Joseph Friedlander, comp. The Standard Book of Jewish Verse. 1917.
By P. M. RaskinThe Feast of Freedom
I
From my grandfather I heard
Charming tales of gone-by ages
That my soul so deeply stirred.
That I felt, I knew were true;
Stories of the hoary ages
That remain forever new….
Days that joy and sunshine bring;
Of the Festival of Freedom,
Of Revival and of Spring….
Whose hot blood so rashly spilt,
Soaked into cold bricks and mortar
Of the fortresses they built.
After gloomy wintry days,
Shone at last the rays of freedom,
Heaven’s bright and cheerful rays.
Star-like in a gloomy night,
And he pleaded for their freedom,
And he crushed a tyrant’s might.
Not in vain their blood to spill,
Turning bondmen into freemen,
Men of honor and of will.
Could no despot’s might restrain,
Till before their will resistless
Stormy ocean oped in twain….
After which a Summer came,
Followed by a golden harvest,
Free from yoke and free from shame.”
“How long did that Summer last?”
But he sadly gazed and pondered,
And he answered me at last.
But a winter came again,
Came with cold, and snow, and showers,
With its gales of grief and pain.
Raged once more in every part,
Stealing into souls and freezing
Will and hope in every heart.
Israel rendered free and great,
Into lands of cruel despots
Went to face a bondman’s fate….”
Seem so endless, then?”—I sighed—
And two crystal tears were trembling
In his eyes, when he replied.
But it cannot, will not be;
Israel will not slave for ever,
One day, child, he will be free.
Courage, will, and pride, and might;
Freedom’s sunrise must needs follow
Israel’s starless exile night.
For the winter’s steps are slow—
Pesach is a sweet remembrance
Of a spring of long ago….”