They come out of the night of years with Asia in their blood, Out of the mystery of Time that was before the Flood. They saw the imperial Egypt shrink and join the ruined lands; They saw the sculptured scarlet East sink under the gray sands: They saw the star of Hellas rise and glimmer into dream. They saw the wolf of Rome draw suck beside the yellow stream, And go with ravenous eyes ablaze and jaws that would_not_spare, Snarling across the Earth, then, toothless, die upon his lair. And have they not had grief enough, this people shrunk with chains? Must there be more Assyrias? Must there be other Spains? They are the tribes of sorrow, and for ages have been fed On brackish desert-wells of hate and exile's bitter bread. They sang the elegies that tell the grief of mortal years; They built the tombs of Pharaohs, mixing the bricks with tears; They builded up fair cities with no threshold for their own; They gave their dust to Nineveh, to Babylon their moan. After tears by ruined altars, after toils in alien lands, After wailings by strange waters, after lifting of vain hands, After cords and stripes and burdens, after ages scorched with fire, Shall they not find the way of peace, a land of heart's desire? Shall they not have a place to pray, a place to lay the head? Shall they not have the wild bird's rest, the fox's frugal bed? Men's eyes are on you, Mighty Czar; the world awaits the word; The blood-splashed gates are and the rusted bolt has stirred! EDWIN MARKHAM (1852-). eager, Run ravening as the Gadarean swine, Say, was not this thy Passion, to foreknow In death's worst hour the works of ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE PHARAOH TO ALEXANDER. A cartoon in the London Punch, entitled "From the Nile to the Neva," admirably drawn by Tenniel, depicts the Czar placing his foot on the neck of a Jew, who is lying in a dungeon. As he is drawing the sword of persecution from its sheath, the shade of Pharaoh approaches and exclaims: "Forbear! That weapon always wounds the hand that wields it." The cartoon is further explained by the following poem. ["And the Egyptians made the children of Israel to serve with rigour. And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage."-Exodus. "The Russian Government, by the new edicts, legalizes persecution, and openly declares war against the Jews of the Empire."-Times.] "BEWARE!" 'Tis a voice from the shades, from the dark of three thousand long years, But it falls like the red blade of RA, and should echo in Tyranny's ears With the terror of overhead thunder; from Nile to the Neva it thrills. And it speaks of the judgment of wrong, of the doom of imperious wills. When PENTAOUR sang for PHARAOH, alone by Orontes, at bay, By the chariots compassed about by the foe who were fierce for the fray. He sang of the dauntless oppressor, of RAMESES, Conquering king; But were there such voice by the Neva to-day, of what now should he sing? Of tyranny born out of time, of oppression belated and vain? Put up the old weapon, O despot, slack hand from the scourge and the chain; For a time, to the knout of the TSAR, to the Muscovite's merciless will; But four millions of Israel's children are not to be crushed in the path Of a TSAR, like the Hittites of old, when great RAMESES flamed in his wrath Alone through their numberless hosts. No, the days of the Titans of Wrong Are past, for the Truth is a torch, and the voice of the peoples is strong. Even PENTAOUR, the poet of Might, spake in pity that rings down the years Of the life of "the peasant that tills" of his terrible toil and his tears; Of the rats and the locusts that ravaged, and, worse, the tax-gathering horde Who tithed all his pitiful tilth with the aid of the stick and the cord; And the splendor of RAMESES pales in the text of the old Coptic Muse, And-one hears the mad rush of the wheels that the fierce Red Sea billow pursues! O Muscovite, blind in your wrath, with your heel on the Israelite's neck, And your hand on that baleful old blade. Persecution, 'twere wisdom to reck The PHARAOH's calm warning. Beware! Lo, the Pyramids pierce the grey gloom Of a desert that is but a waste, by a river that is but a tomb, Yet the Hebrew abides and is strong. AMENEMAN is gone to the ghosts, He the prince of the Coptic police who so harried the Israelite hosts When their lives with hard bondage were bitter. And now bitter bondage you'd try. Proscription, and exile, and stern deprivation. Beware, Sire! Put by That blade in its blood-rusted scab.. bard. The PHARAOHS, the CESARS have found That it wounds him who wields it: and you, though your victim there, prone on the ground, Looks helpless and hopeless, you also shall find Persecution a bane Which shall lead to a Red Sea of blood to o'erwhelm selfish Tyranny's train. "Beware!" 