Verse > Anthologies > Joseph Friedlander, comp. > The Standard Book of Jewish Verse
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Joseph Friedlander, comp.  The Standard Book of Jewish Verse.  1917.
 
Lines to an Anti-Semite
By Edward Sydney Tybee
 
STAND! as God saw thee of old time
  We see and know thee now;
The brand of unforgotten crime
  Still black upon thy brow,
That mark, Eternal Justice traced,        5
  Thou coverest in vain;
Its blighting stigma uneffaced;
  Where is thy brother, Cain?
 
Aye, hypocrite, and if thou wilt,
  White hands, in protest, spread!        10
The blood by coarser murderers spilt
  Was at thy bidding shed.
Thy speech inflamed each ignorant soul
  With thine own maddening wine;
And when their fury burst control,        15
  Their brutal acts were thine.
 
For thee the crowded Plaza seethed
  Round Seville’s high-built pyre;
And shrinking forms of women wreathed
  With boiling snakes of fire.        20
Thy servants fanned their ardent breath
  Into a fiercer flame;
And watched, well-pleased, the dallying death,
  That lingered ere it came.
 
But thou hast darker secrets yet,        25
  And deeds more dear to hell.
The sightless, sounding oubliette
  Hath kept thy counsel well,
The silent hours that crush the heart,
  The soul-destroying gloom;        30
Thine, devil, was the fiendish art
  Devised that living tomb.
 
Woe, woe on the unhappy state
  That learns thy bloody creed,
And makes her mansion desolate        35
  Thy cruel lust to feed.
Before one dread, impartial Bar
  Her sons, shall find ere long,
How terrible the helpless are,
  The feeble ones how strong!        40
 
Lo! where the dotard Empress, Spain,
  With loosened necklace stands,
While those fair jewels, grain by grain,
  Slip from her nerveless hands!
Unmoved she sees her pearls depart        45
  And smiles with alien eyes;
For heavy on her palsied heart
  The curse of Israel lies.
 
Foul shark, whose malice never sleeps,
  On noblest victims fed;        50
What swimmer bold shall cleave the deeps
  Thy rivings left so red;
And when thy bulk sways up to breathe
  On that encrimsoned tide,
With one unerring home-thrust sheathe        55
  His dagger in thy side?
 
 
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