Maimonides, Menasseh ben Israel and Mendelssohn, too, felt more or less unconsciously his might. He was lured to the haunts of Spinoza, for him of all he seemed to love the best. Spinoza smiled on him with a sweet sad smile, but did not encourage him any further as most of his great predecessors had done. Yet, he, too, was charmed by the youth; he, too, throbbed at the sound of his voice, but felt himself in his superb philosophy to be as strong as he, as near the sublime as he. And yet the sweet singer of Zion, with tears of love burning in his eyes, pressed his lips to his forehead while he slept and stirred up within him emotions to which he never gave voice. . .
"The mysterious one" is still with us today, stronger than ever before and more powerful. His voice, if such a thing were possible, is richer and more exquisite. He can be seen by all those who wish to see him and heard by all those who wish to hear, both in his own land and in the land of other nations. For centuries he has cried out: "You shall again sing the Lord's songs in your own land and you shall live in the land that the Lord your God has given you," and now he turns his glorious face hopefully toward Zion.
Some have whispered the word "Messiah," others have shaken their heads dubiously. Could he be the redeemer of his people being neither God nor mortal? Perhaps it is indeed he who will bring about the long hoped-for Messianic Times. But the dark curtains of the future are tightly drawn and we can see no more. Nor can we know what they may hide from us.
He has found a name at last and is no longer called "the mysterious one" among us who have learned to love him, and have grown to understand his ways. There are many to-day who seek him, to fall beneath his subtle influences, before his unknown presence has consciously touched their lives.
Men bow their heads in reverence before him, and call him the "Spirit of Zion."
THE TALMUD
Translated from a poem by S. FRUG.
ANCIENT pages of the Talmud, Legends, tales that there I view, In my mournful life and dreary, Oftentimes I turn to you.
When at night amid the darknessOn mine eyes sleep will not rest,And I sit alone, and wretched,With my head upon my breast;
In those sad hours, as a star shinesIn the azure summer night,Memories amid my sadnessThen begin to glimmer bright.
I recall my love, my childhood,Those sweet hours come back againWhen I still was free from sorrow,Free from anger, free from pain.
I recall those times, long vanished,When I quaffed, without alloy,Life's first, best and sweetest chalice,Freedom, mirthfulness and joy.
Those old years, so sweet and precious,Pass again before mine eyesAnd the pages of the TalmudIn my memory arise.
Oh the ancient, ancient pages! All the lights and stars I see Burning shining in those pages They can ne'er extinguished be!
Myriad streams and myriad riversHave flowed o'er them in the past.Sand has covered them and hid them,Storms have rent them—still they last!
Yes, the ancient, ancient pagesStill survive, and perish not,Although yellowed, torn and darkened,Here a hole and there a spot. . . .
What of that? Indeed, it trulyIs a graveyard, old and hoar,Where within the tomb lies buriedAll that we shall have no more.