Chapter 2

The free canary warbles In leafy forest dell: Who feels what rapture thrills her, And who her joy can tell?

The sweet canary warbles Where wealth and splendor dwell: Who knows what sorrow moves her, And who her pain can tell?

Want And I

Who's there? who's there? who was it tried To force the entrance I've denied? An 'twere a friend, I'd gladly borne it, But no--'twas Want! I could have sworn it. I heard thy voice, old witch, I know thee! Avaunt, thou evil hag, beshrew thee! God's curse! why seekest thou to find me? Away to all black years behind me!

To torture me was thine endeavor, My body from my soul to sever, Of pride and courage to deprive me, And into beggary to drive me. Begone, where thousand devils burn-- Begone, nor evermore return! Begone, most wretched thou of creatures, And hide for aye thine hateful features! --Beloved, ope the door in pity!

No friend have I in all the city Save thee, then open to my call! The night is bleak, the snowflakes fall. Thine own, old Want am I, believe me! Ah, what delight, wilt thou receive me? I found, when I from thee had parted, No friend but he was fickle-hearted!

Away, old hag! Thou liest, lo, Thou harbinger of pain and woe! Away--am I thine only friend? Thy lovers pale, they have no end! Thou vile one, may the devil take thee! Begone and no more visits make me! For--Yiddish writers not to mention-- Men hold thee no such rare invention.

--'Tis true! yet those must wait my leisure. To be with thee is now my pleasure. I love thy black and curling hair, I love thy wounded heart's despair, I love thy sighs, I love to swallow Thy tears and all thy songs to follow. Oh great indeed, might I but show it, My love for thee, my pale-faced poet!

Away, I've heard all that before, And am a writer, mark, no more. Instead of verses, wares I tell, And candy and tobacco sell. My life is sweet, my life is bitter. I'm ready and a prompt acquitter. Oh, smarter traders there are many, Yet live I well and turn a penny.

--A dealer then wilt thou remain, Forever from the pen abstain? Good resolutions time disperses: Thou yet shalt hunger o'er thy verses, But vainly seeking to excuse thee Because thou dost, tonight, refuse me. Then open, fool, I tell thee plain, That we perforce shall meet again.

Begone the way that I direct thee! I've millionaires now to protect me; No need to beg, no need to borrow, Nor fear a penniless tomorrow, Nor walk with face of blackest omen To thrill the hearts of stupid foemen, Who fain my pride to earth would bring, Because, forsooth, I sweetly sing!

--Ho ho! ere thou art grown much older, Thy millionaires will all grow colder. Thou soon shalt be forgotten by them-- They've other things to occupy them! Just now with thee they're playing kindly, But fortune's wheel is turning blindly To grind thy pleasures ere thou know it-- And thou art left to me, my poet!

The Phantom Vessel

Now the last, long rays of sunset To the tree-tops are ascending, And the ash-gray evening shadows Weave themselves around the earth.

On the crest of yonder mountain, Now are seen from out the distance Slowly fading crimson traces; Footprints of the dying day.

Blood-stained banners, torn and tattered, Hanging in the western corner, Dip their parched and burning edges In the cooling ocean wave.

Smoothly roll the crystal wavelets Through the dusky veils of twilight, That are trembling down from heaven O'er the bosom of the sea.

Soft a little wind is blowing O'er the gently rippling waters-- What they whisper, what they murmur, Who is wise enough to say?

Broad her snow-white sails outspreading 'Gainst the quiet sky of evening, Flies a ship without a sailor, Flies--and whither, who can tell?

As by magic moves the rudder; Borne upon her snowy pinions Flies the ship--as tho' a spirit Drove her onward at its will!

Empty is she, and deserted, Only close beside the mainmast Stands a lonely child, heartbroken, Sobbing loud and bitterly.

Long and golden curls are falling Down his neck and o'er his shoulders; Now he glances backward sighing, And the silent ship flies on!

With a little, shining kerchief, Fluttering upon the breezes, Unto me he sends a greeting, From afar he waves farewell.

And my heart is throbbing wildly, I am weeping--tell me wherefore? God! that lovely child, I know him! 'Tis my youth that flies from me!

To My Misery

O Misery of mine, no other In faithfulness can match with thee, Thou more than friend, and more than brother, The only thing that cares for me!

