“Our Jubilee, By God Set Free”: A Hebrew Poem Celebrating the Centennial of American Independence

A rare broadside from 1876 contains a poem in Hebrew which served as a tribute to America's centennial and heralded the golden age of American Jewry.

Postcard depicting America welcoming Jewish immigrants from Europe. The Joseph and Margit Hoffman Judaica Postcard Collection, the Center for Folklore Research, the Mandel Institute of Jewish Studies, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem

The United States is celebrating the 250th anniversary of its independence.

This occasion is also a landmark in the history of Hebrew poetry. One hundred and fifty years ago, in anticipation of America’s centennial, the first known Hebrew poem celebrating America as America was published in New York. Titled Minḥat Yehudah (“Judah’s Offering”), it appeared in 1876 and was written by Moses Aaron Schreiber (1841–1912).

The poem Minḥat Yehudah (“Judah’s Offering”). Click to enlarge the image.

A Tone of Optimism

It was the first poem in the Hebrew language to explore the nature and history of American nationhood, but Minḥat Yehudah is also remarkable for its tone. It radiates Joy. Its voice is celebratory and deeply optimistic. The vitality that bursts from its verses – and the hope they express – are almost without parallel in Hebrew poetry of the Jewish Diaspora. It’s surely rare to find in that literary legacy lines expressing comradery and harmony such as:

Here they came

Christians and Jews

as friends and brothers

In her shadow they find peace,

In her bounty, joys increase.

Indeed, from the centennial celebrations of 1876 until quite recently, America and the Jewish people seemed like a match made in heaven. Their historic encounter sparked a remarkable transformation, giving rise to an explosively successful historical rendezvous. It is sobering that contemporary voices suggest this long and extraordinary honeymoon may have come to an end.

Rosh Hashanah greeting card expressing affection for America, 1910. The Joseph and Margit Hoffman Judaica Postcard Collection, the Center for Folklore Research, the Mandel Institute of Jewish Studies, the Hebrew University of Jerusalem

The Poem’s Offering: Hebrew

So, what is the “offering” in the poem’s title? It is the unique gift that American Jews were able to present to their adopted homeland on its centennial: a poem in the language of the Bible.

The poet writes in the eighth and concluding stanza what translates to:

Alas! but we,

Posterity

Of Judah’s host,

No land can boast!

Our tongue alone

Is all we own!

Accept from Hebrews

This ode in Hebrew,

Our heartfelt prayer,

God bless thee, e’er!

The Hebrew language of the Bible was a unique cultural inheritance that the Jews alone could contribute to the American national story. It stood in contrast to the Bible itself, that was not understood as a legacy particular to the Jews. In fact, America’s Puritan founding fathers and mothers looked to the Hebrew Scriptures as a model for understanding their own experience. At the heart of their vision stood the Exodus – the journey from bondage to the Promised Land. They understood the Bible as an “ideal typology,” namely that biblical events foreshadow later history. Accordingly, in their eyes the Great Migration to New England, which began around 1620 and continued for roughly a generation, was a reenactment of the Israelites’ exodus from the bondage of Egypt and their entry into Canaan.

The Puritans believed they had been called to establish in the New World a “city upon a hill,” one to which the eyes of the world would be turned. As they imagined it, it was to be a new Zion, modeled on the one the Jewish People had built in the land promised to them. As seventeenth-century settler Peter Folger (Benjamin Franklin’s maternal grandfather), put it in a popular poem, “New England they are like the Jews, as like as like can be.

In that sense, the United States did not need Jews to contribute the legacy of the Bible to its centennial celebrations. It already possessed that legacy. What it did not possess was the language of the Bible itself, and that is what made the Hebrew offering significant.

Yet that is also where the story becomes more complicated. True enough, English was never formally established as the official language of the United States. Nevertheless, multilingualism was not generally regarded as a desirable feature of American nationalism at the time. And so, wouldn’t emphasizing the Jews’ distinct language undermine the poem’s rhetorical efforts to express Jewish loyalty, patriotism, and identification with their adopted homeland?

The answer seems relatively straightforward, though it contains a certain irony. Scholars of Hebrew in America agree that at the time, before the great wave of Jewish immigration from Eastern Europe, only a tiny number of American Jews possessed any real knowledge of Hebrew. In other words, Hebrew posed no threat to America’s aspiration toward a common national language.

