Sketches of Southern Life
The Jewish Grandfather’s Story
Come, gather around me, children,
And a story I will tell.
How we builded the beautiful temple—
The temple we love so well.
I must date my story backward
To a distant age and land,
When God did break our fathers’ chains
By his mighty outstretched hand
Our fathers were strangers and captives,
Where the ancient Nile doth flow;
Smitten by cruel taskmasters,
And burdened by toil and woe.
As a shepherd, to pasture green
Doth lead with care his sheep,
So God divided the great Red Sea,
And led them through the deep.
You’ve seen me plant a tender vine,
And guard it with patient care,
Till its roots struck in the mellow earth,
And it drank the light and air.
So God did plant our chosen race,
As a vine in this fair land;
And we grew and spread a fruitful tree,
The planting of his right hand.
The time would fail strove I to tell,
All the story of our race—
Of our grand old leader, Moses,
And Joshua in his place,
Of all our rulers and judges,
From Joshua unto Saul,
Over whose doomed and guilty head
Fell ruin and death’s dark pall.
Of valiant Jepthath, whose brave heart
With sudden grief did bow,
When his daughter came with dance and song
Unconscious of his vow.
Of Gideon, lifting up his voice
To him who rules the sky,
And wringing out his well drenched fleece,
When all around was dry.
How Deborah, neath her spreading palms,
A judge in Israel rose,
And wrested victory from the hands
Of Jacob’s heathen foes.
Of Samuel, an upright judge.
The last who ruled our tribes,
Whose noble life and cleanly hands,
Were pure and free from bribes.
Of David, with his checkered life
Our tuneful minstrel king,
Who breathed in sadness and delight,
The psalms we love to sing.
Of Solomon, whose wandering heart,
From Jacob’s God did stray,
And cast the richest gifts of life,
In pleasure’s cup away.
How aged men advised his son,
But found him weak and vain,
Until the kingdom from his hands
Was rudely rent in twain.
Oh! sin and strife are fearful things,
They widen as they go,
And leave behind them shades of death,
And open gates of woe.
A trail of guilt, a gloomy line,
Ran through our nation’s life,
And wicked kings provoked our God,
And sin and woe were rife.
At length, there came a day of doom—
A day of grief and dread;
When judgment like a fearful storm
Swept o’er our country’s head.
And we were captives many years,
Where Babel’s stream doth flow;
With harps unstrung, on willows hung,
We wept in silent woe.
We could not sing the old, sweet songs,
Our captors asked to hear;
Our hearts were full, how could we sing
The songs to us so dear?
As one who dreams a mournful dream,
Which fades, as wanes the night,
So God did change our gloomy lot
From darkness into light.
Belshazzar in his regal halls,
A sumptuous feast did hold;
He praised his gods and drank his wine
From sacred cups of gold.
When dance and song and revelry
Had filled with mirth each hall,
Belshazzar raised his eyes and saw
A writing on the wall.
He saw, and horror