Where'er I turn, are unkind faces, And hate and treachery and guile, Thou, Mis'ry, in all times and places, Dost greet me with thy pallid smile.

At birth I found thee waiting for me, I knew thee in my cradle first, The same small eyes and dim watched o'er me, The same dry, bony fingers nursed.

And day by day when morning lightened, To school thou led'st me--home did'st bring, And thine were all the blooms that brightened The chilly landscape of my spring.

And, thou my match and marriage monger, The marriage deed by thee was read; The hands foretelling need and hunger Were laid in blessing on my head.

Thy love for me shall last unshaken, No further proof I ask, for when My hopes for aye were from me taken, My Mis'ry, thou wert with me then;

And still, while sorrow's storm is breaking Above me, and my head I bow-- The kindly and the unforsaking, Oh Mis'ry, thou art with me now.

Ay, still from out Fate's gloomy towers I see thee come to me again, With wreaths of everlasting flowers, And songs funereal in thy train.

And when life's curses rock me nightly, And hushed I lie in slumber's hold, Thy sable form comes treading lightly To wrap me in its garments fold.

Thy brother let me be, and wholly Repay thee all I owe, tho' late: My aching heart, my melancholy, My songs to thee I dedicate.

O Long The Way

O long the way and short the day, No light in tower or town, The waters roar and far the shore-- My ship, my ship goes down!

'Tis all in vain to strive again, My cry the billows drown, The fight is done, the wind has won-- My ship, my ship goes down!

Bright sun, adieu! Thou'lt shine anew When skies no longer frown, But I--the deafening billows crash-- My ship, my ship goes down!

To The Fortune Seeker

A little more, a little less!-- O shadow-hunters pitiless, Why then so eager, say! What'er you leave the grave will take, And all you gain and all you make, It will not last a day!

Full soon will come the Reaper Black, Cut thorns and flowers mark his track Across Life's meadow blithe. Oppose him, meet him as you will, Old Time's behests he harkens still, Unsparing wields his scythe.

A horrid mutiny by stealth Breaks out,--of power, fame and wealth Deserted you shall be! The foam upon your lip is rife; The last enigma now of Life Shall Death resolve for thee.

You call for help--'tis all in vain! What have you for your toil and pain, What have you at the last? Poor luckless hunter, are you dumb? This way the cold pall-bearers come: A beggar's soul has passed!

A little less, a little more !-- Look forth, look forth! without the door There stands a robber old. He'll force your ev'ry lock and spring, And all your goods he'll take and fling On Stygian waters cold.

My Youth

Come, beneath yon verdant branches, Come, my own, with me! Come, and there my soul will open Secret doors to thee. Yonder shalt thou learn the secrets Deep within my breast, Where my love upsprings eternal; Come! with pain opprest, Yonder all the truth I'll tell thee, Tell it thee with tears... (Ah, so long have we been parted, Years of youth, sweet years!)

See'st thou the dancers floating On a stream of sound? There alone, the soul entrancing, Happiness is found! Magic music, hark! it calls us, Ringing wild and sweet! One, two, three!--beloved, haste thee, Point thy dainty feet! Now at last I feel that living Is no foolish jest... (O sweet years of youth departed, Vanished with the rest!)

Fiddler, play a little longer! Why this hurry, say? I'm but half-way through a measure-- Yet a little play! Smiling in her wreath of flowers Is my love not fair? See us in the charmed circle, Flitting light as air! Haste thee, loved one, for the music Shall be hushed anon... (O sweet years of youth departed, Whither are ye gone?)

Gracious youth of mine, so quickly Hath it come to this? Lo, where flowed the golden river, Yawns the black abyss! Where, oh where is my beloved, Where the wreath of flowers? Where, oh where the merry fiddler, Where those happy hours? Shall I never hear the echoes Of those songs again? Oh, on what hills are they ringing, O'er what sunny plain? May not I from out the distance Cast one backward glance On that fair and lost existence, Youth's sweet dalliance? Foolish dreamer! Time hath snatched it, And, tho' man implore, Joys that _he_ hath reaped and garnered Bloom again no more!

In The Wilderness

Alone in desert dreary, A bird with folded wings Beholds the waste about her, And sweetly, sweetly sings.