Yet this raises an obvious question: If so few American Jews actually knew Hebrew, how could it serve as Judah’s unique offering? How meaningful was the poem’s declaration that “Our tongue alone, is all we own?”

The answer, it seems, lies in reading the word tongue in a broader, more symbolic sense. Since language was understood as the force that both shapes and transmits a people’s worldview, Hebrew came to be seen, as scholar Alan Mintz has suggested, as the cultural DNA of the Jewish people, the deepest root of Jewish civilization. And since the United States was what the formerly enslaved abolitionist Frederick Douglass called a “composite nationality,” or, in Walt Whitman’s wording, “a nation of nations,” Hebrew, as the embodiment of the Jewish nation, was understood not as a barrier separating Jews from America, but as one of the building blocks that composed the American national mosaic.

A Two-Pronged Publication

In addition to its unique subject matter and tone, Schreiber’s poem has two other prominent bibliographical characteristics. The first is that an English translation appeared from the very beginning alongside the original Hebrew text although usually a translation is done after initial publication, in the course of time. The second special feature is that the poem was first printed not in a book or a newspaper, but as a broadside. The broadside, illustrated by Adolf Leszczynski, is highly invested in its graphic quality and visual appearance, which hints at the Tablets of the Covenant –with Hebrew on one side and English on the other.

To understand these outstanding features, it is good to become better acquainted with the authors of the Hebrew and English versions, as well as with the institutional framework for the poem’s publication. As noted, the Hebrew version was composed by Moshe Aaron Schreiber, a Hebrew maskil (Enlightenment scholar) from Kovno (today Kaunas), Lithuania, who was a student of the renowned Haskalah Hebrew author Avraham Mapu and was certified by him as a Hebrew teacher. Before coming to the United States, he was also ordained as a hazan—a multi-purpose religious functionary—by the Chief Rabbi of Great Britain, Nathan Adler. Schreiber served at the Shaaray Tefila synagogue in New York, which was established in 1839 and was then located on West 44th Street. Shaaray Tefila served as a hub for the city’s Anglo-Jewish elite, whereas New York’s Sephardic aristocracy centered around America’s first synagogue, Shearith Israel, established in 1654 when the first Jews arrived in North America from Recife, Brazil.

Congregation Shaaray Tefila in New York. The image has been enhanced using artificial intelligence.

The English translation was written by the acting rabbi at that same synagogue, Rabbi Dr. Frederick de Sola Mendes (1850–1927) who had a very different background.

Born in Jamaica and raised in England, Frederick de Sola Mendes descended from distinguished Sephardic rabbinic families. He studied at the University of London, earned his doctorate at the University of Halle in Germany, and attended the renowned Jewish Theological Seminary in Breslau. He received his rabbinic ordination in London from Hakham Benjamin Artom and after a short stint as minister in England, was called to serve as adjunct rabbi at Shaarey Tefila in 1874.

His brother, Henry (Haim) Pereira Mendes, also served as a rabbi in New York, at the “Shearith Israel” congregation, and under his leadership, the community grew increasingly connected to European Orthodoxy. Frederick, on the other hand, who was officially crowned as the rabbi of “Shaaray Tefila” in 1877, led gradual changes that ultimately transformed it into a Reform congregation. These changes were likely the reason Schreiber left Shaaray Tefila and became a rabbi in traditionalist congregations in New York and Baltimore.

Thus, the Hebrew and English writers of this poem came from markedly different backgrounds and religious orientations, and it is hardly surprising that the poem and its English version emphasize very different themes. Nevertheless, their shared service at Shaarey Tefila would seem to explain their collaboration, particularly if the poem was intended as an element of the congregation’s worship, perhaps during a special service marking the Fourth of July or the days surrounding it.

Indeed, the poem is structured as a festive hymn of praise, that could be read responsively. In both the Hebrew original and the English version, each stanza is divided into two parts, with the second designated to be recited by a chorus in response to the leader. Significantly, the poem concludes with a stanza, the second part of which is labeled “prayer” rather than “chorus.”

