AT THE PANTOMIME

THE house was crammed from roof to floor,

Heads piled on heads at every door;

Half dead with August's seething heat

I crowded on and found my seat,

My patience slightly out of joint,

My temper short of boiling-point,

Not quite at Hate mankind as such,

Nor yet at Love them overmuch.

Amidst the throng the pageant drew

Were gathered Hebrews not a few,

Black-bearded, swarthy,— at their side

Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed:

If scarce a Christian hopes for grace

Who crowds one in his narrow place,

What will the savage victim do

Whose ribs are kneaded by a Jew?

Next on my left a breathing form

Wedged up against me, close and warm;

The beak that crowned the bistred face

Betrayed the mould of Abraham's race,—

That coal-black hair, that smoke-brown hue,—

Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew

I started, shuddering, to the right,

And squeezed — a second Israelite.

Then woke the evil brood of rage

That slumber, tongueless, in their cage;

I stabbed in turn with silent oaths

The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes,

The snaky usurer, him that crawls

And cheats beneath the golden balls,

Moses and Levi, all the horde,

Spawn of the race that slew its Lord.

Up came their murderous deeds of old,

The grisly story Chaucer told,

And many an ugly tale beside

Of children caught and crucified;

I heard the ducat-sweating thieves

Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves,

And, thrust beyond the tented green,

The lepers cry, “Unclean! Unclean!”

The show went on, but, ill at ease,

My sullen eye it could not please,

In vain my conscience whispered, “Shame!

Who but their Maker is to blame?”

I thought of Judas and his bribe,

And steeled my soul against their tribe

My neighbors stirred; I looked again

Full on the younger of the twain.

A fresh young cheek whose olive hue

The mantling blood shows faintly through;

Locks dark as midnight, that divide

And shade the neck on either side;

Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam

Clear as a starlit mountain stream;—

So looked that other child of Shem,

The Maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!

And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood

That flows immingled from the Flood,—

Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains

Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes!

The New World's foundling, in thy pride

Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side,

And lo! the very semblance there

The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!

I see that radiant image rise,

The flowing hair, the pitying eyes,

The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows

The blush of Sharon's opening rose,—

Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet

Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat,

Thy lips would press his garment's hem

That curl in wrathful scorn for them!

A sudden mist, a watery screen,

Dropped like a veil before the scene;

The shadow floated from my soul,

And to my lips a whisper stole,—

“Thy prophets caught the Spirit's flame,

From thee the Son of Mary came,

With thee the Father deigned to dwell,—

Peace be upon thee, Israel!”