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I OLD and gray, his shoulders bent, | |
| Tall and meagre like a cane, | |
| To my door came up a man, | |
| When the day began to wane. | |
| In one hand he held a staff, | 5 |
| While the other wiped a tear, | |
| Like the leaves on swinging boughs | |
| He had shrunk from cold and fear. | |
| “Peace to you,” he quietly said, | |
| And a tear had filled his eye; | 10 |
| On his face I noticed grief, | |
| From his heart I heard a sigh. | |
| “Can you take me ’neath your roof? | |
| I am tired, and weak and old; | |
| Just like death, severe and sharp, | 15 |
| Crude and merciless the cold, | |
| I am hungry, bare and poor, | |
| Orphan-like I am on soil | |
| For I cannot tug for life | |
| By my hands, or mental toil. | 20 |
| I had been a teacher once | |
| And our children I had taught; | |
| God’s my witness,—I had e’er | |
| Perfectly my duties wrought. | |
| Now my children have grown up, | 25 |
| Like grand flowers they still grow, | |
| And I drink the bitter cup, | |
| Suffering in tears and woe.” | |
| Silent then became the man. | |
| And the tears have rolled and rolled. | 30 |
| On his sad and wrinkled face | |
| A reproach I could behold, | |
| This was meant for him, whose heart | |
| In the careless body sleeps, | |
| Who is merciless, unmoved, | 35 |
| When a struggler sighs and weeps. | |
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II When in slumber earth was hushed, | |
| My fatigued and suff’ring guest | |
| Finally in pleasant sleep | |
| Found forgetfulness and rest. | 40 |
| The night’s queen, the wingy dream, | |
| Looked at him and sweetly smiled, | |
| Carried him at once away, | |
| Where he lived while yet a child. | |
| Here’s his father’s little house, | 45 |
| Where he passed his childhood days, | |
| Where his heart had freely breathed | |
| ’Mong his friends, and mates at plays. | |
| Here’s the temple, where he oft | |
| With his father ran to pray, | 50 |
| “Tell me, dearest, why we haste,” | |
| To his ’pa, he used to say. | |
| “Child, the Sabbath-hour is near, | |
| And the temple’s open wide,— | |
| There our souls will find repose, | 55 |
| Far from care’s and struggling’s tide.” | |
| In the dismal synagog | |
| Darkness, gloom reigns over all. | |
| Down the rigid sexton goes | |
| To the corner … By the wall | 60 |
| Stands a candle on a shelf; | |
| Fast to it he makes his way, | |
| Then, by turn, he lights each lamp, | |
| And, when done, he walks away. | |
| Thus the gloomy synagog | 65 |
| Soon assumed an aspect bright; | |
| And the boy with eager eyes | |
| Follows ev’ry trembling light. | |
| “Where’s the candle and the shaft, | |
| That, like in a fairy land, | 70 |
| Instantly created light? | |
| Told in darkness, ‘Be there light?’ | |
| By the customary hand, | |
| By the hand that used the light | |
| It was slip-shod cast aside!” | 75 |
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III Jewish, tired and suff’ring Rabbi, | |
| Such, poor teacher, is your fate! | |
| Keeper of the Lord’s commandments, | |
| Was your toil not holy, great? | |
| Have you not with holy blazes | 80 |
| Lit our children’s heart and soul? | |
| Have you not, inspired like prophets, | |
| Taught them life’s true end and goal? | |
| Rabbi, did you not instruct them | |
| To believe, to love and wait, | 85 |
| To be honest, true and faithful, | |
| “With a heart for any fate?” | |
| Well, and now?… With mute affliction | |
| You are wandering alone, | |
| O’er your head a fearful darkness, | 90 |
| In your heart a deathly moan. | |
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