The Broadside Format

As noted, the poem did not first appear in a book or newspaper, but as a broadside, in this case a large (17×14) poster intended for public display. The broadside format itself raises intriguing questions around the poem. How widely was it seen? How popular did it become? And what sort of public attention could such a publication have attracted before disappearing from view?

At first glance, publishing the poem as a broadside rather than in a book would seem to have limited its circulation. Indeed, despite its historical significance, the poem was almost entirely forgotten by later generations. It was reprinted only once, in 1900, as part of an obscure scholarly survey of modern Hebrew literature in America – a survey that itself was buried within a collection of essays in the proceedings of the Jewish Theological Seminary (JTS). Nor has the poem ever been the subject of a detailed academic study.

Yet the history of print suggests that the opposite may well be true, and that the broadside actually enjoyed wide circulation when it first appeared. The key to this notion lies in the fact that as far as we know, only two copies of this remarkable broadside have survived. One is preserved in the collections of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York, home to one of the world’s most comprehensive Judaica collections, particularly in the field of American Jewish history. The other surfaced at auction more than a decade ago (where it sold for $20,000).

According to a counterintuitive rule-of-thumb in analytic bibliography, the larger a print run is, the fewer copies are preserved (not only proportionally, but in absolute numbers). Mass-produced, inexpensive printed materials, much like today’s free newspapers, are far less likely to be saved than, say, limited and numbered editions of an artefact.

If that principle holds true here, then the very rarity of the surviving copies may actually point to the broadside’s widespread distribution when it was first published. So, it actually might have been more seen and popular than one might first imagine.

That, however, remains only an assumption. We simply don’t know how widely the broadside circulated. What we do know is that two copies have survived; and from them we can glimpse a distinctly Jewish vision of America, as a land that embodied freedom, liberty, and hope in a new world.

A Literary Coincidence

One final detail in the poem may be interesting to note before concluding. Schreiber writes in the Hebrew version of the poem that, as the centennial approaches:

“All eyes watch Philadelphia.”

(Ein kol tsofiyah Philadelphia)

The line amusingly brings together the elevated language of the Hebrew Bible – so characteristic of Haskalah poetry – with the name of a modern American city. This is apparently an intentionally striking juxtaposition, used by Schreiber at a number of points in the poem.

Philadelphia was, of course, where American independence was declared and the Constitution drafted. It was there that the Liberty Bell rang out, proclaiming freedom through the biblical verse engraved upon it:

“Proclaim liberty throughout the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.”

(Leviticus 25:10)

The Liberty Bell, Philadelphia

As the English version of the poem notes:

Our standard flaming,

To men proclaiming,

By God’s decree,

Our country’s free!

Hebrew poetry of the Haskalah drew heavily on the language of the Bible. Yet the striking phrase “All eyes watch Philadelphia doesn’t include a direct biblical quotation. Most closely, it is a nod to a verse in Isaiah (52:8):

“Your watchmen lift up their voices; together they sing for joy, for eye to eye they shall see when the Lord returns to Zion.”

The verse contains both the watchmen looking beyond the horizon, and the eye, and Schreiber creatively fuses the two into the expression “all eyes watch.”

Strikingly, two years after America’s centennial, another Hebrew poet – almost certainly unaware of Schreiber’s poem – would coin the same expression.

In Naftali Herz Imber’s Tikvateinu, there appears the same combination of “eye” and “watching” but as in Isaiah, the watching eye is fixed upon Zion. It is this poem that would later go on to become the Israeli national anthem, Hatikvah.

In Schreiber’s Minḥat Yehudah, the Holy Land is not mentioned at all. On the occasion of its centennial celebration, America alone fills the horizon.

Judah’s Offering

“Remember ye always His covenant, the word which He commanded to a thousand generations.”  -1st Chron. XVI. 15.

Dedicated to the people of America, on the Centennial of their Liberty, July 4th, 1876, in behalf of the people of Israel, by Moses A. Schreiber, of the Forty-fourth Street Synagogue, City of New York.


I.

INTRODUCTION.

Tell me, land,

Why open stand  

Thy spacious portals,  

Thronged with mortals

From every clime?

Is’t warlike time,  

That men assembling,  

Hosts resembling,

On thy coast pour

From each far shore?  

On horses racing,  

Space-effacing,

See, they crowd,

Shouting loud:  

All courses wending,  

One spot intending,

They shout it—hark—

‘Tis Fairmount Park.