'Tis the shade of MENEP THA that whispers the warning from far. Concerning that sword there's a lesson the PHARAOH may teach the TSAR! THE CURSE OF KISHINEFF. FROM Spaded trench and wooded mountain side, From every ridge and height, with grim disdain, Cannon on cannon, in satanic pride, Defend the pass and dominate the plain : At daybreak shall the dreadful carnage be; But through the camp at midnight There lies a wretched man, who can not sleep: In vain he kneels and prays for victory: Down the long corridors there comes a cry: "To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword: despair and die!" BERTRAND SHADWELL. "KISHINEV." BROKEN battle vessels sinking with the foemen's mines below them; Fighters freezing as they fare across the Baikal's frigid breast; Bursting bombs that blast and batter as unerring gunners throw them; 'Leaguered legions fearing famine, over dearth of food distressedThis the story over and over, and the world withholds its pity, For there dwells a bitter memory that hardens every heart; 'Tis the grim and awful picture of a persecuted city Where the soldiers of the nation now imperilled played a part"Kishinev !" Palace perilled by the Nihilist who threatens home disruption; Soldiers fearful of extinction by the famine, foe, or cold; World-wide hate that smokes and trembles on the verge of an eruption— Thus the status of the empire of the Czar is tersely told. In the end the Slav may conquer through his strength in wealth and numbers. But the price that he must pay for final triumph will be great; He will pay full tale and better for the crime that bolts and cumbers His escutcheon and has won for him a heritage of hate"Kishinev!" 'Tis a world of retribution, and you, Russia, well may learn it; 'Tis a world where justice triumphs ere the closing of the day; 'Tis a world where God is ruler-take His warning, sear and burn it On your hard heart's tablets: "Vengeance is mine own: I will repay!" With the blood of helpless women shed to save their lives and honor, With the blood of prattling babies on the hands with which you fight, With your flag of battle loathsome with the stains of shame upon her. You must lose your men and treasure in atonement for that blight"Kishinev !" STRICKLAND W. GILLILAN. KISHINEFF AND PORT ARTHUR. THE cold-blooded deed upon the helpless Hebrews, That the same fate must fall on them; Little thought the Russian, when they wrought For Heaven is just and leaves nothing undone For the wrong suffered by the innocent Jews: See the deed at Kishineff and at Port Arthur. Men, women and children of the helpless Hebrews But rest they now in their sleep of eternity; Suffered alike from the ruthless band, For the Samurai sword is never delayed To leave its sheath for avenging blow: See the deed at Kishineff and at Port Arthur. When the atrocious deed by Russians at Kishineff Shocked the world, the brethren of the wronged race Cried for vengeance; but rest they now, For swift is the course of the avenger's missiles That send to the bottom the Russian vessels: See the deed at Kishineff and at Port Arthur. YAE KICHI YABE. (Published New York, 1904.) THE JEWS OF BUCHAREST. "Take 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 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 And does a careless brother say We stir this ancient dust in vain, When palaced Bucharest to-day Sees the same devil loose again? Again her busy highways wake To the old persecuting cry Of men who for their Master's sake His chosen kindred crucify. There oft the midnight hours are loud The broken shutter's rending crash But here are tales of deeper shame! Takes boldly the oppressor's side. The bread whose bitterness so long. These sons of hated гасе have known; Familiar, oft-repeated wrong That turns the living heart to stone. Still Zion City lies forlorn: And still the Stranger in our gates, A servant to the younger born, For his long-promised kingdom waits. O, Brethren of the outer court, Entreat him well and speak him fair; The form that makes your thoughtless sport Our coming Lord hath deigned to wear. EDWARD SYDNEY TYBEE. A TRAGEDY OF TO-DAY. (New York, 1905.) In a little theater, in the Jewry of the New World, I sat among the sad-eyed exiles; Narrow was the stage and meagerly appointed, and the players gave themselves up utterly to their art; And, before our eyes, were enacted scenes of a play that scarcely seemed a play. The place was a city in a wide, unhappy land; Even in that empire which drifts today like a great ship toward a black and unknown coast; While men, with blanched faces, cry out: "Unless the tempest abates quickly, behold the mightiest wreck on all the shores of time!" And the time of the drama was our own time; and the coming and going; and the people themselves were of our own day and generation; The people, with strange beards, and look of the immemorial Orient; like those men and women who, alien and melancholy, plod the New-World streets; Like those who, in slow and pitiful procession, on a fixed day of mourning, with dirges and wailings, poured innumerous into the city's open places; And, as the play went on, at times the very speech of the actors, in hot debate, crackled and sputtered like the fuse of a Russian bomb. And there an old man, the preacher of a hunted race and a despised religion, all alone called to his people to follow him, and their God, the God of Israel. Passionately he proclaimed the faith of the fathers and the saving word and protecting arm of the Almighty; He, the voice and the prophet of the Lord High God, called aloud to them who strayed: "Come ye back to your God, and to His Everlasting Word. "You young men who have forgotten Him, the Unforgetting, and you old men mumbling your prayers; ye cowards! leaving the holy shrine unprotected;" And the young men answered and called the old man the name of them who are dead and have passed away; And the old men, unheeding, swayed to and fro, mumbling their ancient psalms and ineffectual supplications. Then, while the noise of the beastly rabble swelled louder and nearer-then did the preacher turn once more to the Lord of Hosts, lifting up his voice in praise and prayer, and faith unquenchable; Crying to God with a loud voice and saying: "Lead me, Thou Jehovah! in the right way, "For now hath come the great day of the Lord; now, Lord, save Thy people and bless Thy heritage, |