Down the long street, beneath the tender buds
Of green acacia trees, whose spiked leaves
Danced a gay measure with the April breeze,
Drifted a wailing as of utter pain.
And slowly, as if woe their footsteps held,
Came a long funeral train of mourning men,
Their heads low bent, as if the golden light
Was not for them, their eyes tear-filled and dim,
Their whole forms trembling with a heartstung grief.
And as they passed, some mockers jested loud,
And laughed to hear the piteous moans; and some,
Less hard, perhaps, felt pity at the sight,
But, with a shrug, they glanced aside, and said,
" Bah! Naught but Jews, and so accursed of God! "
Slowly the village drifted 'neath their feet
And lay behind; and then, with weary step,
They climbed the sloping path that led to rest.
There lay the loved ones who, within the grave,
Found peace, that gift which e'en the Great White Czar
Of all the Russias asks of life in vain.
Wrapped in the rich black earth, they hear no more
The taunts, they feel not blows nor anguished pain.
How many, Death, thou hast clasped close at once!
For all around are mounds of upturned earth,
Bare, for the kindly grass not yet had time
To cover o'er the naked yellow sod
Which loving hands had folded softly round
Their martyred dead, killed for the love of Christ.
They paused and gathered 'round three open graves,
And hoary heads and striplings bent above
Their treasured burden, and their prayers and sobs
Made minor music to the breezes' hymn.
The birds, within the border hedges hid,
Stopped their spring carol and peered slyly forth.
A peasant lad in neighboring field looked on
A space, and then, with mingled scorn and fear,
Ran madly home to tell to eager ears
What new witchcraft the Devil's children brewed.
But heeding naught save their own maddened grief,
Their torn hearts bleeding from a thousand wounds,
They opened wide the portals of their pain,
'Mid prayers for grace, to say, " Thy will be done. "
Know ye what lay within each urn of clay?
No human form, close clasped in icy bonds!
There lay, profaned, the spirit of their lives,
The scrolls of parchment on which was the Law!
Lowered from Heaven on Sinai's lofty crest,
In every word there breathed the Lord's own will.
For countless centuries a nation held
The sacred Word unto its throbbing breast:
To them it yielded forth its burden sweet,
The Law of Life, and strengthened with its strength,
They offered to the world the priceless gift.
But for reward, the gathered ages brought
Curses and blows and outraged human ties,
And bathed their worshiped cross in human blood.
Thus thought these mourners, as they stood beside
The clay-wrapped scrolls, and pondered how the Law
Had given them strength to bear, with close-sealed lips
And faith unwavering, all the centuries' scorn.
And they remembered how the savage mob
Had surged upon the very altar's height,
Had torn the Law from out the sacred ark
And trampled it beneath their bloody feet,
And laughed to know they trod on human hearts.
No more the scrolls were for God's service meet.
Those hand-wrought words, so fraught with living truth,
The slender silver rod no more might trace;
But so defiled, they must be hid from all,
That they be saved from all unholy touch.
The rabbi's quivering voice rang on the air,
The song spring breeze the mournful cadence bore
Of low-voiced Hebrew chanting, sweet and sad;
Then in the moist dark earth the urns were laid,
And o'er them, with a prayer, the sod was cast.
Then turned they homeward in the amber glow
Of early twilight, and the gathering night
Fell o'er the page of Israel's tragedy.
But through the darkest hours of that still night
The starlight gleamed with clear, unclouded ray,
As through the night of Israel's greatest grief
The Law shone clear, a lamp unto their feet.
The shade of night, the stars, and then the dawn!
Be strong! The truth lives e'er! There dawns at last,
Oh, People of the Law, the day for thee!
Of green acacia trees, whose spiked leaves
Danced a gay measure with the April breeze,
Drifted a wailing as of utter pain.
And slowly, as if woe their footsteps held,
Came a long funeral train of mourning men,
Their heads low bent, as if the golden light
Was not for them, their eyes tear-filled and dim,
Their whole forms trembling with a heartstung grief.
And as they passed, some mockers jested loud,
And laughed to hear the piteous moans; and some,
Less hard, perhaps, felt pity at the sight,
But, with a shrug, they glanced aside, and said,
" Bah! Naught but Jews, and so accursed of God! "
Slowly the village drifted 'neath their feet
And lay behind; and then, with weary step,
They climbed the sloping path that led to rest.
There lay the loved ones who, within the grave,
Found peace, that gift which e'en the Great White Czar
Of all the Russias asks of life in vain.
Wrapped in the rich black earth, they hear no more
The taunts, they feel not blows nor anguished pain.
How many, Death, thou hast clasped close at once!
For all around are mounds of upturned earth,
Bare, for the kindly grass not yet had time
To cover o'er the naked yellow sod
Which loving hands had folded softly round
Their martyred dead, killed for the love of Christ.
They paused and gathered 'round three open graves,
And hoary heads and striplings bent above
Their treasured burden, and their prayers and sobs
Made minor music to the breezes' hymn.
The birds, within the border hedges hid,
Stopped their spring carol and peered slyly forth.
A peasant lad in neighboring field looked on
A space, and then, with mingled scorn and fear,
Ran madly home to tell to eager ears
What new witchcraft the Devil's children brewed.
But heeding naught save their own maddened grief,
Their torn hearts bleeding from a thousand wounds,
They opened wide the portals of their pain,
'Mid prayers for grace, to say, " Thy will be done. "
Know ye what lay within each urn of clay?
No human form, close clasped in icy bonds!
There lay, profaned, the spirit of their lives,
The scrolls of parchment on which was the Law!
Lowered from Heaven on Sinai's lofty crest,
In every word there breathed the Lord's own will.
For countless centuries a nation held
The sacred Word unto its throbbing breast:
To them it yielded forth its burden sweet,
The Law of Life, and strengthened with its strength,
They offered to the world the priceless gift.
But for reward, the gathered ages brought
Curses and blows and outraged human ties,
And bathed their worshiped cross in human blood.
Thus thought these mourners, as they stood beside
The clay-wrapped scrolls, and pondered how the Law
Had given them strength to bear, with close-sealed lips
And faith unwavering, all the centuries' scorn.
And they remembered how the savage mob
Had surged upon the very altar's height,
Had torn the Law from out the sacred ark
And trampled it beneath their bloody feet,
And laughed to know they trod on human hearts.
No more the scrolls were for God's service meet.
Those hand-wrought words, so fraught with living truth,
The slender silver rod no more might trace;
But so defiled, they must be hid from all,
That they be saved from all unholy touch.
The rabbi's quivering voice rang on the air,
The song spring breeze the mournful cadence bore
Of low-voiced Hebrew chanting, sweet and sad;
Then in the moist dark earth the urns were laid,
And o'er them, with a prayer, the sod was cast.
Then turned they homeward in the amber glow
Of early twilight, and the gathering night
Fell o'er the page of Israel's tragedy.
But through the darkest hours of that still night
The starlight gleamed with clear, unclouded ray,
As through the night of Israel's greatest grief
The Law shone clear, a lamp unto their feet.
The shade of night, the stars, and then the dawn!
Be strong! The truth lives e'er! There dawns at last,
Oh, People of the Law, the day for thee!