Strange faces theirs, wherethrough the Orient sun Gleams from the eyes and glows athwart the skin. Grave lines of studious thought and purpose run From curl-crowned forehead to dark-bearded chin. And over all the seal is stamped thereon Of anguish branded by a world of sin, In fire and blood through ages on their name, Their seal of glory and the Gentiles' shame. Freedom to love the law that Moses brought, To sing the songs of David, and to think The thoughts Gabirol to Spinoza taught, Freedom to dig the common earth, to drink The universal air--for this they sought Refuge o'er wave and continent, to link Egypt with Texas in their mystic chain, And truth's perpetual lamp forbid to wane. Hark! through the quiet evening air, their song Floats forth with wild sweet rhythm and glad refrain. They sing the conquest of the spirit strong, The soul that wrests the victory from pain; The noble joys of manhood that belong To comrades and to brothers. In their strain Rustle of palms and Eastern streams one hears, And the broad prairie melts in mist of tears. IN MEMORIAM--REV. J. J. LYONS. ROSH-HASHANAH, 5638. The golden harvest-tide is here, the corn Bows its proud tops beneath the reaper's hand. Ripe orchards' plenteous yields enrich the land; Bring the first fruits and offer them this morn, With the stored sweetness of all summer hours, The amber honey sucked from myriad flowers, And sacrifice your best first fruits to-day, With fainting hearts and hands forespent with toil, Offer the mellow harvest's splendid spoil, To Him who gives and Him who takes away. Bring timbrels, bring the harp of sweet accord, And in a pleasant psalm your voice attune, And blow the cornet greeting the new moon. Sing, holy, holy, holy, is the Lord, Who killeth and who quickeneth again, Who woundeth and who healeth mortal pain, Whose hand afflicts us, and who sends us peace. Hail thou slim arc of promise in the West, Thou pledge of certain plenty, peace, and rest. With the spent year, may the year's sorrows cease. For there is mourning now in Israel, The crown, the garland of the branching tree Is plucked and withered. Ripe of years was he. The priest, the good old man who wrought so well Upon his chosen globe. For he was one Who at his seed-plot toiled through rain and sun. Morn found him not as one who slumbereth, Noon saw him faithful, and the restful night Stole o'er him at his labors to requite The just man's service with the just man's death.