"We withstood Christ then? Be mindful how
At least we withstand Barabbas now!

Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared,
To have called these-Christians, had we dared!
Let defiance to them pay mistrust of Thee,
And Rome make amends for Calvary !

"By the torture, prolonged from age to age,
By the infamy, Israel's heritage,

By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace,
By the badge of shame, by the felon's place,
By the branding-tool, the bloody whip,
And the summons to Christian fellowship,—

"We boast our proof that at least the Jew
Would wrest Christ's name from the Devil's crew.
Thy face took never so deep a shade

But we fought them in it, God our aid!

A trophy to bear, as we march, thy band

South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!"

A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S

Oh, Galuppi Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!

I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf

and blind;

But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a

heavy mind!

Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.

What, they lived once thus at Venice, where the merchants were the kings,

Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?

Ay, because the sea's the street there, and 'tis arched by . . . what you call

Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival:

I was never out of England-it's as if I saw it all.

Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?

Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to midday,

When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so

red,

On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,

O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?

Well, and it was graceful of them: they'd break talk off and afford

-She, to bite her mask's black velvet, he, to finger on his sword,

While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,

Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions-"Must we die?"

Those commiserating sevenths-"Life might last! we can but try!"

"Were you happy?" happy?"-"Yes.

"Yes."-" And are you still as And you?"

"Then, more kisses!"-" Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?"

Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!

"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!

I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"

Then they left you for their pleasure, till in due time, one by one,

Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,

Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.

But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand

nor swerve,

While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close

reserve,

In you come with your cold music till I creep thro' every nerve.

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned;

"Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent

what Venice earned.

The soul, doubtless, is immortal-where a soul can be discerned.

"Yours, for instance: you know physics, something of geology,

Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;

Butterflies may dread extinction-you'll not die, it cannot be !

"As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,

Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop :

What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

"Dust and ashes!" So you croak it, and I want the heart to scold.

Dear dead women, with such hair, too-what's become

of all the gold

Used to hang and brush their bosoms?

and grown old.

I feel chilly

W. M. THACKERAY. 1811-1863

FROM "THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM"

Hurrah! what a storm was a-brewing,

The day of our vengeance was come;
Through scenes of what carnage and ruin
Did I beat on the patriot drum.
Let's drink to the famed tenth of August,
At midnight I beat the tattoo,

And woke up the pikemen of Paris

To follow the bold Barbaroux.

With pikes, and with shouts, and with torches,
Marched onward our dusty battalions,

And we girt the tall castle of Louis,

A million of tatterdemalions!

We stormed the fair gardens where towered
The walls of his heritage splendid,
Ah, shame on him, craven and coward,
That had not the heart to defend it!

With the crown of his sires on his head,
His nobles and knights by his side,
At the foot of his ancestors' palace,

'Twere easy, methinks, to have died.
But no; when we burst through his barriers,
'Mid heaps of the dying and dead,

In vain through the chambers we sought him,
He had turned like a craven and fled.

The drummer now bared his old breast,
And show'd us a plenty of scars,
Rude presents that Fortune had made him,
In fifty victorious wars.