113 IN EXILE ["Since that day till now our life is one unbroken Paradise. We live a true brotherly life. Every evening after supper we take a seat under the mighty oak and sing our songs." (Extract from a letter of a Russian refugee in Texas.)] Twilight is here, soft breezes bow the grass, Day's sounds of various toil break slowly off. The yoke-freed oxen low, the patient ass Dips his dry nostril in the cool, deep trough. Up from the prairie the tanned herdsmen pass With frothy pails, guiding with voices rough Their udder-lightened kine. Fresh smells of earth The rich, black furrows of the glebe send forth. After the Southern day of heavy toil, How good to lie, with limbs relaxed, brows bare To evening's fan, and watch the smoke wreaths coil Up from one's pipe-stem through the rayless air. So deem these unused tillers of the soil, Who, stretched beneath the shadowing oak-tree, stare Peacefully on the star-unfolding skies, And name their life unbroken paradise. The hounded stag that has escaped the pack, The martyr, granted respite from the rack, The death-doomed victim, pardoned from his cell, Such only know the joy these exiles gain,- Strange faces theirs, where, though the Orient sun Gleams from the eyes and glows athwart the skin, Grave lines of studious thought and purpose run From curl-crowned forehead to dark-bearded chin. And over all the seal is stamped thereon Of anguish branded by a world of sin, Freedom to love the Law that Moses brought, Hark! through the quiet evening air their song Floats forth with wild, sweet rhythm and glad refrain; They sing the conquest of the spirit strong, To comrades and to brothers. In their strain Rustles of palms and Eastern streams one hears, And the broad prairie melts in mists of tears. EMMA LAZARUS 114 THE RABBI AND THE CRIPPLE A TALMUDIC TALE Reb Simeon, the novice, just ordained, And conscious of the knowledge he had gained, When lo! the beast which bore him reared, and stood, Quite sudden, still, and roused him from his mood. He raised the lash, impatient of delay, But looked, and saw directly in his way A little man, misshapen and ill-starred, Whose puny weight all further progress barred. Now, drawing rein, he frowned upon the sight, And uttered loud what every Israelite Is bound to whisper, very soft and low, Are sons of men, where thou abidest, thus Insult His Image in my shapeless clay. |