| |
| | “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, | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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; | 15 |
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, | 20 |
| 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; | 25 |
| 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!” | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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 | 40 |
| 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; | 45 |
| 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. | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| 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 | 60 |
| 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” | 65 |
| (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!” | |
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