To Simon Wolf on His Eightieth Birthday

YOU need no meed of praise in song or prose,

No thing of bronze or marble to record

How well you served the people and the Lord

Long ere your head was hallowed by the snows

Of four-score years. No respite nor repose

Your right hand knew which flashed the spirit sword

Of battle for the Maccabean host

Against the foe that dared with vandal steel

Profane the shrine. Your Mattathias zeal

Still sways us by its intimate appeal.

Yours is no wanton pride, no frenzied boast,

But just the picket’s password at his post.

Yours is the right to challenge and repel

The enemies that trouble Israel.