The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume II Part 36

So a green wreath of mist enrings the moon, Till envious clouds do quite encompa.s.s her.

No wind! and yet the slender stem is stirred, With faint, slight motion as from inward tremor.

Mine eyes are full of grief--who sees me, asks, "Oh wherefore dost thou cling unto the ground?"

My friends discourse with sweet and soothing words; They all are vain, they glide above my head.

I fain would check my tears; would fain enlarge Unto infinity, my heart--in vain!

Grief presses hard my breast, therefore my tears Have scarcely dried, ere they again spring forth.

For these are streams no furnace heat may quench, Nebuchadnezzar's flames may dry them not.

What is the pleasure of the day for me, If, in its crucible, I must renew Incessantly the pangs of purifying?

Up, challenge, wrestle, and o'ercome! Be strong!

The late grapes cover all the vine with fruit.

I am not glad, though even the lion's pride Content itself upon the field's poor gra.s.s.

My spirit sinks beneath the tide, soars not With fluttering seamews on the moist, soft strand.

I follow Fortune not, where'er she lead.

Lord o'er myself, I banish her, compel, And though her clouds should rain no blessed dew, Though she withhold the crown, the heart's desire, Though all deceive, though honey change to gall, Still am I lord, and will in freedom strive.

MEDITATIONS.

Forget thine anguish, Vexed heart, again.

Why shouldst thou languish, With earthly pain?

The husk shall slumber, Bedded in clay Silent and sombre, Oblivion's prey!

But, Spirit immortal, Thou at Death's portal, Tremblest with fear.

If he caress thee, Curse thee or bless thee, Thou must draw near, From him the worth of thy works to hear.

Why full of terror, Compa.s.sed with error, Trouble thy heart, For thy mortal part?

The soul flies home-- The corpse is dumb.

Of all thou didst have, Follows naught to the grave.

Thou fliest thy nest, Swift as a bird to thy place of rest.

What avail grief and fasting, Where nothing is lasting?

Pomp, domination, Become tribulation.

In a health-giving draught, A death-dealing shaft.

Wealth--an illusion, Power--a lie, Over all, dissolution Creeps silent and sly.

Unto others remain The goods thou didst gain With infinite pain.

Life is a vine-branch; A vintager, Death.

He threatens and lowers More near with each breath.

Then hasten, arise!

Seek G.o.d, O my soul!

For time quickly flies, Still far is the goal.

Vain heart praying dumbly, Learn to prize humbly, The meanest of fare.

Forget all thy sorrow, Behold, Death is there!

Dove-like lamenting, Be full of repenting, Lift vision supernal To raptures eternal.

On ev'ry occasion Seek lasting salvation.

Pour thy heart out in weeping, While others are sleeping.

Pray to Him when all's still, Performing his will.

And so shall the angel of peace be thy warden, And guide thee at last to the heavenly garden.

HYMN.

Almighty! what is man?

But flesh and blood.

Like shadows flee his days, He marks not how they vanish from his gaze, Suddenly, he must die-- He droppeth, stunned, into nonent.i.ty.

Almighty! what is man?

A body frail and weak, Full of deceit and lies, Of vile hypocrisies.

Now like a flower blowing, Now scorched by sunbeams glowing.

And wilt thou of his trespa.s.ses inquire?

How may he ever bear Thine anger just, thy vengeance dire?

Punish him not, but spare, For he is void of power and strength!

Almighty! what is man?

By filthy l.u.s.t possessed, Whirled in a round of lies, Fond frenzy swells his breast.

The pure man sinks in mire and slime, The n.o.ble shrinketh not from crime, Wilt thou resent on him the charms of sin?

Like fading gra.s.s, So shall he pa.s.s.

Like chaff that blows Where the wind goes.

Then spare him, be thou merciful, O King, Upon the dreaded day of reckoning!

Almighty! what is man?

The haughty son of time Drinks deep of sin, And feeds on crime Seething like waves that roll, Hot as a glowing coal.

And wilt thou punish him for sins inborn?

Lost and forlorn, Then like the weakling he must fall, Who some great hero strives withal.

Oh, spare him, therefore! let him win Grace for his sin!

Almighty! what is man?

Spotted in guilty wise, A stranger unto faith, Whose tongue is stained with lies, And shalt thou count his sins--so is he lost, Uprooted by thy breath.

Like to a stream by tempest tossed, His life falls from him like a cloak, He pa.s.ses into nothingness, like smoke.

Then spare him, punish not, be kind, I pray, To him who dwelleth in the dust, an image wrought in clay!

Almighty! what is man?

A withered bough!