Again! Is there nothing can humanise ever The heart of Islam, that red-ravening wolf? Will bonds of convention and treaty bridge never Between Turk and Christian the broadening gulf? Will no lesson teach, and will no promise tether, The Ottoman hordes when let loose on the foe? Must slaughter, and rapine, and outrage together, The old vile triumvirate, fetterless go?
Time's fool seems the Turk, stern, unteachable, savage, The fiercest fool-fighter on history's roll. All indolent rest or undisciplined ravage. The varnish of manner soaks not to his soul. Red Man of the Orient, ruthless, untamable, Neighbour, by fortune, in nothing near kin. Humanity's brotherhood surely is blameable, Leaving him free from Law's bondage to win!
In sheer self-defence we must muzzle and shackle This wolf of the world; snatch its poor prostrate prey From its crimsoning fangs. The old cynical cackle Of "coffee-house babble" is silent to-day; And a weapon's at hand, too long left there unlifted, That Law and that Justice alike now commend To the grip of Europa. Be murder short-shrifted And bestial outrage meet summary end!
Not again must hot Islamite hate be permitted In chase of creed-vengeance the East to embroil; Not again must its prey fall unaided, unpitied, The Gallio's mock, and the miscreant's spoil. _There_ hangs the good Berlin-blade, consecrated By common agreement to Justice's work! Be its blow not this time, as aforetime, belated! Let Europe not bleed for the sin of the Turk!
(_By a Landlord and Lover of the Good Old Times._)
[At Merton, Surrey, where Mr. WILLIAM MORRIS has his factory, a blacksmith was highest of the fifteen successful candidates for the Parish Council, the vicar being eighth.]
Over the vicar, top o' the tree, The Village Blacksmith stands; The smith a mighty man is he, With power in his strong hands; And his victory well may stir alarms In Squire-Parsonic bands.
The Squire looks black, his face is long,-- "Vicar not in the van? Oh! things are going to the doose As fast as e'er they can! The blacksmith with his grimy face Has proved to be best man.
"Week in, week out, he'll spout and fight! We shall hear him bluff and blow. He'll vote the good old times all wrong, The good old fashions slow; And won't he run the rates right up, And keep tithe-charges low?