The Maccabaean
can write many chapters or even whole books; indeed, there will come a day when these chapters and these books will be written and they will explain to others and to ourselves the wonderful phenomenon, the desire for a national regeneration, our desire to free the group in order that every individual among us shall be able to feel himself truly free and shall not be forced to deceive himself and to omit the stens in the develanment of his creative nowers.
ee, Be ל יי ויק יס דה שר היק a ee en eg RT AO ee ne לקי יד שו לי We see only the beginning of the redemption, but how beautiful is even the beginning! So far return to us our elite one by one, and we are gleaning sheave by sheave in the valley of the dead. But how pleasant it is to see these individuals, although from afar, returning to their source. The return of the genius is indeed a sign of a bright new era in our life, and there is no doubt that since the beginning has been made the return of our great men will be continuous until our people regains the old
THE RETURN
(The first section of this poem was written many years ago, as part of a memorial ode on the death of Emma Lazarus.)
I.
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II.
glory that was taken from it during the years of the long Diaspora.
Brandes, the world critic, Frankfurter, the great legal scholar, Lubin, famous in the development of agronomy— one returned to us in his old age, the second still young and honored by a responsible position from the American government which not everyone even of the great ones can be honored with, the third has also gained a world name with his discoveries and researches in scientific work— all three are ours, all three have given their hands to the movement of their generation, and they are ready and prepared to help us in the work of regeneration with their great abilities. Then will follow others—and who can count them?—from its hiding place the Jewish soul will come out and will find its natural healing, natural, and because of this, the true one; and our people will regain its honor in a fit place among the nations of the world.
On the far, azure eastern hills, where prone Like slowly-crumbling pillars, memories lie Discrowned and overthrown, The wrinkled Orient calls upon her sons, Uncomforted, with an unceasing cry: “Come, come, ye wandering ones! A nation’s hearthstone waits the sacred fire!” —But, quenching their desire, “Mother, not yet,” they sigh, “Not yet; the silver trumpets have not blown, Nor eastward moves in heaven the column-cloud. Haply, with faint host strengthened, by and by, With psalms, with shawms, with ring of cymbals loud, Shall Israel return unto his own; Not now; although our longing eyes are wet, Not yet—alas, not yet!’’
I said; and thrice three years our small earth rolled and circled with the stars And lo, the miracle! Not, as of old, Great Moses' rod, but the rough mace of Mars Has cloven the rock; and from the cleft has burst Sweet water that shall satisfy long thirst.
When through the gateway that men call The Friend Passed quietly in the little English guard,— Brown soldiers, battle-scarred,— A mystic Presence all unseen, unknown, His age-long weary wandering at an end, Gray Israel returned unto his own!