So heaven-sweet her singing, So clear the bird notes flow, 'Twould seem the rocks must waken, The desert vibrant grow.

Dead rocks and silent mountains Would'st waken with thy strain,-- But dumb are still the mountains, And dead the rocks remain.

For whom, O heavenly singer, Thy song so clear and free? Who hears or sees or heeds thee, Who feels or cares for thee?

Thou may'st outpour in music Thy very soul... 'Twere vain! In stone thou canst not waken A throb of joy or pain.

Thy song shall soon be silenced; I feel it... For I know Thy heart is near to bursting With loneliness and woe.

Ah, vain is thine endeavor; It naught availeth--nay; For lonely as thou camest, So shalt thou pass away.

I've Often Laughed

I've often laughed and oftener still have wept, A sighing always through my laughter crept, Tears were not far away... What is there to say?

I've spoken much and oftener held by tongue, For still the most was neither said nor sung. Could I but tell it so... What is there to know?

I've hated much and loved, oh so much more! Fierce contrasts at my very heartstrings tore... I tried to fight them--well... What is there to tell?

Again I Sing my Songs

Once again my songs I sing thee, Now the spell is broken; Brothers, yet again I bring thee Songs of love the token. Of my joy and of my sorrow Gladly, sadly bringing;-- Summer not a song would borrow-- Winter sets me singing.

O when life turns sad and lonely, When our joys are dead; When are heard the ravens only In the trees o'erhead; When the stormwind on the bowers Wreaks its wicked will, When the frost paints lying flowers, How should I be still?

When the clouds are low descending, And the sun is drowned; When the winter knows no ending, And the cold is crowned; When with evil gloom oppressed Lie the ruins bare; When a sigh escapes the breast, Takes us unaware;

When the snow-wrapped mountain dreams Of its summer gladness, When the wood is stripped and seems Full of care and sadness; When the songs are growing still As in Death's repose, And the heart is growing chill, And the eyelids close;

Then, O then I can but sing For I dream her coming-- May, sweet May! I see her bring Buds and wild-bee humming! Through the silence heart-appalling, As I stand and listen, I can hear her song-birds calling, See her green leaves glisten!

Thus again my songs I sing thee, Now the spell is broken; Brothers, yet again I bring thee Of my love the token. Of my joy and of my sorrow Gladly, sadly bringing,-- Summer not a song would borrow!-- Winter sets me singing.

Liberty

When night and silence deep Hold all the world in sleep, As tho' Death claimed the Hour, By some strange witchery Appears her form to me, As tho' Magic were her dow'r.

Her beauty heaven's light! Her bosom snowy white! But pale her cheek appears. Her shoulders firm and fair; A mass of gold her hair. Her eyes--the home of tears.

She looks at me nor speaks. Her arms are raised; she seeks Her fettered hands to show. On both white wrists a chain!-- She cries and pleads in pain: "Unbind me!--Let me go!"

I burn with bitter ire, I leap in wild desire The cruel bonds to break; But God! around the chain Is coiled and coiled again A long and loathsome snake.

I shout, I cry, I chide; My voice goes far and wide, A ringing call to men: "Oh come, let in the light! Arise! Ye have the might! Set Freedom free again!"

They sleep. But I strive on. They sleep!... Can'st wake a stone?... That one might stir! but one! Call I, or hold my peace, None comes to her release; And hope for her is none.

But who may see her plight And not go mad outright!... "Now: up! For Freedom's sake!" I spring to take her part:-- "Fool!" cries a voice. I start... In anguish I awake.

A Tree in the Ghetto

There stands in th' leafless Ghetto One spare-leaved, ancient tree; Above the Ghetto noises It moans eternally.

In wonderment it muses, And murmurs with a sigh: "Alas! how God-forsaken And desolate am I!

"Alas, the stony alleys, And noises loud and bold! Where are ye, birds of summer? Where are ye, woods of old?

"And where, ye breezes balmy That wandered vagrant here? And where, oh sweep of heavens So deep and blue and clear?

"Where are ye, mighty giants? Ye come not riding by Upon your fiery horses, A-whistling merrily.

"Of other days my dreaming, Of other days, ah me! When sturdy hero-races Lived wild and glad and free!

