THE PERSECUTED JEW.

WHEN strife is rampant in the world,
And men and devils loudly cheer;
The hearts of men have turned to stone,
And cruel monsters laugh and sneer.
In sorrow and the darkest gloom,
Our brother Jew has suffered long;
The God of Israel knows His own,

He their King is great and strong. Defend thy people, God of hosts,

Thou God of Israel, grand and great; Look down and bless that noble race, And lead them to the golden gate. STEPHEN TAYLOR DEKINS.

AN HEBRAIC LAMENTATION.

A KINGDOM that was mighty once
And favoured by the God of heaven
Is fallen low, and all its sons

From home and heritage are driven.

Another nation holds their land,

Another hand their sceptre bears, Another faith takes Mahmoud's wand And rules high-handed over theirs.

Arabia's mosque in triumph stands Where once their glorious temple stood;

Moriah weeps; and Zion's lands

Bow down and moan o'er Jordan's flood.

And all the seed of Jacob mourn

The ruined greatness of their state, And wait the Prince that shall be born To break the fetters of their fate.

They are as sheep the shepherd lost,
Scattered abroad in pasturage;
A pilgrim nation, a vast host

Bent on eternal pilgrimage.

A kingless race whose kings are dead, As warriors, captainless, they fight; United war, divided, led

By a blind faith in the blind night! Their wandering, homeless liberty

Is worse than bondage of the home; The harp that once sang jubilee

Is rusted with cold tears, and dumb.

And watched, well-pleased, the dallying death,

That lingered ere it came.

But thou hast darker secrets yet,
And deeds more dear to hell.
The sightless, soundless oubliette
Hath kept thy counsel well,

The silent hours that crush the heart,
The soul-destroying gloom;
Thine, devil, was the fiendish art
Devised that living tomb.
Woe, woe on the unhappy state

That learns thy bloody creed,
And makes her mansion desolate
Thy cruel lust to feed.
Before one dread, impartial Bar
Her sons, shall find, ere long,
How terrible the helpless are,

The feeble ones how strong!
Lo! where the dotard Empress, Spain,
With loosened necklace stands,
While those fair jewels, grain by grain,

Slip from her nerveless hands!
Unmoved she sees her pearls depart
And smiles with alien eyes;
For heavy on her palsied heart

The curse of Israel lies.

Foul shark, whose malice never sleeps, On noblest victims fed;

What swimmer bold shall cleave the deeps

Thy rivings left so red;

And when thy bulk sways up to breathe

On that encrimsoned tide, With one unerring home-thrust sheathe His dagger in thy side?

EDWARD SYDNEY TYBEE.

AT THE PANTOMIME.

THE house was crammed from roof to floor,

Heads piled on heads at every door:
Half dead with August's seething heat
I crowded on and found my seat,
My patience slightly out of joint,
My temper short of boiling point,
Not quite at Hate mankind as such,
Nor yet at Love them overmuch.

Amidst the throng the pageant drew
Were gathered Hebrews not a few,
Black-bearded, swarthy,-at their side
Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed:
If scarce a Christian hopes for grace
Who crowds one in his narrow place,
What will the savage victim do
Whose ribs are kneaded by a Jew?

Next on my left a breathing form
Wedged up against me, close and warm;
The beak that crowned the bistred face
Betrayed the mould of Abraham's

race,

That coal-black hair, that smoke-brown hue,

Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew!

I started, shuddering, to the right,
And squeezed-a second Israelite!

Then woke the evil brood of rage
That slumber tongueless, in their cage;
I stabbed in turn with silent oaths
The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes,
The snaky usurer, him that crawls
And cheats beneath the golden balls,
Moses and Levi, all the horde,
Spawn of the race that slew its Lord.

Up came their murderous deeds of old,
The grisly story Chaucer told,
And many an ugly tale beside
Of children caught and crucified;
I heard the ducat-sweating thieves
Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves,
And, thrust beyond the tented green,
The lepers cry, "Unclean! Unclean!"
The show went on, but, ill at ease,
My sullen eye it could not please,

In

vain my conscience whispered, "Shame!"

Who but their Maker is to blame?"
I thought of Judas and his bribe,

And steeled my soul against their tribe: My neighbors stirred; I looked again Full on the younger of the twain.

A fresh young cheek whose olive hue The mantling blood shows faintly through;

Locks dark as midnight, that divide
And shade the neck on either side;
Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam
Clear as a starlit mountain stream;-
So looked that other child of Shem.
The Maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!

And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood

That flows unmingled from the Flood,-
Thy 'scutcheon spotted with the stains
Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes!
The New World's foundling, in thy
pride

Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side,
And lo! the very semblance there
The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!

I see that radiant image rise,
The flowing hair, the pitying eyes,
The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows
The blush of Sharon's opening rose,
Thy hands would clasp his hallowed

ONCE verily, O mighty Czar, your crown was justified,

When from your place among the

thrones your lifted spirit cried: "Let there be no more wars on Earth, let weary cannons cease." Well was it, Ruler of the North, that Cæsar should say, "Peace!" But yet from Russia comes a cry of souls that would be free;

A cry from the windy Baltic runs down to the Euxine Sea.

It is the cry of a people, of a people old in grief,

A people homeless on the Earth and shaken as the leaf.

Listen a moment with your heart and you will hear, O Czar,

There in your clear cold spaces under the great North StarThere in your Arctic silences swept clean of base desire,

Where the unseen watcher reaches up the awful Fan of Fire. Around you is the vastness and the wondrous hush of snow,

That you may hear their cry in the night and let the captives go.