Classic Poem

If you would know the spring whence strength of soul
Was drawn in evil days woeful as these
By those who gladly walked to meet their death,
Bending the neck beneath the biting steel——
The headsman's axe—or climbing to the stake,
First to the faggots clinging there to die—
Proclaiming Unity—the martyr's death. . . .
If you would know the well where those who, crushed
Between the straits of Chaos and the Grave,
Drew comforts of the Lord, and mighty faith
To suffer long, and iron strength to bear
Travail, with shoulder set to toil in life
Of rancour and despite, toil without end
Beneath the boundless burden.
If you would see the bosom where your people
Wept heart and soul their fill of bitterness,
With groans that surged as waters flowing forth,
Groans to sound terror in the deepest Hell
And sights to pluck the devil cold with dread,
Shrieks to split rocks, but not the hardened hearts
Of foes who better Satan. . . .
If you would know the stronghold where your fathers
Salvaged their soul's desire and held the Law,
Holy above all Holies to be saved;
If you would know the hiding place that kept
Their mighty spirit and its essence pure,
That, sated with reproach and calumny,
Grey hairs sapped not the pleasantness of youth.
If you would know the mother merciful,
The aged matron, loving to the last.
Who gathered of her wandering child the tears,
With great compassion tended all his hurt;
And when the outcast came again and faint,
She wiped away his tears, and 'neath her roof
Gave him wing'd shade and lulléd him to sleep. . . .
Ah! Chastened brother, if you know not these,
Turn to the Beth Hamidrash, antic, old,
In the long nights of winter desolate,
In summer days that scorch and flame with heat,
At noontide, dawn or in the twilight turn,
And if a miserable remnant yet
Is spared of God, perchance to-day you'll see
In the deep shadows of the wall and dark
The corner there, fast by the chimney-piece,
A few stray sheaves—ghosts of much lost,
Some shrivelled Jews with parched and wizened face,
Jews of the Exile, burdened with its yoke,
Who lose their pain in faded Talmud page,
Their misery in Midrash tales of old.
And sing their sorrows in a psalm of praise.
(Ah me! How slight and worthless all must seem
In eyes of strangers, heedless to discern.)
Then shall the heart inform you how your feet
Stand on the threshold of our House of Life,
And our Soul's treasure-house your eyes behold.
If God has spared you of the holy spirit,
Nor taken all His soothing from your heart,
And rays of hope for better days than these
At times illumme all its leagues of darkness,
Brother of distress, know this to be
A salvaged spark, small fugitive of flame,
Saved by a miracle from that great fire
Your sires kept ever ardent on their altar.
Who knows but that the rivers of their tears
Have borne and brought us hither, and their prayers
Have loaned us of the Lord, and thro' their death
They bade a life be ours, life to world's end?