Prosperous, florishing-kith and kin,
Easy for you to stay clean within.
But, O my Brothers beyond the sea,
The days are long and bitter for me.

HERMINE SCHWED.

To Russia

WHO tamed your lawless Tartar blood?

What David bearded in her den
The Russian bear in ages when

You strode your black, unbridled stud,
A skin-clad savage of your steppes?
Why, one who now sits low and weeps,
Why, one who now wails out to you,—
The Jew, the Jew, the homeless Jew.

Who girt the thews of your young prime
And bound your fierce divided force?
Why, who but Moses shaped your course
United down the grooves of time?
Your mighty millions all today
The hated, homeless Jew obey.
Who taught all poetry to you?

The Jew, the Jew, the hated Jew.

Who taught you tender Bible tales
Of honey-lands of milk and wine?
Of happy, peaceful Palestine?

Of Jordan's holy harvest vales?
Who gave the patient Christ? I say
Who gave the Christian creed? Yea, yea,
Who gave your very God to you?

Your Jew! Your Jew! Your hated Jew!

JOAQUIN MILLER.

The Slaughter of the Jews

FOOLS who kill for the lust of blood, fiends of the

slaughter pen,

Who wreak red malice on women and babes and gray and defenceless men;

Murderers, thugs, assassins, who, e'en in religion's

name,

Dare the work of the ghouls to do, and crawl in your bestial shame

This in the name of religion. Why, fools who are less than clod,

From the Jew you borrowed your altar, from the Jew you filched your God.

His was the great Jehovah whom your churchly rites

attest,

And his was the wondrous Bible that shone on your darkened West.

His David still is singing,

Your souls oppressed to thrill,

And Sinai's voice is ringing:

"Thou shalt not, shalt not kill!"

Murderers! thugs! assassins! sodden and ingrate crew! Most of the best ye now disdain was learned of the hated Jew!

In temples of desecration his psalms ye have mouthed today;

Then turned from the hollow praises to slaughter and kill and slay;

Ye have mourned with his Jeremiah, as great was your need to do,

But if mourning fostered brute alone, small was the gain to you.

"Why should ye be stricken any more?" Isaiah moạneth still,

But all that ye learn from the broken words is killand kill and kill!

And Rachel still is mourning that her children are no

more,

While your hearts are mad with malice and your hands are red with gore.

Still rolls the awful thunder

O'er Sinai's darkened hill,

While still-oh, deed of wonder!

Ye kill and kill and kill!

Fools who are less than brutish, tyranny's pestilent

crew,

A beast may spring on his master-and ye do murder the Jew.

When your forbears sat in their frozen dens and mumbled their rotten bones

From Palestine echoed northward the great Jehovah's

tones.

The God of the Jew had spoken, and your ancestor heard and knew,

And his first dim knowledge of truth and right he learned of the hated Jew.

Aye, more! From Nazareth came one day the Man who is thine and mine,

And he set in the soul of the brutish man the germ

of a thought divine,

And the germ. took root in the soul of man,

it bloomed and grew,

and ever

And the Christ whom your crimsoned hands do flout

was a Jew and the son of a Jew,

His heart for the sad world bleeding,

He loved and forgave us still;

And yet, that lesson unheeding,

Ye kill and kill-and kill!

Fools who are less than brutish, tyranny's pestilent

crew,

All that the world holds dearest is slaughtered in him

-the Jew.

A. J. WATERHOUSE.

The Crowing of the Red Cock

ACROSS the Eastern sky has glowed

The flicker of a blood-red dawn, Once more the clarion cock has crowed, Once more the sword of Christ is drawn. A million burning rooftrees light The world-wide path of Israel's flight.

Where is the Hebrew's fatherland?

The folk of Christ is sore bestead;
The Son of Man is bruised and banned,
Nor finds whereon to lay his head.
His cup is gall, his meat is tears,
His passion lasts a thousand years.

Each crime that wakes in man the beast,
Is visited upon his kind.

The lust of mobs, the greed of priest,

The tyranny of kings, combined

To root his seed from earth again,
His record is one cry of pain.

When the long roll of Christian guilt
Against his sires and kin is known,
The flood of tears, the life-blood spilt,
The agony of ages shown,

What oceans can the stain remove,
From Christian law and Christian love?

Nay, close the book; not now, not here,
The hideous tale of sin narrate,

Reëchoing in the martyr's ear,

Even he might nurse revengeful hate, Even he might turn in wrath sublime, With blood for blood and crime for crime.

Coward? Not he, who faces death,
Who singly against worlds has fought,
For what? A name he may not breathe,
For liberty of prayer and thought.

The angry sword he will not whet;
His nobler task is to forget.

EMMA LAZARUS.

A Hymn for the Relief of Israel 7HEN Israel's sons in Egypt groaned,

Beneath the proud oppressor's yoke,
The God of Love his children owned,
The Lord of Might their bondage broke.

With mighty arm and outstretched hand,
By signs and wonders great and sore,
He led them forth from Egypt's land,
He gave them rest on Caanan's shore.

Now spread through far and distant lands,
Yet never lost-enchained, yet free—
To Thee they lift their suppliant hands,

And raise them with their hearts to Thee.

Thy word still lives-that word which taught The mouth that cursed Thy flock to bless; That word which their salvation wrought,

That faith which still their lips confess.

O! turn the hearts of those who still
Tread down Thy living sanctuary,
Send forth the mandate of Thy will,
And set Thy chosen people free!

CANON JENKINS.