CHORUS.

No armed men’s tramp,

No legions stamp:

No war or sadness,

But joy and gladness,

Our standard flaming,

To men proclaiming,

By God’s decree,

Our country’s free!


II.

TAXATION.

Since Colon’s toil

Our verdant soil,

In accents glowing

To all men showing

The wanderer’s course

Did seek a source

Of wealth and pleasure,

Of health and leisure,

On this fair land,

Where we now stand;

But woe, ’tis written

That sons of Britain

Did rule not well

Those here did dwell:

Their strength o’ertaxing,

Ne’er relaxing,

Imposts laying,

Commerce slaying.


CHORUS.

The islet dire,

The modern Tyre,

Harsh oppressing,

No wrong redressing,

Our father’s load

To spurn did good

Through God’s decree,

Our land to free!


III.

DECLARATION.

The man arose

Whom justice chose

His brothers leading,

Their rights brave pleading,


All to bind

In common mind,

Their hands firm grasping,

Together clasping,

A union grand

Rose through the land,

Bonds to shatter,

Shackles scatter.

They feared no foe;

For Freedom’s glow

Burned bright within them,

Gave light within them,

With highborn mind

The deed they signed.

CHORUS.

Years five score

Since then they swore

This day of days

The flag to raise:

The bill proclaiming,

All souls inflaming,

By God’s decree,

Our country’s free!


IV.

CONSTITUTION.

Washington, true,

And Hamilton, too,

The best of their choosing,

Their congress composing,

They clothed with power,

From that glad hour.

Laws they selected,

Statutes erected,

Working with zeal

For our common weal;

But alas, fellow mortals!

Were sold in our portals,

Sold like base cattle,

Till for them to battle

Lincoln was raised,

Universally praised,

Slavery slaying,

Freedom conveying.

CHORUS.

United States

He elevates,

The work completing,

Liberty greeting,

Our standard flaming,

To men proclaiming,

By God’s decree,

Our country’s free!


V.

IMMIGRATION.

The tidings sped,

The news soon spread,

Within each prison,

That light had risen

For all oppressed

In this far West.

People streaming,

Ocean teeming,

Unto these coasts

Migrated hosts.

Jew and Gentile

Come in exile;

Braved the sea

To be here free,

The land improving,

Woods removing,

Of nature’s frowns

Made walled towns.


CHORUS.

Myriads of men

Grew happy then,

Their life enjoying,

Naught alloying;

For our standard flamed,

As it proclaimed,

By God’s decree

This country’s free!


VI.

ARTS AND SCIENCES.

From wisdom’s mines,

They built up shrines,

Seats of knowledge,

Hall and College;


The ground they tilled

Till garners filled,

With wit surprising

E’er exercising,

With might and main,

The active brain,

The vapor-giant,

E’en Puck, the pliant,

His service gave

To be their slave,

Earth disgorging

Ores for forging,

Smoothed the road

That progress showed.

CHORUS.

Columbia’s soil

Grown rich by toil,

In arts excelling

With fortunes swelling,

Proof now offers,

Samples proffers,

That first is she,

This country free!


VII.

EXHIBITION.

And other lands,

And foreign strands,

In products vying,

For prizes trying:

Egypt old,

Siberia cold;

Greece contracted,

The Porte distracted;

Germania new,

E’en Britain, too,

France and Prussia,

China, Russia,

The isles assist

To swell the list

Of those competing,

America greeting,

With rivalry,

In labor free.


CHORUS.

Their busy hum

Is heard to come

From the Quaker town

Of Brother’s love;

In accents flaming,

Our strength proclaiming

By God’s decree,

Our country’s free!


VIII.

JUDAH’S OFFERING.

Columbia blest!

Of men the best

Thy helm brave steering,

Thy progress cheering,

Shall e’er command

Thy future land!

Thy welfare speeding,

Thy van e’er leading!

Alas! but we,

Posterity

Of Judah’s host,

No land can boast!

Our tongue alone

Is all we own!

Accept from Hebrews

This ode in Hebrew,

Our heartfelt prayer,

“God bless thee, e’er!”


PRAYER.

O Lord Eternal,

Great power supernal,

In mercy pour

From thy rich store,

Of gifts the choice!

