Hollow and dull are the great, We know all this, we know! Therefore a secret unrest Ah! as of old, from the pomp Long'd himself back to the fields, Of praise, hot, heavy fumes, to the poor brain That mount, that madden-how oft Long'd itself out of the din, With the sinking sun, and the air Or, yet later, in watch On the roof of the Brocken-tower Or, next morning, with Imbs Once more thou cling'st; to the Cross Goethe, too, had been there. In the long-past winter he came All in ferment!--but he Left it, and thou, alas! Not thus Take leave of Heine! not thus With half censure-with awe Hail, as it passes from earth The Spirit of the world, Beholding the absurdity of men- That was Heine! and we, MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888). HEINE. (Professor Herter's Heine Fountain, received by the City of New York. after it had been refused by well-nigh every important German community, has twice been injured; once by malice and once through accident. Finally it was proposed to remove it from its present site to make room for a useless street.) NOR life nor death had any peace for thee, Seeing thy mother cast thee forth, a prey To wind and water, till we bade thee stay And rest, a pilgrim weary of the sea. But now it seems that on thine effigy Thy very host an impious hand would lay: Go then and wander, praising on thy way The proud Republic's hospitality! Yet oft with us wreathed brow must suffer wrong, The sad Enchanter of the land of Weir Is still uncrowned, unreverenced, and we fear sons, Uncomforted, with an unceasing cry: "Come, come, ye wandering ones! A nation's hearth-stone waits the sacred fire!" But, quenching their desire, "Mother, not yet," they sigh, "Not yet; the silver trumpets have not blown, Nor eastward moves in heaven the column-cloud. Haply, with faint host strengthened, by-and-by, With psalms, with shawms, with ring Shall Israel return unto his own; Westward: for there the Foster mother stands, Young, forceful, mild, with frank, And large, warm-welcoming hands. The arm of Israel shall gather III. This was her home-aye, hers, whose noble pride Had that dear name denied To soil whereon her brothers suffered wrong: But doubt she had forbidden, who deeply know The vigor of that stem whence life she drew, The sure succession, the unfailing fruit! IV. O faithful Israèl, that keep'st aflame The Lamp perpetual with remembrance due Of the undying dead! Be this her fame The source of steadfast purpose, tireless borne. If, in some dazzling morn That breaks on e'en the blank eyes of the blind, The flag of Judah shall indeed un furl, The hero-Ezra on his arm shall bind We, too, we, too, have claim We of the West may bow where Israel weeps. Beneath our clear stars, never veiled in shame, She woke to life, and now, alas, she sleeps, (Proud May-time, heap her painless rest with flowers!) Under no skies but ours! HELEN GRAY CONE (1859-). "SONGS OF A SEMITE." ARMED Soul that ridest through a land of peace, Her borders filled with finest of the wheat. Her children reaping, where with weary feet Sad sowers trod who taste not the in crease: We hear thy trump, whose echo shall not cease, In hush of night resounding, while we meet Around unthreatened fires, but pressing fleet |