To the Czar a Prophecy
How canst thou face thy Maker, how canst thou
With all the guilt upon thy head to turn to Him in prayer?
Thou rearest thy religion to cloak thy evil deeds;
The torture thou inflicted on those of other creeds,
The exilings, the pogroms, the persecutions all,
Thou plannest with thy minions, within thy palace
wall.
To thy corrupt officialdom thou givest a free rein
To murder, pillage, harass thy subjects for its gain.
With olden-time barbarity, with cruelty unsurpassed,
Thou rulest o'er an Empire, so wonderful, so vast,
Whose boundless wealth lies buried for ages, 'neath the
soil,
Whose undeveloped resources wait but for honest toil,
While sore distress and famine go stalking in the land,
All enterprise, initiative stayed by a tyrant's hand.
Bright shines the torch of progress in every land but thine,
Illumining every pathway that leads to Freedom's shrine;
In thy realm superstition and ignorance hold sway,
Grim allies of oppression that darken every way;
That foster crime and vices of all the vilest sort
And make of human beings a beastly dangerous horde.
Thou art a shame, a byword among the nations all,
Thy subjects' execrations hang o'er thee like a pall!
How long wilt thou, O Russia, thy cruel burdens bear? How long wilt thou meekly succumb to dull despair? Rise up, throw off thy shackles, strike for the right to live!
For freedom, justice, tolerance, thy people's wrongs retrieve!
And thou wilt surely triumph, for tyrants cowards
They shrink beneath the radiance of Liberty's bright
For thee will dawn an era of brighter, happier days, And all thy lamentations will change to songs of praise;
The present chaos, misrule, which now so hopeless
Will then be but a memory, a nightmare in a dream, Once more among the nations thou wilt then take thy
And with their march toward progress and culture keep apace.
Thy people will be blessed o'er all thy broad domain, When Law and Order shall prevail, and Peace supreme shall reign!
IDA (MRS. ISIDOR) STRAUS.
To Forgive is Divine
FATHER of Mercies, and all Human Love,
Who peereth far beyond our sullen skies,
Remember all the smile-borne agonies,
And stubborn scars of saintly men who strove
With glaives of griefless Faith, in dyke and grove,
And byre and barn, 'gainst the barbarities
Of priest and mob, and the atrocities.
By traitors wreaked in passion for their dove.
Remember not those loathsome deeds, O Lord!
But spread the light of Wisdom in the hearts
Of Rulers, and of Nations in those parts,
Where ripens knowledge of Thine Holy Word,
That in our day, Israel may once more
Have Peace, and Sunshine, as in days of yore.
M. L. R. BRESLAR,
"Blood" v. "Bullion"
WELL then, it now appears you need my help,
Go to then you come to me, and you say,
'Shylock, we would have moneys'-you say so;
You that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over
threshold: moneys
your
is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say
'Hath a dog money?" "
"Merchant of Venice," Act I, Scene 3.
"With bated breath and whispering humbleness?"
Not so! There comes a season when the stress
Of insolent and exacting tyranny
Makes the most patient turn.
Without the despot's vaunted virtue, pride,
Shows small indeed. Can Power lay aside
Its swaggering part, and low petition make
(Driven by those Treasury thirsts which never slake)
For help from those it harries? Pharaoh's scourge
Was the taskmaster's weapon used to urge
The Hebrew bondsmen to their tale of toil,
But they round whom the Russian's knouts' thongs coil
Are of the breed of the Russian palm
Can make petition to. Could triumphs balm
The wounds of ages, here were babes indeed;
But blood revolts.
Race of the changeless creed,
And ever-shifting sojourn, Shakespeare's type
Deep meaning hides, which, when the world is ripe
For wider wisdom, when the palsying curse
Of prejudice, the canker of the purse,
And blind blood-hatred, shall a little lift,
Will clearlier shine, like sunburst through a rift
In congregated cloud-wracks. Shylock stands
Badged with black shame in all the baser lands.
Use him, and-spit on him! That's Gentile wont;
Make him gold-conduit, and befoul the font,—
That's the true despot-plan through all the days,
And cackling Gratianos chorus praise.
"The Jew shall have all justice." Shall he so?
The tyrant drains his gold, then bids him-"Go!"
Shylock? The name bears insult in its sound;
But he was nobler than the curs who hound
The patient Hebrew from his home and drive
Deathward the stronger souls they dread alive.
Shylock? So brand him, boors and babbling wags,
Who scorn him, yet would share his money-bags;
Who hate him, yet can stoop to such appeal!
Beneath his meekness there's a soul of steel.
High-featured, amply-bearded, see he stands
Facing the Autocat; those sinewy hands
Shaped but for clutching-so his slanderers say—
The huckster bait can coldly put away
"Blood against bullion." The Jew-baiting band
Howl frantic execration o'er the land;
Malign and menace, pillage, persecute;
Though the heart's hot, the mouth must fain be mute.
The edict fulminates, the goad pursues;
Proscription, deprivation,-aye, they use
All the old tortures, nor are then content,
But crown the work with ruthless banishment.
And then-then the proud Muscovite seeks grace,
And gold, from kinsmen of the harried race!
"He would have moneys" from the Hebrew hoard,
To swell his state, or whet his warlike sword;
Perchance buy heavier scourges for the backs
Of lesser Hebrews, whom his wolfish packs
Of salaried minions hunt.
Take back thine hand,
Imperious Autocrat, and understand
Gold buys not, rules not, serves not, salves not all, Blood speaks-in favour of the helpless thrall
Of tyranny. Here's no tame Shylock: he
Shall not bend low, and in a bondsman's key,
Make o'er his money-bags with unctuous grace
To an enthroned enslaver of his race,
"Well then, it now appears you need my help" (You-whose trained curs at my poor kinsmen yelp!) "What should I say to you? Should I not say, 'Hath a dog money?" Blood's response is "Nay!" PUNCH.
The Jews of Bucharest
'AKE heed; the stairs are worn and damp!"
My soft-tongued southern guardian said,
And held more low his twinkling lamp
To light my cautious, downward tread.
Where that uncertain radiance fell
The bat in startled circles flew;
Sole tenant of the sunless cell
Our fathers fashioned for the Jew.
Yet, painted on the aching gloom,
I saw a hundred dreadful eyes,
As out of their forgotten tomb
Its pallid victims seemed to rise.
With fluttered heart and crisping hair,
I stood those crowding ghosts amid,
And thought what raptures of despair
The soundless granite walls had hid.
I saw their arsenal of crime:
The rack, the scourge, the gradual fire,
Where priestly hangmen of old time
Watched their long-tortured prey expire,
Then by dim warders darkling led
Through many a rocky corridor,
Like one that rises from the dead,
I passed into the light once more.
And does a careless brother say
We stir this ancient dust in vain,
When palaced Bucharest to-day
Sees the same devil loose again?
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