Sometimes the sun bestowed on me a ray For which my heart had longed so earnestly, But instantly the sunbeam disappeared; Again deep darkness bore me company. The false and cruel Time would on me lay Chains heavier and stronger day by day. Despairing, I found comfort in the thought I served my nation well, with all my might, And sought its ancient courage to awake, Like youthful lions for liberty to fight, With Maccabean fire and ardent faith To drown the foeman's power in blood and death. [*Hebrew Standard, April 24 1908*]MY CONSOLATION. By Ezekiel Leavitt. Translated from the Yiddish by Alice Stone Blackwell. - My life was struggle, from my childhood's days; Fate gave me but Job's pain, to new my heart - Pains without end, and troubles numberless; And one by one I saw my hopes depart. Alas! my friend, I found them nevermore, Although full oft I sought them, o'er and o'er. Sometimes the sun bestowed on me a ray For which my heart had longed so earnestly, But instantly the sunbeam disappeared; Again deep darkness bore me company. The false and cruel Time would on me lay Chains heavier and stronger day by day. Despairing, I found comfort in the thought I served my nation well, with all my might, And sought its ancient courage to awake, Like youthful lions for liberty to fight, With Maccabeans fire and ardent faith To drown the foeman's power in blood and death. Hebrew Standard, April 24 1908THE SPRINGFIELD DAILY REPUBLICAN: MONDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1906. to-morrow evening at the church.—The woman's foreign missionary society will meet Wednesday afternoon at 3 with Mrs O. L. Cowles at 108 School Street. Mrs. Blackmayer will present a paper.—The annual dinner for elderly people will be held Friday at noon in the church parlors.— The woman's home missionary society will meet at the church from 9 to 5 o'clock Friday to receive articles for the barrel which it is packing.—The Trinity Knights will meet Friday evening at 7.45 p. m. to reorganize.—Miss Clara M. Cushman, late principal of Pekin girls' high school, will give an address, to which the public is invited, in the vestry Friday evening at 7.45 o'clock on "New women in China." Two new members were taken into the First Presbyterian church yesterday morning at the regular communion service.—The regular session of the Personal Workers class will be omitted this week, as the Christian endeavor society will conduct the service at the Rescue mission this evening at 7.45 o'clock. John D'Antonio will lead the meeting.—A devotional meeting of the pastor's auxiliary will be held Thursday afternoon at 3 o'clock at the church. This will be the thanksgiving service and the subject will be "Causes for thanksgiving." A business session will follow the devotional service.—The board of directors will meet at the church to-morrow evening at 8 o'clock.—The monthly meeting of the directors of the Springfield Christian endeavor union will be held at the church to-morrow evening. Supper will be served at 6.45 and the meeting will follow at 7.45. ing beneficial for their health.—The pulpit will be filled by a supply next Sunday.—A harvest supper will be served at the church Friday evening from 6 to 8 o'clock.—The adjourned meeting of the Bay Path circle will be held with Mrs H. J. Kendrick on Welcome place Wednesday afternoon at 2.30 o'clock.—The missionary circle will meet to-morrow afternoon at 3 o'clock with Mrs J. H. Adams at 9 Lafayette street. The autumnal festival of the Holy Family parish will open for the week this evening in Dickieson's hall at the corner of Main and Bridge streets. The hall has been prettily decorated and the various booths have been arrayed with appropriate colors. The parish, Holy Name society, sodality and the ladies' Catholic benevolent association tables are located in the main hall, while the country store, tea and refreshment rooms and the mystery booth occupy the ante rooms. The children of the Holy Family school, assisted by the Highland orchestra, will furnish the entertainment this evening. Announcements will be made each evening during the week of the awarding of the various prizes in the many contests. One new member was received on probation, two from probation and three by letter at the communion service at Asbury church yesterday morning.—This will be the last week of the special services and they will be continued each evening except Saturday. There has been increased interest in the meetings and a large attendance is expected this week. Quite a number have signified their intention of publicity taking up the Christian life.—Rev H. L. Wriston, the pastor, last evening began preaching a series of four sermons on the subject, "Four sins with death a penalty." His subject last evening was "Covetousness: The trespass of Achan." The series will be continued every Sunday evening for the next three weeks. The mission study class of the Park-avenue Memorial Baptist church will meet this evening at 8 o'clock at the home of F. H. Dumbleton at 26 Euclid avenue.— Wednesday afternoon at 2.30 the woman's society will meet with Mrs C. J. Tarbell at 57 Hall street.—The teachers' meeting will be held Wednesday evening at 7.45 in the church.—The annual fair will be held Saturday. It will begin at 11 a. m. Dinner will be served from 11.30 a. m. to 2 p. m., and supper will be served from 5.30 to 8 p. m. Fancy and useful articles and hand-painted china and other things will be on sale. The young people of the church of the Unity will conduct a sale in the vestry Friday from 11 a. m. to 10 p. m. Besides the sale of articles at several tables, tea will be served during the afternoon, and during the evening a musical program will be rendered under the direction of Arthur H. Turner, the organist.—Rev Mr Reccord's Bible class will resume its meetings next Sunday, following the morning service.—The hour of the kindergarten meeting has been changed from 12 o'clock to 10.30 o'clock to accommodate mothers who desire to attend the morning services of the church. A business meeting of all the officers of Liberty chapel and the societies of the organization will be held Wednesday evening at 7.45 o'clock.—The ladies' aid society will meet Thursday afternoon at 3 o'clock.— The Liberty boys' club, which has just been formed, will meet Thursday evening at 6.45 o'clock.—Next Sunday will be the first day for the special meetings. A rally for the church and Sunday-school, to which everyone is invited, will be held at 12 o'clock. During the week special services will be held each evening at 7.45 o'clock, except Saturday. Six new members were received into Olivet church yesterday morning at the regular communion service.—The Golden Link society will meet to-morrow evening at 8 o'clock. This will be the 15th anniversary of the organization, and the friends and old members are invited to attend. A special program has been arranged.—The ladies' benevolent society will meet at the church at 2.30 Friday afternoon. A harvest supper will be served by the society from 4 to 8 o'clock. Gounod's "Gallia" was sung by the South church choir yesterday at vesper service and drew an especially large audience. The choir, which does such uniformly interesting and admirable work, gave a finished performance of the splendid composition, the singing both of the chorus and HEBREW CRADLE SONG. From the Russian of Ezekiel Leavitt. 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 [app]upreared their height, Cypress trees spread wide their branches, Splendid roses bloomed 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: thou there 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 thy grave, the stories That thy mother used to tell! ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Dorchester, Mass.TO MY NATION: FROM THE YIDDISH OF EZEKIEL LEAVITT. My nation! Ah, I recognize thee not! What on a sudden has become of thee? Art thou the same "wise nation" as of yore, The hero of past years, the brave, the free? Where is thy strength, thy understanding now? Where is thy name, and where thy old-time worth? Where are thy treasure and thy temple found? Where is thy dwelling, where thy native earth? Where are thou, my beloved one, by day, And where by night? Where dost thou sleep, where rest? Hast thou a place where thou mayest lean thy head? Nay, all men thrust thee forth, unwelcome guest! They hunt thee, smite thee, burn thee, without ruth, Pursue thee, and like leeches suck thy blood; Ah, they tear out the narrow of thy bones! Thy persecutions are a ceaseless flood. The world to thee a graveyard has become; Thou seest but tombs, where'er thy glances fall. Wild beasts that claim to bear the name of men Have changed thy life to bitterness and gall. They cast reproach on thy antiquity, Thy nobleness, thy faith; thy flag they tear; Do thee dishonor, injury and wrong; -- And thou, alas my brother, dost not care! Thy Bible, God and Talmud they blaspheme, They trample on them with scornful heart; And all this seems to thee of no concern. Brother, thou hast forgotten who thou art! Yea, thou art wholly changes, O Israel! Thou hast forgot thy value and thy worth. Thou fearest, tremblest, creepest like a worm, And before all men bowest to the earth. Looking upon thee, my beloved one, My heart is rent in twain and filled with gall. I see that every drunkard flouts thee now. And yet, alas! this moves thee not at all! Brother, no persecution touches thee, No stone, no blow, no pain, no deep disgrace. By traffic thou art wholly borne away, And every "Katsap" smites thee in the face. Thou fallest oft asleep, and dost through sleep Miss thy desires; and this thou thinkest right. Enough of slumber, Israel, my love! Enough of suffering 'neath affliction's blight! Wake, rub thine eyes! Thou shalt not bow the head Before each man with power to strike a blow. O my poor nation! Prince of all the East! Thou wast an eagle once, long years ago. An eagle, cleaving with her wings the clouds, And resting in the lap of heaven, elate. To thee the Cherubim were wont to sing, "Thou, Israel, art noble, thou art great!" The sun upon thy proud and mighty head Was want of old to shed a myriad rays; The stairs of heaven used to beckon thee, And speed before thee through the sky's blue ways. Exalted, proud and fearless, wast thou then; Thou strovest aye for light, with yearning strong. Why hast thou now become e'ven as a worm That bows itself, and crawls and creeps along? Thou art the son of heroes of renown, World-famous men, to whom God's favor clave; From Joshua and King David thou art sprung, The bravest hero among all the brave. Forget not, brother, the Hasmoneans, The noble Maccabees, who knew no fears! And thou art musing upon empty dreams, And hast endured, alas, so many years! Israel thou weepest, and considerest not Whom thou dost shed thy bitter tears before. Thy weeping, thy complaint, none wish to hear; Thou art a laughing-stock, and nothing more. Consider before whom thou dost complain, Wiping away thy salt tears as they fall. Thou criest, and they smite thee: thou complain'st, And they pursue thee, for no cause at all. O my poor nation! 