who, detached from his caravan, is borne along by his swift courser in the direction of the Dead. But, amazed, he darts back to his companions, telling them of his adventure. Whereupon, the Sheikh relates marvellous stories regarding “the people of the book.” “And the Arabs listen and the fear of Allah is inscribed on the faces, And they pace leisurely beside their heavily laden camels. And for a long time their white turbans gleam on the horizon and the hump of the camels gently swing and then disappear in the bright distance, as if they bore hence an ancient legend on their backs.”
It is hardly necessary to draw attention to the grandeur of conception which is apparent in the mere outline of the poem. One scene will, however, be rendered here, that of the attack of the serpent on the Dead, a scene illustrating Bialik's great power of description:
"And then, when the desert grows faint in the noon heat, A tiger snake, beam-like, of the serpents gigantic, Crawls out to bask in the sun the rings of his tender, sleek body. Now he coils up in the sand, lies still, neither moves nor breathes, All melting in the softness and splendor, inhaling the great glory of light, And now he rises and stretches, and exposes his length to the sun, Opening his mouth to his brilliance, and gleaming in his gold scaly coat, Like the only spoiled child of the desert, fondled and caressed. he appears then. Of a sudden —up starts the serpent, darts from his place and crawls on. Gliding, writhing, and shuffling on the face of the sand heaps, the scorching. He meets the array of the corpses, ceases his hissing and is silent; Raises the third part of his body, like a column clad hieroglyphic. Darts his crest forward, the golden, with neck stretched and wondering eyes. Scans from extreme to extreme the array of the foe in sweet slumber.
And vast is the army and numerous the bodies there lying in repose, With faces bared towards heaven and brows knit fiercely and frowning. And the hatred, the ancient, deep cherished since Adam, up flashes - Into green flame in the piercing snaking twain eyes, the fixed, And a quiver of ill passion thrills through him from fangs to his wriggling tail tip. And behold him eagerly bending, wrathful and all aflutter, Like a rod of muniton o'er the neighboring sleepers suspended, His hydra head with vengeful designing and viper-like hissing is curved, Quivering, wrathful, and glowing are the twain swarthy forks of his tongue. Of a sudden, the serpent is startled, withdrawing his body the loathsome.— Startled by the calmness majestic and the powerful splendor in slumber; Darts back his full length and o'ertopples and writhes aside and moves onward, Hissing and hobbling and sparkling in the bright distance, the gleaming. And silence once more is prevailing; and stretched lie the mighty, unpestered.
In the poems of Bialik we find the influence of Ahad Ha-Am's ideas and of previous poetic productions, notably those of Gordon, as regards style and form. The influence of the latter is, however, traceable only in his earlier poems. When he began to feel the strength of his own wings, his flight became entirely independent of any model. His pathos, the vigor of his expression, his richness of style, and the beauty and variety of his meter,—all this has greatly affected modern Hebrew poetry. His influence has, however, been not only literary, but also educational. He has edited a juvenile as well as a popular series of books, has simplified the Hebrew Bible for the use of beginners and published a classified and modernized edition of the Agadic legends and sayings, and has done similar useful educational work which has served as a model for other writers.
At the Talmud Torah
What happiness and an.vious care “» Contend within my breast! For many little children there, Their dark eyes unoppressed, With wonder falter thro the toil (That marks our wandering) Of native tongue on foreign soll— What may their future bring!
Yet strive we like a daring bark Whose honest timbers groan Beneath the storm, athwart the dark, With just our souls our own. O Golus trials, and years of pain, Abuse of freedom found again, And custom's sway o'er stunted brain, Your wastes are sad and lone!