Joseph Friedlander, comp. The Standard Book of Jewish Verse. 1917.
By Rufus LearsiMartyrdom
But me an ancient grewsome tale has bound
Of them He chose and later cast aground
As on a raging sea to drift like spars.
Is martyrdom the highest crown you give?
And shall a People, maimed and fugitive,
Be bearer of the thunder of Thy Voice?
The woes of countless thousands o’er me flood!
From out the shadows lurid shapes arise:
Of executioners who foam with greed,
Of “holy” swords that drip with infants’ blood,
Of flames that roar and shapes that agonize!
Before my vision dimmed with tears of rage,
Emerging as from mists that mar the page,
In sadness stern they tread so solemnly.
Like huge and moving forests o’er them bent:
Up winds the road in tortuous ascent,
And far and faint a Peak in misty white.
Uncanny shapes of beasts with howl and shriek!
White flash their fangs, like points of fire their eyes!
The victims fall and neither groan nor weep;
Each lifts his eyes unto the gleaming Peak
And cries: “The Lord our God is One!” and dies!
Then put the tale of martyrs red with blood,
Of them He chose to prove in fire and flood,
Of saints defiled, and blazing auto-da-fé.
The million-jewelled heavens are awake
As when to Abraham the Voice outspake:
“As numberless as Heaven’s stars thy seed!”
Has not since then diminished by a gleam!
Are ye not witness to the promise still?
Then, heir of sorrow, purge your heart of qualm!
Shall bitterness of soul dislodge the dream?
The Peak still glimmers: thrill, my spirit, thrill!