'Tis high time for three To think it suits thee not the coward to play. By thy complaints and cries, thy sighs and groans, Unmoved the enemy remains alway. He does not wish to hear thy groans, thy sighs; He understands not thy complaint, thy moan. Thy bitter crying cannot touch his heart. His heart is made of iron, of flinty stone. His heart is petrified; he will not hear Thy truthful plea, how soe'er thy case. Israel, dream not! A tiger still will tear The sheep, where'er they be, in every place. As long as thou remainest but a sheep, So long the tiger will still lap thy gore. Awake, O Israel, those ancient strength! Resume the courage of the days of yore! Thy Sampson's courage who victoriously From his bound hands and fettering ropes did rend. Arise, my nation! Rise, and break thy chains, And bring thy years of exile to an end! ALICE STONE BLACKWELL, Dorchester, Mass.THE JEWIS TO A FRIEND From the Russian of EZEKIEL LEAVITT. An orphan I grew up--no fondling sweet Knew I; no kisses, no embraces dear. Far from my country, only other's tales Always and everywhere I used to hear. Beloved friend! above my childish crib No mother, smiling, sang me loving rhymes. The cold steppes served me often for a bed. And my suffering began betimes. Without caresses tender passed my youth, Without sweet words, soft laughter, mirthful strains. 'Neath ceaseless thunder of harsh curses wild, And 'neath the clang of heavy, crushing chains, And under threats loud shouted, fierce and stern, Forgotten, I at night would I fall asleep; And my oppressor with the morning's light Would meet me with new malice dark and deep. And on me long with cold derision gaze. With fear I shuddered as his aspect black. "Parentless pilgrim, say whence comest thou?" And "From the Ghetto" I would whisper back. "The Ghetto? Leave us quickly! There return; Live there and die there!" thus his rough words flowed And, taking up my staff and shouting harsh I went again to wander on the road. I wandered on and burning songs of woe, A timid outcast, I sang o'er and o'er. My heart would languish--but a ray of hope Soothed it and warmed it softly, evermore. I prayed in faith, in faith profound and deep; Always I hoped, how sharp so'er my pain. 'Neath a strange sky exhausted oft I grew, And oft I fell, but always rose again. And still from year to year I wait--I wait, And drain the bitter cup of woe and wrong. 'Tis in the people's name these pains I bear, 'Tis for the people that I sing my song! Dorchester, Mass. Alice Stone BlackwellVOCATE, FRIDAY, JUNE 5, 1908. THE OLD TAILOR From Morris Rosenfeld. He has been seated sewing many years; On his pale face the perspiration stands; His beard already has grown snowy white, White as the thread that passes through his hands. Scarcely a master is there in the town For whom he has not worked in his long life; Yet not a cent he has within his purse, Nor bread at home to feed his child and wife. Early he seeks the shop, and hires his hand Already for his labor without end; He earns continually, without rest, And not a penny does he ever spend. He is at work when dawn begins to glow, And still he toils, long after daylight's close; And always, always where to find a loan He ponders sadly as he sits and sews. With him his master is well satisfied; He does not often argue or dispute; He raises no disturbance in the shop, Nor rails against his trade, but labors mute. He comes in silence and in silence goes; Only his cough to speak for him is fain. His glasses cover and conceal his tears, As his breast covers and conceals his pain. The working people all with sorrow gaze Upon the sick man with his many woes; They look with pity on his weary back, Still bending as he sits and sews. Already Death's black seal, the punishment Of his long honesty, they all can view; And in that aged man, as in a glass, They see their own end, which is coming too. Alice Stone Blackwell Dorchester, Mass. (For the Hebrew Standard) ELEGY. FROM THE YIDDISH OF EZEKIEL LEAVITT. THE night is silent, like a graveyard hushed; The night is black and darksome, like a tomb. Exiled, alas! far distant from my home, I sit alone and careworn in my room. And thoughts, all dark and mournful like my fate, Cloud over my sick heart, a gloomy train. Endless and infinite my sorrows are; A fathomless abyss is now my pain. I sit alone, I hear no rustle stir; Dead silence reigns, and doth the chamber fill. The sky as if with pity gazes down; The night is hushed and mute, the night is still. Not many years ago I yet was young; I hoped, I thought, with sanguine ardor deep, I surely should be able with my songs To bring great comfort unto those that weep. I hope a golden age would quickly come, That soon a good and gracious day would rise, And that songs freely chanted, strong and new, Would drown the sound of sorrow and of sighs. Chilmark, Mass. I hoped that all humanity ere long Would wisdom gain, would mighty grow and strong And with a voice as of a hundred lions Would roar: "Enough! Enough of suffering wrong "Enough of being endlessly enslaved, And bearing, like a horse, the yoke from birth! All human beings surely ought to live, The world is rich, and large the teeming earth." 'Twas thus I thought; but now I understand That my ideal is distant many years. I hear the sighs and sobbing of the weak; On every side I witness flowing tears. A wide, dense vapor still obscures the sky Of all humanity, and clouds it o'er. The old chains strongly clank, and day by day They still are forging new ones, more and more. The night is silent, like a graveyard hushed; I sit alone and careworn, without sleep. My heart is crushed and broken by despair; I write my mournful song, and weep and weep. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL.THE A ZIONIST MARSEILLAISE. FROM THE YIDDISH OF Ezekiel Leavitt. I o'er our sad lot have already lamented; With blood I have written, and not once alone. I cannot rest now, for the question eternal, "Oh, what avail tears, when our courage is flown?" Through sighing and crying, my poor, wretched brethren, No nation can ever its object attain. In love we must all unite strongly together, And work with sincerity, work might and main. We must not look out for a single man's fortune, But for our whole nation instead we must care; And we must all seek to refresh and enliven Our nation's sick soul, in all lands, everywhere. Our life belongs not to ourselves but our nation, Oh brothers, in unison work hard and long, Until to our nation at last we give freedom, To sing in our Zion once more a free song! Chilmark, Mass. Alice Stone Blackwell. HEBREW STANDARD (For the Hebrew Standard) WHAT SHALL I SING? FROM THE HEBREW OF Ezekiel Leavitt. WHAT shall I sing, my friend? E'en now, within my Muse's lips, There waits, prepared and guarded and hidden, my lament— An ancient song of mourning that I sang long years ago. It has not ceased; and ever from the treasury unspent Of my own tears, increasing still, I draw it day by day; Over the loss of all my hopes, foretelling lofty things,— Over the loss of all my dreams, that promised balm for grief,— The loss of youth, and those bright days to which youth's halo clings. I shall not sing, my colleague! I am a mourner now, And for my youthful hopes I have already dug a tomb. My good dreams all have passed away—alas, they are no more! My heart is emptied out, and naught dwells in that vacant room. New pains lift up their eyes to me, and o'er my woe I weep, And o'er the ruin a dark fate has on my nation sent. What shall I sing, my friend? Alas, my sad and bitter life Has taught me only how to weep and openly lament. Within the Ghetto I was born, within a corner dark. Naught but laments and mourning songs I hear in that sad place. Since from my mother's womb I came, down to the present day, Lo, Life has shown me nothing but a stern and angry face. Within the happy, joyous world I like a mourner dwell. My heart is young, and yet, alas, my strength has passed away. My friend, from my youth upward I have striven still for light, Have lifted my soul up toward it forever, night and day. To study I devoted my time of early youth, My spirit and the essence of my soul to this I gave. For brotherhood and friendship I have striven all my days, And to embrace the whole broad earth my eager heart did crave. Love—so I thought—will surely root out haughtiness and pride, And every downcast spirit then will find its longed-for rest. I thought that blissful time was near when crime and wrong shall And we shall hear no more the cry for help of the oppressed. [cease, Then from the heads of monarchs the crown shall be removed, And parted justly among those whom fortune had forgot. 'Twas thus I thought; and so in hope I lifted up my voice And sang my songs—the songs of joy increased and faltered not. Now 'mid the ruins of my past I stand and weep my dead— My old time hopes.—Alone am I, and hushed now my lute. My song's voice on a sudden has failed, and ceased to sound; My inspiration all has fled, my Muse is still and mute. Chilmark, Mass. Alice Stone Blackwell.MY CREED. (From the Russian of Ezekiel Leavitt.) O Mother Nature, gifts deserving scorn I do not need; for other gifts I yearn— Love's changeless gifts. To suffer I am fain; Gold tempts me not; its glittering lure I spurn. I would not be a base, unworthy slave; A flatterer's cringing life I do not prize. The soulless world will not receive my words, But happy he for his ideals who dies! What need have I of notice, of men's praise? My sorrow is a stranger to them all. To fools my sufferings seem ridiculous; A thing of naught my trouble they would call. They laugh: they do not wish to comprehend; Yet enmity has in my breast no part. Lovers of mockery, passion's slaves! for you Only a sorrowing scorn dwells in my heart. —Alice Stone Blackwell. Dorchester, Mass. THE WORD (From the Russian of Nadson.) Oh, had the muses given me the gift Of burning speech, of clear and fiery song, How mercilessly and how sternly then Would I with infamy brand vice and wrong! I would rouse all against the dark to strive, Unfurl the banner bright of light and fire, And with my glowing song the listening world With longing for the truth I would inspire. Oh, with what mighty laughter I would laugh! What burning tears of sorrow I would shed! To earth the holy, long-forgot Ideal Would come again, arisen from the dead. The world would waken, filled with fear, and quake, Like to a culprit, conscience-struck within; It would look back upon the guilty past, And meekly wait the sentence for its sin. In that dead silence reigning all around, My fearless voice should thunder loud and clear, Resound with indignation's sacred fire, And ring with teardrops, heartfelt and sincere. Not unto me such power of speech is given; My voice is weak to plead the cause of truth. My soul indeed is ready for the strife, But in me fails the energy of youth. Within my breast is but a barren sob, Upon my lips, reproach that cannot save, And in my heart the sad acknowledgment That I am not a prophet, but a slave. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Dorchester, Mass. [*Boston Post Aug. 6, 1904*] THE CANARY. From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld. Rendered Into English Verse By Alice Stone Blackwell. The blithe canary warbles Alone in forest free; Oh, who can feel his rapture, Who comprehend his glee? Within the richest palace His warblings sweetly flow; Ah, who can feel his sorrow, Who comprehend his woe? FOURTEEN—VICTOR SAND AND STARS. From the Yiddish of S. FRUG. Rendered into English verse by ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. The moon is shining and the stars are bright; Night broods o'er hill and valley, sea and shore. The ancient Book before me open lies; Thousands of times I read it o'er and o'er. I read the words, so sacred and so dear; I hear a voice: "My, people, ye shall be, I swear it, even as the stars in heaven, And as the sands that lie beside the sea." Lord of the Universe, no jot is lost, No word from all thy promises of grace. Thy holy will must ever be fulfilled; All comes to pass, in its due time and place. And one thing has already been fulfilled— I feel it with a certainty complete: We have become as sands that lie exposed, That everybody treads beneath his feet! Yea, verily, dear God, as sand and stones, To shame and scorn scattered and strewn abroad. Ah, but the stars, the brilliant and the clear— The stars, the stars—oh, where are they, my God? TWILIGHT From the Yiddish of Yehoash. Ren dered Into English Verse by Alice Stone Blackwell Now hidden fingers fill the air with fragrance; From somewhere, lo! a balm refreshing streams. Saffron and purple hues amid the curtains Of western skies are spun by secret dreams. Now the eternal silences are speaking; From endless worlds there rings an echoing strain. Now Earth the Sky and Night the Day is kissing, And from His throne God bends to kiss the twain. A veil of mist is rising from the river, It wraps the drowsy waves without a sound; The waterfalls gleams out with blood-red shimmer, And scatters ruddy corals all around. On silken ears of corn the dew is falling, The valleys wrap themselves in dim blue shade; Against the pearly sky the darksome tree-tops More clearly and more sharply are displayed. The willow droops her weary branches downward, Mirrored in water red with dying day; Across the path a rabbit swiftly scurries, And through the fields goes bounding far away. Till but a speck he seems amid the distance; Then vanishes from vision silently Toward where a brand upon the far horizon Hath set on fire the margin of the sky. From her industrious hunt a bee deep-laden Returns to seek her rest at close of day, Belated, faintly buzzing, yet still snatching A last sip here and there along her way. A sound, a flutter, and then all is silent; A weary breath from all the plants takes flight, Exhaling all that still remains of fragrance. Oh! say, that splendor, is it day or night? It is the charm of fading, of declining— Death, which is beautiful amid decay; It is the spirit, that is manifested When the frail body fails and falls away. It is a note that sounds when all the music Has died away and vanished utterly— 'Tis the world's heart, its deep source overflowing, And rising upward to the stars on high. It is not day, it is not night, but something That suffers, restless—'tis a wailing strain, A moan, a low, suppressed and smothered sobbing; It is a God enraptured unto pain. It is a joy that soundless weeps—a pining, Yearning and longing, that the soul o'erflows; 'Tis night in brightness; here they are united, And in their mating each more beauteous grows. It is at once a sleep and an awakening, An end of being, a beginning too; It is a dying out of flames, extinguished A kindling up of stars amid the blue. 'Tis praise and thanks, yet with a wish commingled; A singing and a listening too, it seems. It is a broken wave that foams and shimmers, A soul that shuts itself, and grieves and dreams. [*Sept 24*][?]. M. H. ROSENBERG, Manager. WHITHER? From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld. Rendered Into English Verse By Alice Stone Blackwell Whither, oh, whither, pretty child? The world Is not yet open. Still is all around. 'Tis before daybreak, and the streets are mute. Whither in such a hurry are you bound? Now it is sweet to sleep. The flowers still dream, The birds' nests yet are hushed. What power is driving You forth so early, ere dawn comes anew? Oh, whither do you haste, and what to do? "To earn a living!" Whither, oh, whither, pretty child, so late, Alone at night through dark and cold to stray? All is at rest and silent. Where, oh where Does the wind bear you? You will lose your way! It is too late for you to roam the streets. Scarce has day smiled on you, good fortune giving; How can night help you? 'Tis deaf, dumb and blind. Whither, oh, whither, with a reckless mind? "To earn a living!" hair, in jacket and [?] cotton skirt, the national [costum?] that of Markos Botsares, and had the sculptor taken the feelings of Markos Botsares and put them into my breast? II. Now I am no longer in a sculptor's workshop; I am in a great library— the four walls of which are filled with large and gilt-bound books, and the floor is covered with a rich carpet. The same day on which they brought me there and stood me by the window, he who had bought me called his two sons into the library, and showing them me, said reverently: "This is the statue of Markos Botsares, and it is a splendid sculpture." The two boys came close to me. "Look at it and admire it," said the father with evident emotion; "this statue is the work, and the last work, of a sculptor, still a young man of only twenty-five years of age, but a great genius, who would have achieved great excellence if he had not met with a terrible misfortune." "What has happened to him?" said the elder with anxiety. "He went out shooting, and his gun exploded and carried away the five fingers of his right hand. If it had only carried away his fingers," said the father sorrowfully, "but it has carried away his future—his fame. It has deprived art and Greece of an excellent artist." "How sad!" said the elder boy. [Greece?] from the hills. WORD VAPOR From the Yiddish of Yehoash. Rendered Into English Verse by Alice Stone Blackwell Choosing words, and writing verses— Long I've wearied of my part, Pressing wine of lyric sweetness From the wounds within my heart. I have made of all my sorrows A museum for men's eyes, That glib readers might find pleasure In the poet's grief and sighs. I henceforth will weave no verses, Spin no rhymes, that naught avail, And no more in empty vapor Let my sufferings exhale. Not one song shall now be chanted, Not one word be uttered now; Let my pain be hid and smothered, And my heart in silence bow. Every song that is not chanted May enrich me more and more, Every tear that I have swallowed Make me stronger than before. Mr. Oscar G. Foreman has [give?] $25,000 to the endowment fund of [th?] Chicago (Ill.) Associated Jewish Charities in memory of the late Mrs. Foreman, who died in March. The fund will be called the Fannie Mandel Foreman Memorial Fund. [?] [?] [?] [?] [?] [?][?IA] AND BALTIMORE, Heshvan 16th, 5671.—November 18th, 1910 (Written for The Jewish Exponent.) TO RUTH By EZEKIEL LEAVITT (Translated from the Yiddish by Alice Stone Blackwell) When cloudier grows my sky, my fate More dreary and obscure, And when the circle where I move I scarcely can endure— When the hypocrisy I see Of men, in homes and marts, Who carry blessings on their lips And curses in their hearts— And when my heartstrings one by one Are breaking in the strife, And pessimism more and more Invades my heart and life— You are my comfort then, my child; Gladness your looks afford; Your large blue eyes reveal to me The glory of the Lord. I am beginning now to fade, But you to bloom and grow. May your life ever be a source From which sweet songs shall flow— In which I shall find happiness, And inspiration true. For many deeds as yet undone, New thoughts and labors new!LOVE SONG (From the Russian of Semjon Jakovlevitch Nadson.) Oft of thy love, my friend, I fondly dreamed; Such musings made my glad heart throb like flame. But yet, whene'er I met thy happy glance, Straightway perplexed and troubled I became. I feared the impulse soon would pass away, Thy short caprice of sympathy be flown, And I, who dreamed of bliss beyond my reach, Be doubly orphaned, left again alone. As if your love were stolen, your caress, Sweet and unhoped for, were a phantom frail, It gleamed, lit up the dark, and then was gone, Brief as a sound, false as a fairy tale; As if thy tender, deep-blue glance, my love, By chance or by mistake were given to me; And in my feverish dreams at night me seems That with the coming of the dawn 'twill flee. Thus, parched by desert heats, a wanderer Spies an oasis, but he doubts it yet; Is is not some mirage in yon blue sky Alluring him to rest and to forget? ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Dorchester, Mass. CASTORIA For Infants and Children. The Kind You Have Always Bought Bears the Signature of [Chat. H. Flitcher?]. [*Boston Post Sept. 14, 1904*] A CONFUSED ACCOUNT. (From the Yiddish of Morris Winchevsky. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. I count o'er each hour in the day, In the hours every minute I tell, In the minutes each second I count, And I mark them down duly and well. Then I count o'er the people's deep wounds As I list to their cry, and alas! I see that to number each wound Too few are the seconds that pass. And then my account disappears, To the wind is my reckoning thrown; For whole hours I sit dazed and confused, And my sighs break the silence alone.The Jewish Exponent. A WEEKLY JOURNAL DEVOTED TO THE INTEREST OF THE JEWISH PEOPLE LEVYTYPE CO. PHILA. Entered at the post-office at Philadelphia as second-class matter. Vol. 44, No. 4. Whole No. 1022. PHILADELPHIA AND BALTIMORE, Heshvan 21st, 5667.