The wail that went up when the Temple was shattered,--
The song of Atonement, the Suppliant's psalm,--
These only he loves, since they took him--and scattered,--
Away from the land of the balsam and balm.

Of all the sweet instruments, shiver'd and broken,
That once in the Temple delighted his ear,
The Ram's-horn alone has he kept, as a token,
And sobs out his soul on it once in the year.

Instead of the harp and the viol and cymbal,
Instead of the lyre, the guitar and the flute,
He has but the dry, wither'd Ram's-horn, the symbol
Of gloom and despondence; the rest all are mute.

He laughs, or he breaks into song, but soon after,
Tho' fain would he take in man's gladness a part,
One hears, low resounding athwart the gay laughter,
The Suppliant's psalm, and it pierces the heart.

I asked of my Muse, had she any objection
To laughing with me,--not a word for reply!
You see, it is Sfere, our time for dejection,--
And can a Jew laugh when the rule is to cry?




Measuring the Graves