This land rejoice,

Her course progressing,

With Thy hand blessing.



“If It Be Love”: Rethinking Romance in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra

When Shakespeare’s characters fall in love, things tend to get complicated. Inspired by rare early editions of the Bard’s works housed in the National Library, we revisited one of his most sweeping tragedies to ask: Is this really a love story?

"Caesar Restoring Cleopatra to the Throne of Egypt", Pietro da Cortona, 1637

William Shakespeare is widely regarded as one of the greatest writers on love in Western literature. So much so that his very name has become shorthand for impassioned, poetic explorations of romance. Romeo and Juliet, Benedick and Beatrice, Lucentio and Bianca, Antony and Cleopatra – and that’s without even mentioning the sonnets.

But is that reputation entirely deserved?

A closer reading reveals that Shakespeare’s so-called love stories are anything but simple. Each relationship is tangled with contradictions, moral dilemmas, and emotional instability. How many of these stories are really about love – and how many are about something else entirely, merely dressed in the language of romance?

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Portrait of William Shakespeare, as printed in the First Folio, 1623. A copy of this rare edition is preserved in the National Library of Israel.

One of the clearest examples of this complexity can be found in Antony and Cleopatra.

Written around 1606, roughly a decade before Shakespeare’s death, the play was probably staged the following year. As with most of his works, the text we read today was not printed during Shakespeare’s lifetime, but appears in the collection scholars refer to as “The First Folio” – a large-format volume published seven years after his death, which gathered together most of his plays.

Only 228 complete copies and 158 partial copies of the First Folio survive today. One of them – thanks to a generous donation – is housed in the National Library of Israel. The Library’s conservation staff carefully maintains it alongside other rare Shakespearean editions, including a complete Second Folio and an early volume of his collected poetry and sonnets titled Poems: Written by Wil. Shakespeare, Gent., published in 1640.

The Library’s copy of Poems includes something exceptionally rare: the original title page, featuring a portrait of Shakespeare himself – a page torn out of most copies over the centuries.

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Title pages from the rare edition of Poems: Written by Wil. Shakespeare, Gent. held at the National Library of Israel

Back to Antony and Cleopatra.

Mark Antony – Roman general, celebrated hero, and a member of the triumvirate which ruled Rome after the assassination of Julius Caesar – falls passionately in love with Cleopatra. Many see the affair as a betrayal, but Antony is enthralled by the Egyptian queen, herself once Caesar’s lover. His infatuation is so complete that he neglects his duties as one of the most powerful men in the republic and begins making plans to remain in Egypt.

In Rome, Octavian – who would later be known as Augustus Caesar – is alarmed. The affair threatens Antony’s loyalty to the republic. When appeals and warnings fail, Octavian urges Antony to return and help suppress the growing threat of piracy. As a political gesture, he offers Antony the hand of his sister, Octavia.

Cleopatra is, understandably, furious. But Antony accepts the offer, returns to Rome, and marries Octavia. The marriage proves hollow, and the military campaign ends in disappointment. Disillusioned by Octavian and Lepidus’s treatment of the pirate leader, Antony returns to Egypt. There, he reconciles with Cleopatra, reaffirms their bond, and proclaims himself ruler of the eastern Roman Republic. Together, they prepare for the inevitable war against Rome.

Even a prophecy warning that he will lose does not deter him.

During the decisive naval battle, Cleopatra unexpectedly retreats with her fleet. Antony, rather than hold the line, abandons his position and follows her – choosing love over duty. Though enraged by her apparent misjudgment, the two reconcile and prepare for another confrontation. Once again, Octavian defeats him. This time, Antony blames Cleopatra outright for the failure.

But Cleopatra is no ordinary consort. Instead of begging forgiveness, she stages a fake suicide in an effort to win him back. Still very much in love, Antony hears the false report – and without verifying it, falls on his own sword. He survives the initial blow and is carried, dying, to Cleopatra’s chambers, where he dies in her arms.

After his death, and Octavian’s victory, Cleopatra understands what lies ahead: public humiliation in a Roman triumphal parade. To avoid that fate, she arranges to have a venomous snake brought to her and chooses death on her own terms. The play ends with Octavian standing over the bodies of the two lovers – a mixture of triumph and melancholy – and orders that they be buried together.