—November 9th, 1906. (Written for The Jewish Exponent.) MY TOMBSTONE. By EZEKIEL LEAVITT. From the Yiddish—By Alice Stone Blackwell Oh, I am weak and ill! I know, not long, Brothers, shall I behold you, hear your speech. Though I have lived and striven, yet my aim Ever and ever I have failed to reach. Oh, I have lived and loved with all my heart The persecuted, those the yoke who bear; And oft by night, when silent was the world, My bitter "Woe!" was breathed upon the air. Now I am weak and ill; I hear death creep. He will extinguish soon my light of life, Where it in anguish burns within me still. Something I wish to ask my friends, Dig me a grave where forest boughs are stirred By a soft wind, where flows a fair, clear stream, And where a song divine is always heard. Place o'er my grave a very simple stone, And write upon it, "Here a poet lies, He fought with vehemence, and thoughts of love Spoke in his verse alone, in tender guise. With honesty he hated and he loved; He often armed with truth the hearts of men. Now from life's heavy burden he is free, And death has broken for all time his pen." Dorchester, Mass., October, 1906.The Jewish Exponent. A WEEKLY JOURNAL DEVOTED To THE INTERESTS OF THE JEWISH PEOPLE Entered at the post-office at Philadelphia as second-class matter. Vol. 44. No. 4. Whole No. 1022. PHILADELPHIA AND BALTIMORE Heshvan 21st, 5667. -- By EZEKIEL LEAVITT.November 9th 1906. (Written for The Jewish Exponent.) MY TOMBSTONE. FROM THE YIDDISH -- BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Oh, I am weak and ill! I know, not long, Brothers, shall I behold you, hear your speech. Though I have lived and striven, yet my aim Ever and ever I have failed to reach. Oh, I have lived and loved with all my heart The persecuted, those the yoke who bear; And oft by night, when silent was the world, My bitter "Woe!" was breathed upon the air. Now I am weak and ill; I hear death creep. He will extinguish soon my light of life, Where it in anguish burns within me still. Something I wish to ask my friends, Dig me a grave where forest boughs are stirred By a soft wind, where flows a fair, clean stream, And where a song divine is always heard. Place o'er my grave a very simple stone, And write upon it, "Here a poet lies, He fought with vehemence, and thoughts of love Spoke in his verse alone, in tender guise. With honesty he hated and he loved; He often armed with truth the hearts of men. Now from life's heavy burden he is free, And death has broken for all time his pen." Dorchester, Mass., October, 1906. Sept. 1906 The MACCABAEAN. 109 Holy Land "to live where the Lord appeared before me." At first he settled beyond the Jordan and lived twenty years in companionship with Arabs and Bedouin; there he learned the language, manners and customs of the Arabs, so that there was but little difference between him and a typical Arab. And to such a degree did he influence his new brethren through his words and his deeds, that they looked upon him as a saint. Later he came back from beyond the Jordan and settled north of Gennesaret. In this wild locality he bought a tract of land and began to work upon it. Before long this vicinity was covered with gardens, vineyards and ornamental parks, and the fever vanished. Gradually a number of Germans and Arabs went thither and they still live together and till the soil in their colony. Far within the country rings the praise of this remarkable man. People wonder at him and at his untiring activity in which he still persists. And he too watches over "the honor of his people, and his faith." Before me was standing the third, the Evangelistical guardian. I am in Jerusalem once more. Friday afternoon I visited the "first among the first" of Jerusalem, the Chacham-Baschi. According to the law of the land he is the representative of the whole Jewish people, and posesses a great deal of power, equal to that of the representatives of the Christian communities. In the narrow, steep, crooked street, carelessly thrown together without any plan, I looked for the house where the Chacham-Baschi dwells. At last, after a long search, I found his little two-story building. A dingy stone step leads into the very room of the Chacham himself. I climb up and step into a narrow room none too large. . . . The servant was just scrubbing the floor. I was careful to move forward prudently to prevent being bespattered. On a red sofa sat the Rabbi, a white-haired, weak man, over ninety years of age, whose face bore traces of former comeliness. Now his hands tremble, his lower lip hangs down loosely and his speech is scarcely intelligible. This helpless old man is the representative of the Jewish people in Palestine! I began to talk with him about various general Jewish topics, but I could not get a clear answer to any question. "Why," I asked, "are the Jews in Palestine so insignificant, while the Turkish Government concedes to them the same rights as to the other peoples, and the Jewish people constitute two-thirds of the inhabitants of Jerusalem, so that their strength and significance might be much greater?" For all my questions, for all my ardent wishes, I received one mumbled reply. "We are in Golus, we are in Golus!" "Why are we in Golus? Are not we ourselves to blame for it?" But no answer came. I continued: "If you are old, Rabbi, and cannot and should not work any more, you have a son, he can take your place, -- and if not he, then others can surely accept the position." The old man stared at me with dim, expressionable eyes, and made no reply. And I continued: "If the representative and the head of the Jews, does nothing for the people, what can the other Jews do?" And again the old man muttered: "We are in Golus, we are in Golus!" I received no other answer from him. That was the fourth guardian--the guardian of Israel . . . (Translated from Die Welt) 110 THE MACCABAEAN. The Prophet By Ezekiel Leavitt (Translated from the Hebrew by Alice Stone Blackwell.) When from heaven's veil the morning star comes forth, Making her way 'twixt clouds with dawn aflush, And in the boundless height her fair light spreads, While o'er the world yet reigns a solemn hush,— All eyes shut fast, earth wrapped in quiet sweet,— The prophet is awake, and walks the street! Slowly he walks, musing with head down-bent, His brows of wrinkles full, and sad his face. His eyes are glowing like two coals of fire, But on his lips a tender smile has place; 'Tis full of pity, full of sorrow mute. And black his garments are from head to foot. Silent the prophet walks. A wonderous day, A day of spring! It seems, divine repose Broods o'er the earth around; the sun darts fire, The tall trees wave their leaves, the green grass grows; The roses all with dewy freshness gleam, As if they had been bathing in the stream. As it would breathe a secret to the earth, A soft and balmy wind is murmuring low; It clings to her with yearnings of a son. Sometimes the green leaves flicker to and fro, And each to each in its own language says, "The world is beautiful and full of grace!" Mute walks the prophet, full of bitter grief. The sun with golden rays illumes his way, And on his head pours light and warmth in floods. He looks not on the splendor of the day; His heart is moved by utmost misery: He cannot tell it: "Dumb and silent be!" He cannot! All around are trickling tears, The tears of the oppressed, grown used to grief, Hated by fate, and by misfortune loved, Who live in spirit, and whose days are brief; Who in their own hot tears their bread must steep— Their dry bread, earned with toil and anguish deep. The prophet walks.—"The prophet is insane!" Sometimes the wind brings to his ears this cry. "Senseless he is; he opes his mouth in vain!" Thus speak among themselves the passers-by, Who break the Lord's commands, of shameless life, Loving contention, calling out for strife. The prophet walks. But now and then he halts, And cries aloud, "Ye men of blood, woe, woe! How long will ye plot harm against the poor? How long will ye oppress the needy! Lo, THE MACCABAEAN. 111 Worse than wild beasts' your deeds; the peoples' flesh You eat, as eats the moth a garment's mesh! "The widow's righteous claim ye do not heed, Because she brings the judge no gift. Behold, A bribe appeases wrath; judgment ye give Still for the evil-doer who has gold, Though deep be his transgression as a grave, Because he fills your hands with what you crave. "Vilely ye have provoked the Lord your God; Like words of revelation seem to you The Gentiles' words; so ye bow down to Baal, Break every law, serve a strange God and new. You from your nation turn away and mock; To you God's word is grown a laughingstock! "Woe to ye, men of fraud! O men of blood! Ye think within your hearts that ye are wise, Your prophets, fools and blind; that evermore Ye shall live on, as now, in prosperous guise. E'en though ye sow injustice and speak lies, Ye think that no avenger will arise. "Make haste to wash and purify yourselves Before that day, that fearful day has birth, The day of pain, of punishment and woe, When God shall rise to fill with awe the earth, And deeds of violence to annihilate. I see it, it is near, 'tis at the gate!" The prophet walks; and now and then the wind Brings to his ears, "The prophet is insane! His words are folly all, and meaningless." Thus speak and say the scoffers, the profane— Light-minded sinners, idly chattering still, And trampling on the people's heads at will. When day is setting and the sun goes down, And stars do glitter in the heaven's blue, He leaves the gathered scoffers, seeks his home, And with hot tear-drops doth his bed bedew, Praying, "O Lord, forgive this generation, The children of Thy sore-afflicted nation! "Behold and see how they are now disgraced Among the nations! Fugitives are they And wanderers; like shadows, lo, they roam, And at each step of their unending way They find but thorn and thistle 'neath their feet! If Thou wouldst have them serve Thee as is meet, "Hurl down the hostile throne! Oppression's power Scatter like chaff!" And he forgetteth quite The day of punishment, the day of wrath, And sweet he finds the stillness of the night. There hovers on his lips a lovely smile, And peace divine rests on his head the while. 