"The old sun shone, how brightly! The old lark sang, what song! O'er earth Desire and Gladness Reigned happily and long

"But see! what are these ant-hills?-- These ants that creep and crawl?... Bereft of man and nature, My life is stripped of all!

"And I, an ancient orphan, What do I here alone? My friends have all departed, My youth and glory gone.

"Oh, tear me, root and branches! No longer let me be A living head-stone, brooding O'er the grave of liberty."

The Cemetery Nightingale

In the hills' embraces holden, In a valley filled with glooms, Lies a cemetery olden, Strewn with countless mould'ring tombs.

Ancient graves o'erhung with mosses, Crumbling stones, effaced and green,-- Venturesome is he who crosses, Night or day, the lonely scene.

Blasted trees and willow streamers, 'Midst the terror round them spread, Seem like awe-bound, silent dreamers In this garden of the dead.

One bird, anguish stricken, lingers In the shadow of the vale, First and best of feathered singers,-- 'Tis the churchyard nightingale.

As from bough to bough he flutters, Sweetest songs of woe and wail Through his gift divine he utters For the dreamers in the vale.

Listen how his trills awaken Echoes from each mossy stone! Of all places he has taken God's still Acre for his own.

* * * * *

Not on Spring or Summer glory, Not on god or angel story Loyal poet-fancy dwells! Not on streams for rich men flowing, Not on fields for rich men's mowing,-- Graves he sees, of graves he tells. Pain, oppression, woe eternal, Open heart-wounds deep, diurnal, Nothing comforts or allays; O'er God's Acre in each nation Sings he songs of tribulation Tunes his golden harp and plays.

The Creation of Man

When the world was first created By th' all-wise Eternal One, Asked he none for help or counsel,-- Simply spake, and it was done!

Made it for his own good pleasure, Shaped it on his own design, Spent a long day's work upon it, Formed it fair and very fine.

Soon he thought on man's creation,-- Then perplexities arose, So the Lord His winged Senate Called, the question to propose:

Hear, my great ones, why I called ye, Hear and help me ye who can, Hear and tell me how I further Shall proceed in making man.

Ponder well before ye answer, And consider, children dear;-- In our image I would make him, Free from stain, from blemish clear.

Of my holy fire I'd give him, Crowned monarch shall he be, Ruling with a sway unquestioned Over earth and air and sea.

Birds across the blue sky winging Swift shall fly before his face,-- Silver fishes in the ocean, Savage lion in the chase.

--How? This toy of froth and vapor, Thought the Senate, filled with fear, If so wide his kingdom stretches, Shortly he will break in here!

So the Lord they answered, saying:-- Mind and strength Thy creature give, Form him in our very image, Lord, but wingless let him live!

Lest he shame the soaring eagle Let no wings to man be giv'n, Bid him o'er the earth be ruler, Lord, but keep him out of heav'n!

Wisely said, the Lord made answer, Lo, your counsel fair I take! Yet, my Senate, one exception-- One alone, I will to make.

One exception! for the poet, For the singer, shall have wings; He the gates of Heav'n shall enter, Highest of created things.

One I single from among ye, One to watch the ages long, Promptly to admit the poet When he hears his holy song.

Journalism

Written today, and read today, And stale the news tomorrow!-- Upon the sands I build... I _play!_ I play, and weep in sorrow: "Ah God, dear God! to find cessation From this soul-crushing occupation! If but one year ere Thou dost call me Thither, Lord, at this blighting task let me not wither."

Pen and Shears

My tailor's shears I scorned then; I strove for something higher: To edit news--live by the pen-- The pen that shall not tire!

The pen, that was my humble slave, Has now enslaved its master; And fast as flows its Midas-wave, My rebel tears flow faster.

The world I clad once, tailor-hired, Whilst I in tatters quaked, Today, you see me well attired, Who lets the world go naked.

What human soul, how'er oppressed, Can feel my chained soul's yearning! A monster woe lies in my breast, In voiceless anguish burning.

Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do! I'll bear as ne'er I bore it. My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!... Now less I'll blame you for it.

I'll stitch as ne'er in former years; I'll drive the mad wheel faster; Slave will I be but to the shears; The pen shall know its master!

