Part 14 (1/2)

”GIVE US BARABBAS” [4]

There was a man--a Jew of kingly blood, But of the people--poor and lowly born, Accused of blasphemy of G.o.d, He stood Before the Roman Pilate, while in scorn The mult.i.tude demanded it was fit That one should suffer for the people, while Another be released, absolved, acquit, To live his life out virtuous or vile.

”Whom will ye have--Barabbas or this Jew?”

Pilate made answer to the mob, ”The choice Is yours; I wash my hands of this, and you, Do as you will.” With one vast ribald voice The populace arose and, shrieking, cried, ”Give us Barabbas, we condone his deeds!”

And He of Nazareth was crucified-- Misjudged, condemned, dishonoured for their needs.

And down these nineteen centuries anew Comes the hoa.r.s.e-throated, brutalized refrain, ”Give us Barabbas, crucify the Jew!”

Once more a man must bear a nation's stain,-- And that in France, the chivalrous, whose lore Made her the flower of knightly age gone by.

Now she lies hideous with a leprous sore No skill can cure--no pardon purify.

And an indignant world, transfixed with hate Of such disease, cries, as in Herod's time, Pointing its finger at her festering state, ”Room for the leper, and her leprous crime!”

And France, writhing from years of torment, cries Out in her anguish, ”Let this Jew endure, d.a.m.ned and disgraced, vicarious sacrifice.

The honour of my army is secure.”

And, vampire-like, that army sucks the blood From out a martyr's veins, and strips his crown Of honour from him, and his herohood Flings in the dust, and cuts his manhood down.

Hide from your G.o.d, O! ye that did this act!

With lesser crimes the halls of h.e.l.l are paved.

Your army's honour may be still intact, Unstained, unsoiled, unspotted,--but unsaved.

[4] Written after Dreyfus was exiled.

YOUR MIRROR FRAME

Methinks I see your mirror frame, Ornate with photographs of them.

Place mine therein, for, all the same, I'll have my little laughs at them.

For girls may come, and girls may go, I think I have the best of them; And yet this photograph I know You'll toss among the rest of them.

I cannot even hope that you Will put me in your locket, dear; Nor costly frame will I look through, Nor bide in your breast pocket, dear.

For none your heart monopolize, You favour such a nest of them.

So I but hope your roving eyes Seek mine among the rest of them.

For saucy sprite, and n.o.ble dame, And many a dainty maid of them Will greet me in your mirror frame, And share your kisses laid on them.

And yet, sometimes I fancy, dear, You hold me as the best of them.

So I'm content if I appear To-night with all the rest of them.