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| KALICH, thou of the dark and brooding face, | |
| Born unto Tragedy by birthright of race, | |
| The sorrows of uncounted years arise | |
| And plead for utterance in thy mournful eyes, | |
| And on thy lips, so poignant sweet with pain, | 5 |
| God’s stamp of suffering marks thy calling plain. | |
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| So stood Rachel, of thy blood, in her day, | |
| So Bernhardt, of that blood, holds now her sway. | |
| And thou, full sister of these mighty two, | |
| The same blood-heritage claimeth as thy due. | 10 |
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| Valid thy claim. The centuries’ seal is set | |
| Upon its warrant. Tears and blood have wet | |
| Its ancient and its modern countersigns. | |
| Sorrow unspeakable breathes between its lines, | |
| Where, down to Kishinev’s cruel days, is told | 15 |
| A nation’s woe that dates from Egypt old. | |
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| To thee descended—Lo, how dread the cry | |
| That rises from thy throat! How tense and high | |
| With strain of agony! Not alone the part | |
| That now thou playest thus doth wring thy heart, | 20 |
| But all thy people’s grief, accumulate, | |
| Sounds in thy voice, till, with race anguish great, | |
| Thou speakest not even one little, broken word, | |
| But Tragedy’s supremest note is heard. | |
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| This, then, the price of glory to thy name— | 25 |
| How dire the cost, how bitter high the game, | |
| O, Kalich, on whose soul the forfeit lies | |
| Of genius born from world-old sacrifice! | |
| We yield us to the magic of thy spell, | |
| With our applause the playhouse echoes swell, | 30 |
| We sound the praises of thy tragic power— | |
| Yet still how bare, how empty, thy full hour! | |
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| What wonder, then that even at Fame’s full flood, | |
| Thy eyes still bear mute witness to thy blood, | |
| Sombre with persecution—its wan sign | 35 |
| Still resting on those piteous lips of thine, | |
| O, Kalich, thou in whom all Israel’s woe, | |
| Concentrate, makes the Genius-Gift we know! | |
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