112 THE MACCABAEAN. The Works of Moritz Steinschneider By Dr. Henry Malter (Translated from the German by Leon A. Kohn.) Men of intellect and science fall naturally into two groups, the subjectively creative and the objectively reproductive. The first group comprises those thinkers who, after a thorough research of a definite field in all its details, free themselves, as it were, from their material, giving their ideas and often even their fantasies free play, and constructing systems of thought which they invariably present according to their individual disposition and ability. The goal at which they aim in their labors is chiefly to establish the subjectively conceived coherence, the unity amidst the complexity of things, and in this way to convince the reader of the logic and truth of their ideas. The scientific measure of values for such productions is always the degree of objectivity that comes to light in them, regardless of their subjective tone. The highest type of this bent of mind is exemplified by the genuine philosopher, who tries to work up the inner and outer experiences into a self-evident portrayal that is in keeping with reality. On the lowest rung of the ladder, in this respect, is the gushing Euphuist, who, because he is wanting in power and thought and analysis, fails to see clearly the subject to be treated, and therefore, lacks objectivity. To the second class of investigators belong those who do not separate themselves perceptibly from their material in order to examine it subjectively, but who rather let it speak for itself, critically classified and arranged. They do not set out to state and solve philosophic problems, so much as to bring the manifold objects of knowledge from obscurity into light. The scientific measure for the valuation of their performances is here exactly reversed. It is the degree of individuality which expresses itself, despite all objectivity in the manner of their arrangement and treatment of the subject. The highest type of this class is the universal scholar, who, despite the rich profusion of his material, makes everything luminous through his critical genius, and knows how to make that which is seemingly most insignificant, fruitful for science. His antipode is the scientific small-dealer, the quibler, the collector of old manuscripts, who, because he is without genius or individuality, must content himself with the roll of dull statistician. In antiquity, both classes which we have here delineated, had already attained to their highest manifestation in Plato and Aristotle. The decision as to which of these two types should be esteemed the more highly for its advancement of knowledge will always depend on the individual bent of the judge, according as he is more inclined to view things in the abstract or the concrete. Both parties must, after all, supplement each other in the endeavor to discover truth. Moritz Steinschneider is indisputably, representative of the highest type of the objective investigator. He is the most universal Jewish scholar that the present day can show. In the many-sidedness of his scientific researches, in the multifairousness of his literary interests, in the mastery of foreign languages, he stand incomparable. In wealth of knowledge and creative power he overtops all other Jewish scholars of the Nineteenth Century. For even the most eniment among them applied themselves to a more or less narrowly limited field of research in Jewish literature or even in the literature of the DO YOU KNOW? From the Yiddish of Abraham Raisin. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. My friend, do you know Of sorrows the chief— A black, bitter time, No help, no relief, A people in peril, A people in grief? My friend, can you feel How deep is the woe When wild, drunken shouts Are heard from the foe? Behold, here he comes, In furious mood. Oh, listen! He roars, He thirsts for your blood. And nowhere have you For protection to go, Excepting to him, This very same foe! My friend, do you feel How sad 'tis to be A small nation, faced With a huge enemy? No weapons, no hope, No shelter from strife— At everyone's mercy Your goods and your life! WHEN I SEE. (From the Yiddish of Abraham Raisin. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell.) When I see the trees in blossom And the birds all flying near, And when like a bride the bright sun Smiles upon us, mild and clear, Then I question, filled with sadness: "What means this? Is summer here?" When the trees are dry, and only Within cages birds I see- When the sun has wholly vanished, And fierce winds are blowing free- Then I do not ask, "What means it?" Well such times are known to me!Shoot the Brute! (From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell.) Come, load the guns and do not spare the lead ! Shoot down the miner in his misery ! 'Tis seldom by a natural, human death A miner ever has a chance to die. What value has a miner in the world ? Or now, or later, slaughtered let him be ! In any case, he lies below the ground ; To shoot a dead man brings no penalty. What matters to the miner darksome night ? What good to him has light or sunshine been ? A man that in the black shaft spends his life, And hears no sound but mountains falling in ! Death has no terrors for the miner, no ! Then load your guns and fire them without fear. His place is under ground, then let him go, And make not further trouble for us here ! What does a man need, lying in the grave ? Why should a slave, who never sees the day, Wish for a garment fine, a pleasant room, Or ample wages ? For what purpose, pray ? Oh, fire your guns, and do not spare the lead ! A miner's blood may freely stain the sod. Oh, fire your guns and do not spare the balls ! He has no heed from man, no help from God. [?APRIL] 19, 1914. The Moon's View of the Earth Rendered Into English Verse From the Yiddish of E. Zunser by Alice Stone Blackwell [?Among] the stars, the myriad planets bright, [?at] hover and revolve in boundless space [?Thousands] of comets and of blazing suns Whose measure and whose worth no thought can trace. Amid all these, a planet called the earth, The size of a man's hand, I can descry; And moths on that small body crawl around; They call themselves "Mankind," I know not why. They are as weak and impotent as flies, And brief and fleeting is their span of life. They spend the time in conflict and in war, In hatred fierce, in enmity and strife. The stronger rob the weaker evermore; No ruth or pity in their hard hearts lies; And I am deafened by the angry shouts, The death groans and the wailings and the cries. Ere yet this earth-globe was inhabited, Or bore sea, hill or tree upon her face— A fire-ball, where the dense cloud choked the flames— Already I revolved with her in space. Even from her first creature sprang a Cain, A murderer, his brother's blood who shed; [?And] Abel's outcries to this day I hear, For in Cain's footsteps still his children tread. [?t] ills have I seen coming from three things— Love, honor, money, unto which men cling! Lo, shame and murder follow in their wake, And ruin dire upon the world they bring. Now one man smites his fellow with his pen, Another with a real sword deals the blow; And I must be so near that I can see How earth is dyed with streams of blood that flow! What have I seen, for ages, of these moths! They knew not how to portion out free land Among themselves; and knights and kings arose And they subdued the peoples, sword in hand. Some became subjects, others princes, lords— A thousand serfs to one aristocrat, They toil and serve, and hunger for dry bread. While he on wasteful luxury grows fat. Ah, in one country what do I not see Of direful deeds wrought by a tyrant fell! He founds himself an Inquisition dark, And blood flows there as from a bubbling well. The best and noblest there are most oppressed; The ill deeds done to women take one's breath; The people to Siberia are sent, And in its icy wilds are flogged to death. Two diplomats fall out; the Emperor Is touched in honor by a light word said— Sudden a child is drafted from his home, Millions of men are unto battle led. Here, men are butchered with no touch of ruth; There, heads roll on the ground, with hot blood red; Here, orphans mourn; there, widows wail and cry— The birds prey on the bodies of their dead. The corpses by the glowing sun are warmed— For who gives heed or thought to them, alas? The air is soon polluted by the stench, And pestilence mows down the folk like grass. O God, why didst thou set my place so low That I a neighbor to the earth must be— When half a nation by the sword is slain That I must be a witness and must see! I cannot bear to view the outrages Wrought by a tyrant on a feeble race— A race whose fathers I remember yet— Whose proud and noble lineage I can trace Back to King David, Moses, Abraham! What have they not endured, since Pharaoh's power, From tyrants—burned and slain by Rome, by Spain, And by this tyrant, even to this hour! He has diminished their repute and name, And poured them o'er the world, a scattered flood; No human right will he allow to them; Always he drains their money and their blood. They find no justice in the courts of law; The inconceivable they have to brook Cover, oh, cover up my face, ye clouds Upon these outrages I cannot look!Men's destinies do planets measure ? O father, speak the truth to me ! And do they stand for peace and pleasure, For exile, tears and misery ? Look at that small star there in heaven ! It is not ours, that tiny spark ? For all our life to tears is given, And all our days are sad and dark. Can it be, some day, 'mid those others 'T will shine in golden splendor bright ? Or will it vanish from its brothers, Covered and quenched in endless night ?" The old man knits his forehead lofty, He seeks an answer, but is dumb ; Sobs come to him, and tears come softly, But words are very slow to come. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL WE OFFER A GOOD SIDE LINE TO reputable men calling on the hardware trade. THE LOPIE MANUFACTURING CO., Lancaster, Pa. ThSTu je 16 CARD INDEX OUTFITS WARD'S 57-63 Franklin St., Boston, (b) Tutc le 2 [*Transcript, June 21, 1904*] THE CANARY [*Apr 11, 1904*] (From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld) [For the Transcript] The blithe canary warbles Alone in forest free ; Oh, who can feel his rapture, Who understand his glee ? Within the richest palace His warblings sweetly flow ; Ah, who can feel his sorrow, Who comprehend his woe ? ALICE STONE BLACKWELL THE CANARY [*April 11, 1904*] (From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld) [For the Transcript] The blithe canary warbles Alone in the forest free ; Oh, who can feel his rapture, Who understand his glee ? Within the richest palace His warblings sweetly flow ; Ah, who can feel his sorrow, Who comprehend his woe ? ALICE STONE BLACKWELL LEFT-HANDED CHILDREN WHAT IS THE WORLD? [From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld.] If but a sleeping chamber is our world, And if our life is nothing but a dream, I would that my few years might flit away In pleasant dreams, where shining fancies gleam. I wish for dreams of liberty and bliss, Such phantasy as to the great appears ; I wish in dreaming to see pleasant sights ; No longer would I dream of flowing tears. And if our world a festal is—a ball We, the invited guests—then in the hall, I, too, would have my comfortable seat, And of the feast a share to me should fall. I too, like others, can enjoy good things ; A dainty morsel I could well digest ; For the same blood is flowing in my veins, With that of those whose fortunes are the best. And if our world is but a garden ground, Where roses of all colors bud and blow. Then I would take my pleasure where I choose— Not where the rich permit that I should go. Then I would wear a wreath of flowers—not thorns ; With my beloved one I fain would pace Amid the splendor of the myrtles fair, And laurel trees, in that green garden-place. And if our world is now a battlefield, Where the strong struggle with the weak, in pride— Then, in despite of storm, and wife, and child, I will not coldly stand upon one side. Into the fire I then will thrust myself, Then battle lion-like for the weak will I, If, bullet-pierced, I fall upon the field— Why, then, I also with a laugh can die ! ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Dorchester, Mass. WHAT IS THE WORLD? [From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld.] If but a sleeping chamber is our world, And if our life is nothing but a dream, I would that my few years might flit away In pleasant dreams, where shining fancies gleam. I wish for dreams of liberty and bliss, Such phantasy as to the great appears ; I wish in dreaming to see pleasant sights ; No longer would I dream of flowing tears. And if our world a festal is—a ball, We, the invited guests—then in the hall, I, too, would have my comfortable seat, And of the feast a share to me should fall. I too, like others, can enjoy good things ; A dainty morsel I could well digest ; For the same blood is flowing in my veins, With that, of those whose fortunes are the best. And if our world is but a garden ground, Where roses of all colors bud and blow, Then I would take my pleasure where I choose— Not where the rich permit that I should go. Then I would wear a wreath of flowers—not thorns ; With my beloved one I fain would pace Amid the splendor of the myrtles fair, And laurel trees, in that green garden-place. And if our world is now a battlefield, Where the strong struggle with the weak, in pride— Then, in despite of storm, and wife, and child, I will not coldly stand upon one side. Into the fire I then will thrust myself, Then battle lion-like for the weak will I. If, bullet-pierced, I fall upon the field— Why, then, I also with a laugh can die ! ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Dorchester, Mass. [*Boston Post. Mar. 29, [190?]*]WHITHER? To a Girl. From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld. Whither, oh whither, pretty chil ? The world Is not yet open. Still is all around. 'Tis before daybreak, and the streets are mute. Whither in such a hurry are you bound ? Now it is sweet to sleep. The flowers still dream. The bird's nests yet are hushed. What power is driving You forth so early, ere day dawns anew ? Say, whither do you haste, and what to do ? "To earn a living !" Whither, oh whither, pretty child, so late. Alone at night through dark and cold to stray ? All is at rest and silent. Where, oh where, Does the wind bear you ? You will lose your way. It is too late for you to be abroad. Scarce has day smiled on you, its radiance giving ; How can night help you ? 'Tis deaf, dumb and blind. Whither, oh whither, with a thoughtless mind ? "To earn a living !" ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Dorchester, Mass. [*Boston Post. June 18, 1904*] LIBERTY: A DREAM (From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld.) When everything around is still as death— No sound, no stir, no rustle meets my ears— Then in the depth of night, as by a spell Of magic strange, before me she appears. A beauteous woman, fair, with skin like snow, But pale her cheeks—no rose tint in them lies ; Clear are the outlines of her shoulders strong, Adorned with golden hair, but wet her eyes. She looks at me in silence, lifts her hands And points with them ; behold, a pendent chain ! I think I see her meaning, and at last "Unbind me !" she entreats with tears of pain. My heart grows hot and burns ; with rapid steps I rush and seize the chain, with ardor strong ; But I fall back, alas ! Around the chain Is twisted a great serpent, thick and long. I cry, I call, but terrible men's sleep ; I hear them breathing deep and heavily. "Arise, my brothers ! oh, arise with speed ! Let there be light ! Come and set Freedom free !" 'Tis still. I strive alone. To waken stones I might as well my eager zeal expend ; Howe'er I call none stirs, no hand is raised ; Her woe has no cessation and no end. But who can see the vision nor grow wild ? Let this be ended, ended ! For her sake I rush upon the danger ; in my ear A voice cries, "Senseless fool !" and I awake. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Dorchester, Mass. [*Post . July 7, 190[?]*] THE MOON-PRAYER (From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld) [For the Transcript] High in the blue aerial ocean The silver clouds of heaven sail; Sparkle the stars with lively motion, But silent is the moon and pale. The wood in silence deep reposes, The trees stand hushed and lost in thought; No breeze their branchy screen uncloses, Earth sleeps; with stillness night is fraught. Deep in the wood, 'neath shadows pressing, Stand an old man and child tonight. The aged man the moon is blessing, And he is praying for her light. "O God, with tears, with heart sore troubled, I pray—my trembling voice, oh hear! I pray thee, let her light be doubled, And as of yore shine bright and clear! "E'en as thy Trusted One hath written Of 'the two great and equal lights.' How pale she seems, with sorrow smitten! Look on her face, death's shadow blights!" How his warm prayer the silence breaketh In the deep forest's hush profound! How flow his feelings! When he speaketh, How still is everything around! His child looks up, and wonders lightly Why in the blue deep over him So many stars are shining brightly, While others twinkle faint and dim. He looks on high, in night's calm weather; Unchecked, he asks his father old: "Tell me, can we believe, my father, The tale that I have oft been told ? The rich man's star doth strangely glimmer, mer, 'T is always large and always bright; The poor man's star grows dim and dimmer, And at the last is lost in night. A heavenly grace o'er its ripples is shed. To bathe in the river, how good it must be! Oh, I could leap into its waters with glee! My body is weakened by terrible toil; A bath would refresh me from heat and from soil. A bath in the river would seem to you sweet? They will wash you full soon, from your head to your feet! The sweat-shop is gloomy and smoky and small; Oh, how can my white blouse be clean there at all? With cleanliness here I have nothing to do. A clean, pure white garment, how comely to view! A fine, noble body it suits to be free. To work like a man, and clean likewise to be. To wear a white garment would give you delight? Never mind; soon enough they will dress you in white! 'T is breezy and cool in the depths of the wood; To dream there in silence, how pleasant, how good! The birds sweetly sing in the tree-shadows deep, The soft, dulcet sounds lull the hearer to sleep. But noisy the shop is, and stifling the air; Oh, how 't would refresh me, the woodland so fair! You long to be cool? Seek no forest's green fold; What need of a forest? You soon will be cold! To have a dear comrade, it makes the heart glow; He gives hope in trouble, and courage in woe. A dear-loved companion, in him one is blest; He sweetens one's being, he gives life a zest. But orphaned am I, like a stock or a stone; I have no companions, I live all alone. You soon will have comrades, a vast, countless crew; Already they swarm; they are waiting for you! ALICE STONE BLACKWELL TRANSCRIPT, TUESDAY, AUGUST 23, 1904 forty in all, twenty are solely Oxford editions, while other volumes, joint publications, were printed at the University Press. The number of British bindings catalogued is seventy-two, and of these forty-three were executed at the University binding house in London. DESPAIR (From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld) [For the Transcript] Oh, may we not rest e'en one day in the week, Release for one day from the dread yoke to seek, Forgetting the master, his gruff, angry growl, His terrible glance and his grim, gloomy scowl, Forgetting the shop and the foreman's loud call, Forgetful of slavery, sorrow and all? You wish to forget, to repose with calm breast? Never mind, very soon you go to your rest! The flowers and the trees will have withered ere long; Already the last bird is singing his song. We shall soon see around only graveyards and gloom. Oh, fain would I now smell a blossom's perfume, And feel, ere the winter has frozen the grass, The breath of the breeze o'er the green meadows pass! You long for the fields, with their greenness and air? Never mind, soon enough men will carry you there! The river is silvery it shines [?] [*March*] 84 THE RUSSIAN REVIEW that of an agricultural communism. For the first time voices arise from the city. In his stories, Nevsky Prospect, and The Portrait, Gogol writes about the poverty-stricken chinocniks (petty officials) in the town. Nekrasov, the poet, sings the woes of the city proletarian, and his songs are a bitter protest against misfortunes, and evils without end. Dostoyevsky depicts the poor in the city; his grief is the knowledge of what man has made of man, and, with the wonderful detachment of an alienist, he seeks to know how men are able to bear it all, what it is that consoles them. And thus it was that suffering and misery entered into artistic consciousness. The thinking men of the "fifties" felt that it was possible to find a release for man from all the sorrow that they saw everywhere about them. They dreamt of Utopian Socialism. They read with a great eagerness the works of Fourier, and Robert Owen, and Saint-Simon. Man, they felt, must find his own way to freedom from the nightmare of a horrible actuality. But it was not until the next decade that a complete philosophy of freedom was developed. This was the work of the Nihilists of the "sixties." The Ninth Wave. By P. Yakubovich. Rendered into English Verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. Not for every plashing wavelet Watches keen the helmsman's eye; He awaits the last huge roller, When the ninth wave surges high. But until that last strong roller Swells with deep, decisive roar, We must meet the strife and effort Of the waves that go before. Even though we scarce perceive them, Sinking vanquished to their grave, Wait, O brethren, wait with courage For the ninth, the conqu'ring wave! [*Feb*] THE RUSSIAN REVIEW 33 One need not be pessimistic about the future of Russian music. It is an outlook that is rich and full of promise. Already one can see the gratifying indications of a growing interest in the native art. The composers of the past generation have given it an impulse that will take Russia to the foremost ranks of musical achievement. Her period of imitation and adaptation is past. In the wake of her literature, that has made its influence felt throughout the West, is now flowing the tide of Russia's music. Mr. Rienzi's second article on "Music in Russia" will treat the development of Russian music and will appear in the March issue of "The Russian Review."