The plot draws, in part, from actual history – specifically Parallel Lives by Plutarch, a collection of paired Greek and Roman biographies written not long after the events in question.

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The Tragedie of Antonie and Cleopatra, from the Second Folio, preserved at the National Library of Israel

The clearest takeaway (as in several other Shakespearean tragedies – Romeo and Juliet, for one) is obvious: don’t fake your own death without telling your partner. The consequences might be irreversible.

But was Shakespeare trying to say something deeper about relationships – not just for his own time, but for generations to come? Was the dynamic between the Roman general and the Egyptian queen truly a tragic love story, or was it a tale of politics, power, and shifting loyalties dressed up as romance?

From Antony’s side, it seems – at least at first – like love. Impulsive and all-consuming, perhaps, but genuine. He abandons Rome again and again for Cleopatra. He walks away from a prestigious political marriage, from power, from his military command – all to be with her.

But from Cleopatra’s side, the picture is more complicated. She may love him at the beginning, begging him not to heed Octavian’s call. But when he leaves her in Egypt and marries Octavia to please his political rival, Cleopatra’s fury is justified – and her priorities shift. When Antony returns, she forgives him, but only once she’s sure she still outranks Octavia in his eyes.

Then comes a turning point. Antony declares himself ruler of Egypt and the eastern Roman Republic – not in partnership, but above her. Cleopatra does not respond with adoration. From that moment, his choices become increasingly reckless, indifferent to her well-being, and ultimately catastrophic. When things fall apart, he blames her.

Later, Cleopatra tries – perhaps overly theatrically – to draw him back by staging a suicide. But she miscalculates: rather than rushing to her side, Antony falls on his sword. It’s not a dramatic reunion – it’s a fatal misstep.

אנטוניוס במשתה של קליאופטרה ציור מאת חרארד הוט המאה ה18

Marcus Antonius at Cleopatra’s Banquet, Gerard Hoet, 18th century

At that moment, Octavian has won. Cleopatra, knowing she is destined to be paraded through Rome as a defeated queen, chooses to take her fate into her own hands. With her attendants, she dies in a deliberately stylized act of self-determination – death by snake. But unlike Antony’s suicide, which feels like surrender, Cleopatra’s is a calculated political gesture. She reclaims her agency, rejecting humiliation and choosing defeat on her own terms. She refuses to be a trophy. Her final act is one of pride and power.

This ending reframes the entire narrative. What looked like love now feels like illusion. Antony treats Cleopatra as a romantic refuge, an escape from duty – a safe haven he assumes will always be there. He expects obedience, even when his commands endanger her and her people. For a time, she complies. But once his choices begin to cost Egyptian lives, she steps away – choosing her crown over a man who has betrayed her.

His suicide – spurred by rumors of her death – isn’t an act of passion, but of fear and collapse. The illusion he’s been clinging to shatters. And so he turns, not to Cleopatra, but to the sword. She has been replaced by a weapon – a final, destructive fantasy.

Cleopatra, by contrast, is a ruler. In an era of political instability and male dominance, she fights from the beginning of her reign to secure her power and protect her nation. She allies with Julius Caesar out of strategic necessity. Later, she partners with Antony in the hope of continuing Roman support for her fragile kingdom. Her loyalty lies not with the man, but with her realm. Her decisions are deliberate, her calculations clear-eyed. She refuses to follow blindly – even into death. Her final act is not surrender, but defiance. She reclaims control from the hands of Roman men.

שחקנית התאטרון הצרפתייה היהודייה שרה ברנאר בתפקיד קלאופטרה צילום של נפוליאון סרוני 1891
Sarah Bernhardt as Cleopatra. The legendary Jewish-French actress became an icon of female power in the role. Photo: Napoleon Sarony, 1891

Antony’s death marks his fall – the loss of Rome to Octavian. Cleopatra’s death transforms her into a legend. She becomes mythic, a symbol of female agency whose image endures across East and West to this day.

Antony saw Cleopatra as fantasy – and when the fantasy cracked, so did he. Cleopatra saw in Antony a path to strength and survival – and when that path failed, she withdrew and took command of her fate. On one side: illusion. On the other: strategy.

Eternal love? Probably not.

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