And thou wilt surely triumph, for tyrants cowards are,

They shrink beneath the radiance of Liberty's bright

star./

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

seem,

Will then be but a memory, a nightmare in a dream, Once more among the nations thou wilt then take thy

place,

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 your threshold: moneys 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.

Autocracy,

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

"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
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?

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
With echoes of pursuing feet;
As fired with bright zeal the crowd
Goes raving down the Ghetto's street;
The broken shutter's rending crash
That lets the sudden riot in,
And shows by those red torches' flash,
The shrinking fugitive within.

But here are tales of deeper shame!
Of law insulted and defied.
While Force, usurping Justice's name,
Takes boldly the oppressor's side.
The bread whose bitterness so long,

These sons of hated race 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.

To Carmen Sylva (Queen of Roumania)

H, that the golden lyre divine

OH

Whence David smote flame-tones were mine! Oh, that the silent harp which hung

Untuned, unstrung,