For Hire

Work with might and main, Or with hand and heart, Work with soul and brain, Or with holy art, Thread, or genius' fire-- Make a vest, or verse-- If 'tis done for hire, It is done the worse.

A Fellow Slave

Pale-faced is he, as in the door He stands and trembles visibly,-- With diffidence approaches me, And says: "Dear editor,

"Since write you must, in prose or rhyme, Expose my master's knavery, Condemn, I pray, the slavery That dominates our time.

"I labor for a wicked man Who holds o'er all my being sway,-- Who keeps me harnessed night and day. Since work I first began.

"No leisure moments do I store, Yet harsh words only will he speak; My days are his, from week to week, But still he cries for more.

"Oh print, I beg you, all I've said, And ask the world if this be right: To give the worker wage so slight That he must want for bread.

"See, I have sinews powerful, And I've endurance, subtle skill,-- Yet may not use them at my will, But live a master's tool.

"But oh, without avail do I Lay bare the woes of workingmen! Who earns his living by the pen, Feels not our misery."

The pallid slave yet paler grew, And ended here his bitter cry... And thus to him I made reply: "My friend, you judge untrue.

"My strength and skill, like yours, are gain For others... Sold!... You understand? Your master--well--he owns your hand, And mine--he owns my brain."

The Jewish May

May has come from out the showers, Sun and splendor in her train. All the grasses and the flowers Waken up to life again. Once again the leaves do show, And the meadow blossoms blow, Once again through hills and dales Rise the songs of nightingales.

Wheresoe'er on field or hillside With her paint-brush Spring is seen,-- In the valley, by the rillside, All the earth is decked with green. Once again the sun beguiles Moves the drowsy world to smiles. See! the sun, with mother-kiss Wakes her child to joy and bliss.

Now each human feeling presses Flow'r like, upward to the sun, Softly, through the heart's recesses, Steal sweet fancies, one by one. Golden dreams, their wings outshaking, Now are making Realms celestial, All of azure, New life waking, Bringing treasure Out of measure For the soul's delight and pleasure.

Who then, tell me, old and sad, Nears us with a heavy tread? On the sward in verdure clad, Lonely is the strange newcomer, Wearily he walks and slow,-- His sweet springtime and his summer Faded long and long ago!

Say, who is it yonder walks Past the hedgerows decked anew, While a fearful spectre stalks By his side the woodland through? 'Tis our ancient friend the Jew! No sweet fancies hover round him, Naught but terror and distress. Wounds unhealed Where lie revealed Ghosts of former recollections, Corpses, corpses, old affections, Buried youth and happiness.

Brier and blossom bow to meet him In derision round his path; Gloomily the hemlocks greet him And the crow screams out in wrath. Strange the birds and strange the flowers, Strange the sunshine seems and dim, Folk on earth and heav'nly powers!-- Lo, the May is strange to him!

Little flowers, it were meeter If ye made not quite so bold: Sweet ye are, but oh, far sweeter Knew he in the days of old! Oranges by thousands glowing Filled his groves on either hand,-- All the plants were God's own sowing In his happy, far-off land!

Ask the cedars on the mountain! Ask them, for they know him well! Myrtles green by Sharon's fountain, In whose shade he loved to dwell! Ask the Mount of Olives beauteous,-- Ev'ry tree by ev'ry stream!-- One and all will answer duteous For the fair and ancient dream....

O'er the desert and the pleasance Gales of Eden softly blew, And the Lord His loving Presence Evermore declared anew. Angel children at their leisure Played in thousands round His tent, Countless thoughts of joy and pleasure God to His beloved sent.

There in bygone days and olden, From a wond'rous harp and golden Charmed he music spirit-haunting, Holy, chaste and soul-enchanting. Never with the ancient sweetness, Never in its old completeness Shall it sound: his dream is ended, On a willow-bough suspended.

Gone that dream so fair and fleeting! Yet behold: thou dreamst anew! Hark! a _new_ May gives thee greeting From afar. Dost hear it, Jew? Weep no more, altho' with sorrows Bow'd e'en to the grave: I see Happier years and brighter morrows, Dawning, Israel, for thee! Hear'st thou not the promise ring Where, like doves on silver wing, Thronging cherubs sweetly sing Newmade songs of what shall be?