My tailor's shears I scorned then; I strove for something higher: To edit news--live by the pen-- The pen that shall not tire!

The pen, that was my humble slave, Has now enslaved its master; And fast as flows its Midas-wave, My rebel tears flow faster.

The world I clad once, tailor-hired, Whilst I in tatters quaked, Today, you see me well attired, Who lets the world go naked.

What human soul, how'er oppressed, Can feel my chained soul's yearning!

A monster woe lies in my breast, In voiceless anguish burning.

Oh, swing ajar the shop door, do!

I'll bear as ne'er I bore it.

My blood!... you sweatshop leeches, you!...

Now less I'll blame you for it.

I'll st.i.tch as ne'er in former years; I'll drive the mad wheel faster; Slave will I be but to the shears; The pen shall know its master!

For Hire

Work with might and main, Or with hand and heart, Work with soul and brain, Or with holy art, Thread, or genius' fire-- Make a vest, or verse-- If 'tis done for hire, It is done the worse.

A Fellow Slave

Pale-faced is he, as in the door He stands and trembles visibly,-- With diffidence approaches me, And says: "Dear editor,

"Since write you must, in prose or rhyme, Expose my master's knavery, Condemn, I pray, the slavery That dominates our time.

"I labor for a wicked man Who holds o'er all my being sway,-- Who keeps me harnessed night and day.

Since work I first began.

"No leisure moments do I store, Yet harsh words only will he speak; My days are his, from week to week, But still he cries for more.

"Oh print, I beg you, all I've said, And ask the world if this be right: To give the worker wage so slight That he must want for bread.

"See, I have sinews powerful, And I've endurance, subtle skill,-- Yet may not use them at my will, But live a master's tool.

"But oh, without avail do I Lay bare the woes of workingmen!

Who earns his living by the pen, Feels not our misery."

The pallid slave yet paler grew, And ended here his bitter cry...

And thus to him I made reply: "My friend, you judge untrue.

"My strength and skill, like yours, are gain For others... Sold!... You understand?

Your master--well--he owns your hand, And mine--he owns my brain."

The Jewish May

May has come from out the showers, Sun and splendor in her train.

All the gra.s.ses and the flowers Waken up to life again.

Once again the leaves do show, And the meadow blossoms blow, Once again through hills and dales Rise the songs of nightingales.

Wheresoe'er on field or hillside With her paint-brush Spring is seen,-- In the valley, by the rillside, All the earth is decked with green.

Once again the sun beguiles Moves the drowsy world to smiles.

See! the sun, with mother-kiss Wakes her child to joy and bliss.

Now each human feeling presses Flow'r like, upward to the sun, Softly, through the heart's recesses, Steal sweet fancies, one by one.

Golden dreams, their wings outshaking, Now are making Realms celestial, All of azure, New life waking, Bringing treasure Out of measure For the soul's delight and pleasure.

Who then, tell me, old and sad, Nears us with a heavy tread?

On the sward in verdure clad, Lonely is the strange newcomer, Wearily he walks and slow,-- His sweet springtime and his summer Faded long and long ago!

Say, who is it yonder walks Past the hedgerows decked anew, While a fearful spectre stalks By his side the woodland through?

'Tis our ancient friend the Jew!

No sweet fancies hover round him, Naught but terror and distress.

Wounds unhealed Where lie revealed Ghosts of former recollections, Corpses, corpses, old affections, Buried youth and happiness.

Brier and blossom bow to meet him In derision round his path; Gloomily the hemlocks greet him And the crow screams out in wrath.

Strange the birds and strange the flowers, Strange the sunshine seems and dim, Folk on earth and heav'nly powers!-- Lo, the May is strange to him!

Little flowers, it were meeter If ye made not quite so bold: Sweet ye are, but oh, far sweeter Knew he in the days of old!

Oranges by thousands glowing Filled his groves on either hand,-- All the plants were G.o.d's own sowing In his happy, far-off land!

Ask the cedars on the mountain!

Ask them, for they know him well!

Myrtles green by Sharon's fountain, In whose shade he loved to dwell!

Ask the Mount of Olives beauteous,-- Ev'ry tree by ev'ry stream!-- One and all will answer duteous For the fair and ancient dream....

O'er the desert and the pleasance Gales of Eden softly blew, And the Lord His loving Presence Evermore declared anew.

Angel children at their leisure Played in thousands round His tent, Countless thoughts of joy and pleasure G.o.d to His beloved sent.

There in bygone days and olden, From a wond'rous harp and golden Charmed he music spirit-haunting, Holy, chaste and soul-enchanting.

Never with the ancient sweetness, Never in its old completeness Shall it sound: his dream is ended, On a willow-bough suspended.

Gone that dream so fair and fleeting!

Yet behold: thou dreamst anew!

Hark! a _new_ May gives thee greeting From afar. Dost hear it, Jew?

Weep no more, altho' with sorrows Bow'd e'en to the grave: I see Happier years and brighter morrows, Dawning, Israel, for thee!

Hear'st thou not the promise ring Where, like doves on silver wing, Thronging cherubs sweetly sing Newmade songs of what shall be?