Selections From Esther
Chorus
In the troubled dreams a slave has, ere I waken
I can see my city shining as of old,
Roof and column of the Temple wreathed in gold;
And the ramparts proud as erst, before the town was taken,
And the well-loved living shapes that now are cold.
Then I wake, a slave, and houseless and forsaken,
Chained, an outcast, and a chattel, bought and sold.
Now, for us, no future, but the corn-mill and the stranger
In the foeman’s house for ever.
And the cold eyes of a master and the cruel eyes of danger,
And the memory of joys returning never.
We who once were dainty ones and splendid,
Now are slaves who grind the mill beneath a master’s blows;
Would that when our fathers ended, we had ended,
That we lay in Zion’s soil, at peace with those.
All.
O lamentation, misery, woe, woe!
Here, from our prison gate, we see again
The never-ending sand, the Persian plain,
The long, long road, the stones that we should tread
Were we but free, to our beloved dead.
And in the Spring the birds fly to the west
Over these deserts that the mountains hem,
They fly to our dear land; they fly to nest;
We cannot go with them.
And in Springtime from the windows of the tower
I can see the wild horses in the plain,
Treading stately but so lightly that they never break the flower,
And they fade at speed to westward and they never come again.
And in Springtime at the quays the men of Tyre
Set their ships towards the west and hoist their sail,
And our hearts cry “Take us with you to the land of our desire!”
And they hear our cry but will not take the crier:
The crying of a slave can be of no avail.
Birds, horses, sailors, all are free to go
To seek their homes beyond the wilderness:
But we, the homeless, only know
Weariful days of wearing-out distress.
O lamentation, misery, woe, woe!
Shall we be ever exiled, must it be
That we must pass our days as slaves for ever?
Far from our pleasant land, and never see
Our sacred Hills and Jordan’s blessed river?
Shall we not see again thy ramparts rise,
O Zion, and thy splendid towers rebuilt,
And God’s great Temple set for sacrifice
By this our race, atoning for our guilt?
Or must our weary footsteps no more tread
The land we love, where those we loved are dead?
No, we shall see that lovely land no more,
Nor anything we loved there, place or friend,
Nor do, nor know, the things we hungered for.
Like darts out of God’s Hand our deaths descend
To make an end.
Now we can crouch and pray and count the hours
Until our murderers’ feet are on the stair,
And bright steel spirts the blood upon our hair
And lays us motionless among the flowers,
White things that do not care.
And afterwards, who knows what moths we’ll be
Flying about the lamps of life at night
In death’s great darkness, blindly, blunderingly?
The brook that sings in the grass knows more delight,
The ox that the men pole-axe has more peace
Than prisoners’ souls; but now there comes release;
We shall go home, to death, to-morrow night.
O lamentation, misery, woe, woe!
Curtain.