The mast is cracking, quivering is the sail,
Frightful the water's depth of roaring strife;
The wind contends and struggles with the ship
In fury, in a fight for death and life.

Now she is driven forward and now back,

Now she must stoop, now rise upon the main. The ship is but a plaything of the waves

That swallow her, then spew her forth again.
The ocean roars, the billows lift themselves,
And awfully they thunder, lash, and hiss;
The murderous storm seeks all things to destroy,
And opened are the jaws of the abyss.

Sighs, prayers are heard, for great the peril is,
And dreadful the distress. With suppliant breath
Now every man is calling on his God

To save the people from a certain death.

The children weep, the women wail in fear,
The folk confess their sins with desperate mind;
And souls are fluttering, bodies quivering,

In terror of the mad, destructive wind.

But in the steerage down below two men
Sit quietly; no pangs their heart-strings thrill;
They seek no rescue and they make no plans,
As if all things around were safe and still.

The water roars, the billows foam, the winds
Howl with prodigious tumult as they blow;
The boiler gasps, the smoke-stack buzzes loud,
But calm and silent are the men below.

Coolly they gaze into the eyes of Death;

They care not for the tempest's dangerous might; It seems as if the spectre Death himself

Had reared the two, in terror and dark night.

"Who are you, tell me, miserable men,

That you can hide all sign of pain and dreadThat even at the awful gates of death

66

You have no sighs to breathe, no tears to shed?

Say, did graves give you birth, and do you leave No parents and no wife behind to weepNo child who will lament when you are lost In these abysses, terrible and deep?

66

Do you
leave no one to feel grief for you,
To long for you, shed tears in sorrow sore,
When the vast watery graveyard covers you,
And you unto the earth return no more?

"Have you no country and no fatherland,

No friendly house, no home to which to go, That you have such contempt for life, and wait For the dark grave without a sign of woe?

No one in heaven have you on whom to call From trouble's depths, no God on whom to cry? Have you no nation, say, have you no faith?

Ye wretched ones, what is your destiny?'

Yawns the abyss, and loud the billows roar;
Creaks the ship's rigging as the blast sweeps by;
The tempest howls, and wildly pipe the winds,
And thus at last with tears one makes reply:

"The graveyard dark was not our mother, nay,

Nor was the grave our cradle-bed of old; 'Twas a good angel that gave birth to us, A mother dear, with heart of tenderness.

66

A mother fondled us, a loving breast

Nurtured us, warm as any breast could be; A happy father also every day

Gazed in our eyes and kissed us tenderly.

"We had a home, but it has been destroyed;

Our holy things were burned by murderous bands;

Our best and dearest slain-dead bones are they;

66

Those left were driven forth with fettered hands.

Known is our country-oh! 'tis recognized

With ease, alas! by ceaseless, bloody news

Of baitings, beatings, burnings, riots wild,

66

Death and destruction dealt to wretched Jews.

'Jews, hapless Jews are we, without a friend,
A joy, or hope of happiness, alack!

Ask us no more, no more! Leave us in peace.
America to Russia drives us back-

"To Russia, whence we fled; to Russia back,
Because we have no money! Journeying thus,
What have we left to look for or to hope?

What good is life or this dark world to us?

Something you have to weep for; you have cause To murmur and fear death; you have a home

To which to go; you left America

Of your free choice, not forced by fate to roam.

"We are forlorn and lonely like a rock;
On this ill earth no place for us is found;
Travellers are we, but no one waits for us;
Tell me, I pray you, whither we are bound.

"Let the wind storm, and let it howl with rage; Let the deep seethe and boil and roar around! We Jews are lost, however it may be;

The sea alone can quench our burning wound."

MORRIS ROSENFELD

Translation from the Yiddish by Alice Stone Blackwell

116

HYMN TO THE DEITY

In the dim twilight of the leafy woods,
Where the light zephyr stirs the canopies,
And sways the foliage of dark forest trees;
On the wild waste of waters, when the floods
Lift up their voices, and in grief or glee
Still touch the heart with nature's minstrelsy-
There, even there, let the soul turn to Thee,
And thank Thee for the beauties of this earth,—
For all the glorious things to which Thou gavest
birth.

O'er the wild desert's sandy solitude,

Where the sirocco breathes its withering flame, And the lone traveller treads with wearied frame, Thou bringest his heart to Thee, Giver of Good;

There the oasis springs, leafy and green, Like a sweet fairy isle, in slumber seen, Gladdening his heart when every hope was past, And every death-fraught moment seemed his last.

Thou holdest the mighty thunder in Thy hand,
And the frail leaflet of earth's meanest flower;
The writhing waves own and obey Thy power,
And check their fury at Thy dread command.
Oh! turn our hearts to such deep piety

As all inanimate creation bears;

Let that instruct us in our daily prayers,

And teach us how to raise our thoughts to Thee; In forest, desert, ocean, everywhere,

Turn Thou the heart to Thee, O God! in prayer.

REBECCA HYNEMAN

117

BE IT SO

God supreme, to Thee I pray;
Let my lips be taught to say,
Whether good or ill may flow,
Thou art righteous! Be it so!

What Thy wisdom may dictate
Let Thy servant vindicate;
Though it may my hopes o'erflow,
Thou art righteous! Be it so!