Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ISRAEL FORSAKEN, by CHARLES LEON GUMPERT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ISRAEL FORSAKEN, by                    
First Line: Ah! Ingrate people whom I sought to please!
Last Line: Oh! Ingrate people, while I sit forlorn!
Subject(s): Israel; Jews; Judaism


I

AH! ingrate people whom I sought to please!
Ah! cruel people, scornful, careless men,
And dark, sly women, dreaming of new ease—
Abandon me! Scowl calmly on me when
You do behold me! You who brought me wine
To drink, fierce-spiced, and pomegranates to eat,
And fat, black grapes, red apricots and fine
Wheat cakes and glossy olives sweet:
Who gave me smoothly flowing, oily phrase
And guerdon brought me of ecstatic praise:
Lo! now because I sit alone forlorn,
Throw me your bitter herbs and crumbs of scorn.

II

I danced before you in the Satrap's hall;
For you I trained my small elastic feet.
I wore your garlands, bowed and carried all
Your flowery offerings. Freely did I eat
Of your rich banquet, cruel people, cold
And scornful people! Gifts ye cast me now,
Because I sit alone and have grown old
Of sick'ning lees of wine, no wreaths for brow
Not ambergris nor cassia do ye bring,
Nor frankincense, nor any precious thing!
You only laugh and thrust your stinging words
At 'Azubah, stabbing her heart like swords.

III

Ye fondled once my black, smooth hair, and said,
"See how her tresses glisten in the light!"
Ashes are now strewn upon my faded head,
No longer lives in eyes of mine the sprite
Of joyance. All my face is worn and wan,
My gold-embroidered raiment is threadbare;
The sea-shell color from my cheek hath gone,
I sit and wrap myself in sack-cloth wear.
"Who cares for 'Azubah?" I say and sigh.
Forsake me cruel people; pass me by;
No pleasance grant me, sing me no joy-song,
Too old I am and weak, erst fair and strong.

IV

Ah! surely God shall cause to flow for me
Some rills of comfort through the wilderness
And cause to grow some balm-exhaling tree
On the wide desert of my loneliness!
I must not sit in hopeless solitude
List'ning to the merry voices in the street,
Nursing my horrid pain to quietude,
Envious of sunny faces I may meet.
'Azubah, once all joyless, joys shall glean,
The desert shall be fruitful and grow green;—
God whispers me! So feed me with your scorn,
Oh! ingrate people, while I sit forlorn!





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