"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 port, 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 knout thongs coil,

Are of the breed of those the Russian palm

Can make petition to. Could triumph balm

The wounds of ages, here were balm indeed;

But blood revolts.

Race of the changeless creed,

And ever-shifting sojourn, SHAKSPEARE'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 Autocrat; 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,—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!"

Come Compensation, come!

Not in thy terrors clad,

But in thy fairest, gentlest guise,

Thy "blessed" name but terrifies

The "Templar" and the "Rad."

Thou must not come as "Right,"

That is—alas!—"too steep."

The Law has put its foot hard down,

And "BUNG," so far, is quite done brown;

It makes the "Witler" weep!

No "Vested Interest,"

Whereon to found a claim?

And after all that we have done

To keep the