What doeth the Turk in power still
As ends the nineteenth century?
Lacks aught of shame his cup to fill
Of unassuaged iniquity?
Lacks aught of cruelty and blood?
Lacks aught of treachery and lies?
Lacks aught of crime ’gainst womanhood?
Lacks mad fanaticism that plies
All villainies in Allah’s name?
And what redeeming deed or trait
Stands out to mitigate this blame?
On what kind thought does Justice wait?
What seeds of omen good may hide
Deep in the Turkish breast, God knows;
Scarce will they spring while rampant pride
Yields ever fresh return of woes.
Meanwhile thy lightsome hopes to plead,
The cause of justice to defer,
Makes thee a partner well agreed
In the ensuing massacre.
Nor will thy pennyworth of food,
Dispensed with ne’er so pitying dole,
The ruin of a race make good,
Or take the curse from off thy soul.
Master, I pray thee look upon
This vexed youth, my only son;
Behold, a spirit taketh him
And suddenly he crieth out;
It bruiseth every manly limb
And ceaseless harrieth him about—
Now flingeth him into the fire,
Now dasheth him upon the earth;
And plagued with these afflictions dire,
’Twere better he had wanted birth.
And thy disciples did I ask
To cast this grievous demon out;
They could not do so hard a task,
And left our minds of thee in doubt.
But now, canst thou do anything,
Let thy compassion lead thee on;
Have pity and deliverance bring
To this my torn and pining son!