—Ed. The Sail. By M. J. Lermontov. Rendered into English verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. A lone white sail on the horizon Upon the azure sea doth stand. What seeks he in this foreign region? What left he in his native land? The whistling breeze the mast is bending, The playful waves around him rise. Ah! not for happiness he searches, And not from happiness he flies. The sun is bright as gold above him, Light spray below, a snowy fleece; But he, rebellious, seeks the tempest, As though the storms could bring him peace! [*April*] THE RUSSIAN REVIEW 159 John Damaskin. By Count Alexis Tolstoy. Translated by P. Leonov. I bless ye woods, with verdure streaming, Ye dells, fields, hills, and waters free, And thee I bless, O Liberty, And thee, O sky, with azure gleaming. My staff so trusty bless I, fetching, And this, my bag, companion true, This field from end to end outstretching, The sun's bright beam, the night's dark hue; This lonely path, which now I'm treading, A beggar, coming from afar, Each blade of grass, in fields outspreading, And in the sky each twinkling star. Oh, if within myself enfolding All life, my soul I merged with you, O friends, in warm embraces holding, — And foes, e'en mischievous and scolding, — And all of Nature with you, too! By N. A. Nekrasov. Rendered into English Verse by Alice Stone Blackwell. 'Tis sultry! Deprived of all freedom, Our sad life flows darkly and dull. Oh, would that a storm would burst o'er it, For the cup of our patience is full! Burst o'er the abyss of the ocean, And through fields and forests be hurled, And spill, from the brim to the bottom, The cup of the woe of the world! PEN AND SHEARS (From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld.) BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL I thought the shop a hateful place, And I preferred to write. Now to the pen I am a slave, And harder is my plight. The pen, that served my formerly, I now myself must serve; I weep for every drop of ink That fills its metal curve. Once on a time I clothed the world In coats and mantles fair; Now I am clothed myself, alas! And leave the people bare. Who can conceive my suffering? It passes all belief. Deep in my heart my woe I hide; I dare not tell my grief. Open the shop to me again! There will I bear much pain. Sap, sap my blood, you sweatshop man! Far less shall I complain. Hard will I toil, and do much work, Without complaint or moan; For I can only sell my shears-- My pen must be my own! Dorchester, Mass. PEN AND SHEARS (From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld.) BY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL I thought the shop a hateful place, And I preferred to write. Now to the pen I am a slave, And harder is my plight. The pen, that served my formerly, I now myself must serve; I weep for every drop of ink That fills its metal curve. Once on a time I clothed the world In coats and mantles fair; Now I am clothed myself, alas! And leave the people bare. Who can conceive my suffering? It passes all belief. Deep in my heart my woe I hide; I dare not tell my grief. Open the shop to me again! There will I bear much pain. Sap, sap my blood, you sweatshop man! Far less shall I complain. Hard will I toil, and do much work, Without complaint or moan; For I can only sell my shears-- My pen must be my own! Dorchester, Mass. A Legend of the Ghetto. From the Yiddish of Jehoash (Bloomgarten.) To the prophet a knight with golden spurs Comes secretly every night; With plumes bedecked is his burnished helm, His breast is in velvet dight. In the chamber poor, where a tiny lamp With a faint light feebly burns, There wisdom deep from the Jewish sage The Prince of the Gentiles learns. But ere the bells for the morning prayer In the city have begun, The Prince steals forth from the Ghetto's pale; His secret is known to none. The Rabbi sits studying; never by day He sets eyes on his guest of the night. In thoughts from the Talmud and actions alone Come the fruits of his teachings to light. But oft through the Ghetto the Prince by day With his glittering council rides, And thoughtfully looks at the house obscure Where his Jewish teacher abides. ALICE STONE BLACKWELL. Dorchester, Mass. [*Hebrew Standard July 21, 1911*] THOUGHTS ON A SUMMER MORNING. By Ezekiel Leavitt. (Translated from the Yiddish by Alice Stone Blackwell.) The eastern sky is covered with bars of fiery glow, The sun's first rays are covering with gold the streets below, And casting down from heaven bright sheaves of glittering beams On the awakened world beneath, which gay and lively seems. With pearly dewdrops moistened, grass and flowers upon the mead Sway proudly in the zephyrs of the dawn, and make with speed Their toilet for the morning, and solemnly they greet The sun, that pours upon their heads a stream of light and heat, And with his rays all glorious, as bright the morning breaks, The friendliest of signals to the dreaming earth he makes. I, sitting near the window, can observe the people well. They to their place of struggle haste, their freedom there to sell, And in the shop a whole hard day to labor and to strive To win a miserable wage, that keeps them scarce alive. For them there is no shining sun, no morning bright and gay; The stern world multiplies their cares and sorrows every day. Not songs of consolation, but laments, it makes them hear, Although they give it all their strength, and sacrifice their cheer. The sun smiles only on the rich, well fed, with lightsome hearts; The world is all divided into two unequal parts; Some for themselves have taken all, their brethren are bereft, And for the general public only poverty is left.What Is This World From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld. Rendered Into English Verse by Alice Stone Blackwell If by a sleeping chamber is our world, And if our life is nothing but a dream, I would that my few years might pass away In pleasant dreams, where shining fancies gleam. I wish for dreams of liberty and bliss, Such phantasy as to the great appears; I wish in dreaming to see pleasant sights,- No longer would I dream of flowing tears. And if our world is some great festival, We the invited guests-then in the hall I too would have my comfortable seat, And of the feast a share to me should fall. I too, like others, can enjoy good things; A dainty morsel I could well digest; For the same blood is flowing in my veins With that of those whose fortunes are the best. And if our world is but a garden ground Where roses of all colors bud and blow, Then I would take my pleasure where I choose- Not where the rich permit my feet to go. Then I would wear a wreath of flowers, no thorns; With my beloved one I fain would pace Amid the splendor of the myrtles fair And laurel trees, in that green garden-place. And if our world is now a battlefield, Where the strong struggle with the weak, in pride- Then, in despite of storm, and wife, and child, I will not coldly stand upon one side. Into the fire I then will thrust myself, Then battle lion-like for the weak will I. If, bullet-pierced, I fall upon the field, Why, then I also with a laugh can die!18 The Christian Register (18) [JANUARY 4 1923 THE TALMUD Ancient pages of the Talmud, Legends, tales that there I view, In my mournful life and dreary, Oftentimes I turn to you. When at night amid the darkness On mine eyes sleep will not rest, And I sit alone, forsaken, With my head upon my breast; In those sad hours, as a star shines In the azure summer night, Memories in my melancholy Then begin to glitter bright. I recall my love, my childhood: Those sweet hours come back again When I still was free from sorrow, Free from anger, free from pain. Those old years, so dear and pleasant, Pass again before mine eyes, And the pages of the Talmud In my memory arise. Oh, the ancient, ancient pages! All the lights and stars I see Burning, shining in those pages,— They can ne'er extinguished be! Myriad streams and myriad rivers Have swept o'er them in the past, Sand has covered them and hid them, Storms have rent them—still they last! Yes, the ancient, ancient pages Still survive, and perish not, Although yellowed, torn, and darkened, Here a hole and there a spot; Here a charred place, there a line worn Till the sense cannot be told, And the whole now bears the aspect Of a cemetery old. What of that? Indeed, it truly Is a graveyard, old and hoar, Where within the tomb lies buried All that we shall have no more. And I, aged, ill, and orphaned, Filled with awe that death inspires, Deep in grief, stand bowed and weeping By the graveside of my sires! THE SONG OF WORK For you, my brethren and my sisters poor, Whom scattered through the wide world we behold, Who crawl and lose your way on myriad paths, In rain, in storm, in heat and wintry cold— For you, O man of constant sighs and groans, You mourning, wailing, melancholy Jew! For you it sounds and echoes, sings and rings, My song of joy in life, still fresh and new. In myriad streams life pours itself abroad, And comes forth to the old, eternal shore. The world a blooming garden is to one, A heavy, miry road to thousands more. Oh, sing the praise of effort and of toil! Sing, greet them heartily, without a frown! Strong shall the hands be that have callous grown, And strong the brow from which the sweat pours down! Good is the rich man's slumber in his room, On snowy pillows soft, at close of day; Better a sleep at twilight, after toil, Out in the fields, upon the new-mown hay! . . . . . . . The sickle is of steel, the flail of iron, And, truly, no great ornament are they; Yet in them lies our power, our life; no step Without them can be taken on the way. Then sing the praise of effort and of toil! Sing, greet them lovingly, without a frown! May the hard hands be healthy evermore, Healthy the brow from which the sweat pours down! The Eliot Circle Ten years ago, The Eliot Circle, a Lend a Hand Club of women at Bulfinch Place Church, advertised in THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER for a country vacation house and as a result was offered the Charlotte Home, North Andover, Mass., a mansion belonging to the family of Mrs. Charlotte Stevens, beautifully situated on Lake Cochichewick, about three miles from Lawrence, Mass. The house had been enlarged and fitted up for vacation purposes by Mrs. Stevens and had been used for a number of years under her direction, but at the time referred to above, it was closed. After the conference with Mrs. John F. Tyler, representing the family, it was decided to accept their offer and try the experiment. The house, completely furnished for twenty-five guests, was generously offered free of rent, wood and coal and upkeep of the property included. The Eliot Circle and the church were to supply the management and the guests and meet the running expenses. And so the experiment began, under the enthusiastic and skillful guidance of Miss Katharine R. Stokes, one of the regular assistants at the church and president of the Circle. It has continued under the same leadership, with marked success, these ten years ; and has come to this anniversary deserving, we believe, honorable mention. The Charlotte Home has been open during June, July, and August, and the number of guests entertained has averaged more than one hundred each season. They have been women and children needing rest, sometimes from overwork, sometimes after illness, sometimes because the routine at home or in the business world or at school had left them weary and in need of that freshening which