THE POEMS OF EMMA LAZARUS.*

THE intellectual life of Emma Lazarus is one of remarkable interest. She was the daughter of a Jewish family in New York. Her kinsfolk were of the orthodox section; but she early lost all interest in the worship, and even in the national traditions of her people. Her culture and her abilities were of no common kind, and they soon began to find a literary expression. But she did not go for her subjects to the themes associated with her race. She wrote, as any educated person might naturally write, verses on classical and romantic sub- jects, the legend of Admetus and Alcestis, for instance, and the weird story of Taxmhauser. There is little in the work of these years that might not have been written in Europe, though she sometimes seems to feel the stir of national emotion. " How Long?" is a complaint that the American poets are too much given to "echoes weak of foreign melodies," especially to—

"the distant siren-song Of the green island in the Eastern sea."

" Heroes " recalls the great struggle which stirred American genius to an unprecedentedly vigorous expression of national feeling ; and " Sunrise," which more than once reminds us of the manner and thought of Andrew Marvel, is a threnody on the death of President Garfield. But the real awakening of her spirit was to come, after all, from something that touched her as a Jew. In 1880 came that terrible persecution of the Jewish race in Southern and Western Russia which recalled the horrors of mediaeval bigotry. The persecutors found, of course, a champion. Russia always manages to secure one, sometimes in most unlikely quarters; and the defence, which appeared in the Century Magazine in April, 1882, roused Emma Lazarus to an indignant reply. "From this time," says the writer of the biographical sketch, " dated the crusade that she undertook in behalf of her race, and the consequent expan- • The Poems of Emma Lazarus. 2 vole. Boston and New York : Houghton, and Co. 1889.

sion of all her faculties, the growth of spiritual power which always ensues when a great cause is espoused, and a strong con- viction enters the soul." The practical object to which this newly awakened. enthusiasm was directed was "a restored and independent nationality and repatriation in Palestine," a scheme which we should be sorry to pronounce impossible of realisation, but which is certainly beyond the scope of criti- cism. Unhappily, this period of intense mental and moral activity was cut short by enfeebled health. She had a severe illness in August, 1884, and though she recovered from this, from one cause or another she never regained her old energy. In November, 1887, she died, being then in her thirty-ninth year.

Emma Lazarus's real poetical life was thus contained within very narrow limits,—not more than three or four years at the most. The principal work of this period was a tragedy of considerable power, entitled "The Dance to Death," and having for its argument one of the darkest passages in the history of her race,—the destruction of the whole Jewish population of one of the German Free Cities during the panic caused by the Black Death. The execution is somewhat unequal. Miss Lazarus seems to have written in haste, and to have felt that dislike of the labour of correction which often goes with imperfect physical power, and the dialogue is often wanting in dramatic propriety; but the plot is well contrived, and the interest admirably sustained. The cus- tomary motives that bring about such tragedies—private greed or vengeance, popular prejudices and superstitions, and religious tests—are skilfully combined, and made to work up together to a striking catastrophe. Here is part of the speech, marked by no common power of thought and expression, in which Siisskind von Orb, the chief of the Jewish colony of Nordhausen, counsels patience to his fellow-sufferers :—

" Let our thoughts ascend

From mortal anguish to the ecstasy Of martyrdom, the blessed death of those Who perish in the Lord. I see, I see How Israel's ever-crescent glory makes These flames that would eclipse it, dark as blots Of candle-light against the blazing sun.

We die a thousand deaths,—drown, bleed, and burn; Our ashes are dispersed unto the winds.

Yet the wild winds cherish the sacred seed, The waters guard it in their crystal heart, The fire refuseth to consume. It springs, A tree immortal, shadowing many lands, Unvisited, unnamed, undreamed as yet.

Rather a vine, full-flowered, golden-branched, Ambrosial-fruited, creeping on the earth, Trod by the passer's foot, yet chosen to deck Tables of princes. Israel now has fallen Into the depths, he shall be great in time. Even as we die in honour, from our death Shall bloom a myriad heroic lives, Brave through our bright example, virtuous Lest our great memory fall in disrepute."

Miss Lazarus seems to have studied with much zeal the Hebrew literature of the Middle Ages. Not the least interest- ing part of the second of these two volumes (that which con- tains what may be called her patriotic verse) is the series of translations from Spanish Hebrew poets ; and there are other indications of a reading that penetrated into these somewhat obscure regions of literature. Such is the " Epistle from Joshua Ibn Vives, to his former Master, Solomon Levi-Paul, de Santa-Maria, Bishop of Cartagena," a piece somewhat in the style of Mr. Browning, and bearing on one of the most curious episodes in the history of religion. Bishop Solomon Levi-Paul was, very probably, one of those Christianised Jews who were perfectly orthodox for all the days of the year but one, but were wont on this to curse solemnly all the most sacred names and symbols of their new faith. It is note- worthy that, with what seems to us a tree instinct, Miss Lazarus seized on the Maccabean period as having been the

true heroic age of Jewish history. Here are some stanzas from The Feast of Lights," a title borrowed from the great celebration which still recalls the great deliverance wrought by the Hebrew " Hammer of God :"- "Five branches grown from Mattathias' stem, The Blessed John, the Keen-Eyed Jonathan, Simon the fair, the Burst-of-Spring, the Gem, Eleanor, Help-of-God ; o'er all his clan Judas the Lion-Prince, the Avenging Rod, Towered in warrior-beauty, uncrowned king,

Armed with the breastplate and the sword of Gad, Whose praise is He received the perishing.'

They who had camped within the mountain-pass, Couched on the rock, and tented 'neath the sky, Who saw from Mizpah's heights the tangled grass Choke the wide Temple-courts, the altar lie Disfigured and polluted—who had flung Their faces on the stones, and mourned aloud And rent their garments, wailing with one tongue, Crushed as a wind-swept bed of reeds is bowed, Even they by one voice fired, one heart of flame, Though broken reeds, had risen, and were men, They rushed upon the spoiler and o'ercame, Each arm for freedom had the strength of ten. Now is their mourning into dancing turned, Their sackcloth doffed for garments of delight, Week-long the festive torches shall be burned, Music and revelry wed day with night.

Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm, The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word.

Where is our Judas ? Where our five-branched palm ?

Where are the lion-warriors of the Lord ?

Clash, Israel, the cymbals, touch the lyre, Sound the brass trumpet and the harsh-tongued horn, Chant hymns of victory till the heart take fire, The Maccabean spirit leap new-born !"

Emma Lazarus's verse was wanting in some of the qualities which go to make up greatness of the first class ; but there is much of genuine power about it, and it is interesting as coming from a race which, while in many respects as vigorous as ever, has shown for many years but little literary power. Henry Heine is, of course, a conspicuous exception ; nor could there be a more curious contrast than that between these two representatives of the Hebrew race.