Though the heart's hot, the mouth must fain be mute.
The edict fulminates, the goad pursues;
Proscription, deprivation,--ay, 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!"

* * * * *

A somewhat curious association of names and ideas occurs in last
week's _Sporting and Dramatic_, where there is an illustration of some
ceremony taking place which is described as "The RAINE's Foundation