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!”

* * * * *

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 May Day Celebration.”  Odd, that this particular RAINE should always fall on the First of May.