a few weeks of quiet enjoyment in the country gives. Some have stayed only a few days, but have gone back greatly cheered ; a few have remained all summer ; about half, from two to four weeks. Almost all have paid board and traveling expenses, or it was paid for them in some friendly way. At first the board was $3 a week, but gradually advanced to $5. Thus the running expenses have been met. Each guest cared for her own room and laundry if possible. Behold the program : a competent cook, of course, with good food and plenty of it ; trees and grass and a wonderful barn ; holiday and birthday celebrations ; an open fire, with music and games, evenings ; a wide piazza and pleasant walks ; sunny rooms and comfortable beds ; and best of all, the family ideal of mutual consideration and respect. Every guest receives a special welcome and all necessary care. The Lend a Hand spirit is encouraged. On Sundays the church at North Andover is not too far away, and on Sunday evenings around the home fire there is a service of hymns and a friendly talk on some helpful theme. During the past summer there were in all 125 guests, of whom sixty-seven came for a week or less. Where did they come from? The majority from Bulfinch Place Church and the Circle, others recommended by the Family Welfare Society, the School for Crippled Children, the First Church, Boston, or by friends. The total number of weeks, counting by individuals, was more than 200. THE CHARLOTTE HOME, NORTH ANDOVER, MASS.JANUARY 4 1923] (17) The Christian Register 17 tration: In the year 200, Christians were of three types of belief about Christ: Adoptionists, Sabellians, and adherents of the Hypostatic Logos doctrine; and as a matter of fact, in actual belief Christians have always been so divided, although only the Hypostatic doctrine was made orthodox by the ecumenical councils and the law of the Roman Empire. To-day the actual belief of immense numbers of men who have been affected by the historical method of studying the Bible can only use the language of Adoptionism. The new creed gives them no standing in the Free Church of Scotland. The new creed artfully uses expressions that belong both to the Hypostatic and the Sabellian views. Professor Richards says that the creed clearly recognizes the identification of a human being with Deity. That, we submit, is Sabellianism for "identification with the Deity" reduces the "manhood" to a mere form of manifestation. But Professor Richards finds this clearly recognized in phrases which are borrowed from the Hypostatic view, phrases inconsistent with Sabellianism. The Sabellian will be better pleased with the conclusion of Article II: "When in our experience we are brought face to face with Jesus Christ we are in the presence of the eternal and holy God." It is greatly to be feared that the members of the Church to whom this creed is commended for study will find it perplexing and that many of them will feel excluded. There are other ambiguities in the creed, and all such ambiguities have the appearance of making a cautious advance to modern views without really expressing or legitimatizing them. But let us suppose that a skillful preacher can resolve these perplexities into consistency; what age and degree of education must a person have in order to profess the creed? Is religious experience recognized only when it becomes explicit in these careful intellectual propositions? Are they are test of Christian discipleship or are they only commended for study to those already members of the church? As a test of Christian discipleship these articles would make entrance into the Church difficulty for many young persons who feel moved by the spirit that was in Jesus to worship and obey God. As a subject of study, but not a compulsory definition for those already members, the students might well be informed that the creed is not in full agreement with what is taught to candidates for the ministry in the best theological schools. On the whole, one may be grateful to God that there are in the world undogmatic churches. Professor Richards argues that superiority of this creed to Charles Eliot's "The Religion of the Future,"-which is not a creed but a prediction. The creed, he says, protests against such "naturalism" as Dr. Eliot's utterance contains. The only naturalism which Professor Richards will recognize is "naturalism of the scientific kind." This invites us into the laboratories of the natural sciences, and, if that is his meaning, Professor Richards should have felt debarred from applying the term "naturalism" to Dr. Eliot's faith in an "infinite Spirit immanent in the universe" or his faith that there "is evidence in the moral history of the human race that a loving God rules the universe." Dr. Richards holds that "faith in Providence of Christian men and women in all ages was based on the revelation of God in Jesus, the assurances of His word, and not upon philosophical ideas of divine immanence though defined in ethical terms." Let us waive the "philosophical ideas"- the majority of Christian men and women in all ages would not understand them. Professor Richards is saying that these men and women had a logical reflective ground for their faith. They believed- he is saying-because the truth was revelated in Jesus and the Bible. How did the author of the Twenty-third Psalm ground his faith? Not on a revelation in Jesus-Professor Richards is too modern for that. Not on older written assurances. It is all about I and me. It is the language of experience, like the language of that other psalmist who cried, "Whither shall I go from thy Spirit?" The faith rises out of spiritual experience, what Dr. Eliot speaks of as "communions with the great Spirit" and which he then reflectively characterizes as the moral history of the human race. Or, to take a modern instance, let us scan Samuel Longfellow's hymn "I look to Thee in every need." This again is not logical deduction from revelation in the past: "I feel Thy strong and tender love." This is not naturalism of the scientific kind, not deduction from the assurances of a revelation centuries from the assurances of a revelation centuries ago, not inference from a philosophical theory immanence. It is experience- and in fact experience so outruns the limits imposed by the credible creed that the creed ceases to have much interest except as an escape from the Westminster Confession. A Modern Jewish Poet ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Among the many tragedies growing out of the World War, none has been more terrible than that of the Jews. In addition to the sufferings common to all the ravaged nations they have had to endure widespread massacres and persecutions on account of their religion and race—persecutions in which hundreds of thousands have perished. It is a black chapter in human history, and a chapter not yet closed. Even in the United States, anti-Semitism often raises its ugly head, which every right-minded American ought to hit wherever it shows itself, as he would a poisonous snake. It is no wonder that modern Jewish poetry is deeply tinged with sadness; but there is much of beauty mingled with the sorrow. A poet of merit, and of great popularity among his people, is the late S. S. Frug, who wrote in both Russian and Yiddish. He was born at Bobroff in Russia in 1860. His father was a member of an organized Jewish agrarian colony, a novel thing among the Jews at that time. Young Frug received his early education partly in a Jewish religious school, partly in the Russian village school. At sixteen he went to the town of Kherson, and there worked for some years in the office of the local (Reformed) Jewish rabbi. His first poem in Russian, published in 1880, made a sensation, and he was invited to St. Petersburg, where he became a prominent journalist. In 1888 he began to write poems in Yiddish; and the popularity of his works, in both languages, grew steadily as long as he lived. His poetry covers a wide range. He wrote ballads on Biblical subjects, folk legends, poems of sentiment and reflection, and satirical songs full of wit and humor. He is said to have been the first Yiddish poet to write with grace and joyous fervor of the beauties of nature. Brought up on a farm, he had an enthusiastic love for Mother Earth and for the cultivators of the soil. In this respect his poetry marks an epoch in modern Jewish literature. It has been a pleasure to me to make English renderings of a number of his poems. Some of these may be of interest to the readers of THE CHRISTIAN REGISTER. SAND AND STARS The moon is shining and the stars are bright; Night broods o'er hill and valley, sea and shore. The ancient Book before me open lies; Thousands of times I read it o'er and o'er. I read the words, so sacred and so dear; I hear a voice: "My people, ye shall be, I swear it, even as the stars in heaven, And as the sands that lie beside the sea!" Lord of the Universe, no jot is lost, No word from all thy promises of grace. Thy holy will must ever be fulfilled; All comes to pass, in its due time and place. And one thing has already been fulfilled— I feel it with assurance most complete: We have become like sands that lie exposed, That everybody treads beneath his feet! Yea, verily, dear God, like sand and stones, To shame and scorn scattered, and strewn abroad. Ah, but the stars, the brilliant and the clear— The stars, the stars—oh, where are they, my God? THE JEWISH CHILD Buried deep amid the darkness, Far from air and light, Do you see the blind worm crawling In the night? He below the ground in darkness Had his birth; 'Tis his fate to creep forever In the earth. Like a worm amid the darkness, Dumb, blind, desolate, Jewish child, you spend your childhood— 'Tis your fate. O'er your cradle-bed your mother Sings no lay Of a life that free and tranquil Glides away— Of the fields and of the gardens Where the lively child Plays in gaiety and freedom, Like the breezes wild. No, a fountain of deep sorrow Sounds and rings. Oh, how bitter is the song, child, That she sings! Deep, sad groans and burning tear-drops With strong might In the song are sounding, ringing, Day and night. Deep, sad sighs and burning tear-drops, Hunger, cold, Through the world go trailing with you From of old. From the cradle to the grave, child, By the long road you must wend Grow whole forests of dark sorrow Without end!TO THE DOLLAR From the Yiddish of David Diamondstein. Rendered Into English Verse By Alice Stone Blackwell In man thou hast choked the noble, the pure; Basely thy power hath swayed him. Through fire thou hast sent him, through battlefields red; A beggar and thief thou hast made him. Nake thou drivest out into the cold Those who have woven our cover; Wretched and sad thou hast made this our world, And poisoned life over and over. O powerful craft, O blood-bestained gold, Creator of hunger and woe! The world long enough thou has darkly enslaved: I hope death will soon lay thee low!