Methinks I fain would call upon my lyre To laugh a little, but in vain the call! For to begin with, ’tis Sephira now. Tell me, besides, can a Jew laugh at all. Oh, God, you laugh? A wail is in the laugh! Brothers, what is there of reality In a Jew’s pleasures? Is his laughter real? ’Tis but the mingling of a sob and sigh. No savor now has Jewish life, no grace Has Jewish Joy! Above, in heaven’s deep The silvery clouds are floating; and the woods Are full of life, but we sit down and weep. Spicy the forest is, the garden green; How fresh and cool spring’s breezes blowing by! But what concern is that of yours, O Jew? ’Tis now Sephira; you are mute and sigh. The lovely summer, comfort of men’s lives, Passes in sobbing and in sighs away. What hopes into the Hebrew can it give? To him what comfort summer or the May? A mendicant who has no place to rest With whom all men make sport—each day, each week, each hour, Oh, is it meet for him to think of joys, Of gardens with their balm, of tree or flower? And if the Jew at times break forth in song, Does his song seem to breathe of mirth to you? I, in his music hear but “Roam and Roam!” In every note I recognize the Jew. If one who is well versed in music’s art Should chance to listen to a Jewish song, His eyes against his will would gush with tears, Each note would shake him with emotion strong. The ram’s-horn call to penitence and grief, Oh, that is now the Hebrew’s favorite strain— A strain that makes but feelings for the tomb, A strain to break a heart of steel with pain. The song of the Atonement, and the Dirge For the great temple and the Suppliant’s Psalm; These are his sweetest music, since his joy Was shattered in his holy land of balm. Since his foe broke the sweetest instruments Of music in his Temple, ever dear, Only the plaintive ram’s-horn to the Jew Is left, on which he sobs but once a year. Of drums and cymbals, organs, harps and lyres, Flutes and guitars, all with their dulcet strains, The gloomy ram’s-horn, withered, sad and dry, Is all that now to the poor Jew remains. Whate’er he sing, however he may laugh However gay he seeks to make the strain, There suddenly awakens in his song The suppliant’s psalm that rends the heart with pain. Me thinks I fain would call upon my lyre To laugh a little, but in vain the call! For to begin with, ’tis Sephira now, Tell me, besides, can a Jew laugh at all?