In sheer self-defence we must muzzle and shackle This wolf of the world; snatch its poor prostrate prey From its crimsoning fangs. The old cynical cackle Of "coffee-house babble" is silent to-day; And a weapon's at hand, too long left there unlifted, That Law and that Justice alike now commend To the grip of Europa. Be murder short-shrifted And bestial outrage meet summary end! Not again must hot Islamite hate be permitted In chase of creed-vengeance the East to embroil; Not again must its prey fall unaided, unpitied, The Gallio's mock, and the miscreant's spoil. _There_ hangs the good Berlin-blade, consecrated By common agreement to Justice's work! Be its blow not this time, as aforetime, belated! Let Europe not bleed for the sin of the Turk! * * * * * THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. NEW PARISH-COUNCIL VERSION. (_By a Landlord and Lover of the Good Old Times._) [At Merton, Surrey, where Mr. WILLIAM MORRIS has his factory, a blacksmith was highest of the fifteen successful candidates for the Parish Council, the vicar being eighth.] Over the vicar, top o' the tree, The Village Blacksmith stands; The smith a mighty man is he, With power in his strong hands; And his victory well may stir alarms In Squire-Parsonic bands. The Squire looks black, his face is long,-- "Vicar not in the van? Oh! things are going to the doose As fast as e'er they can! The blacksmith with his grimy face Has proved to be best man. "Week in, week out, he'll spout and fight! We shall hear him bluff and blow. He'll vote the good old times all wrong, The good old fashions slow; And won't he run the rates right up, And keep tithe-charges low? "He'll have his finger in the School, He'll open wide its door; He'll keep the Voluntaries starved, And let the School-Board score. And he'll want baths and washhouses And villas for the poor! "Then he may 'go for' the Old Church, And rouse the village boys To listen, not to Parson's drone, But Agitation's voice, And 'stead o' singing in the choir He'll swell Rad ranters' noise. "'Twill sound to _him_ like Wisdom's voice, Preaching of Paradise, As though the thing were at his door; Plumbed with Progressive lies, He'll think _his_ hard, rough hand will wipe The Squire's and Parson's eyes. "Broiling--orating--borrowing, Swelling the rates, he goes. Reform's raw task he will begin, But who shall see it close? Church will be robbed, and Land be sold. Farewell old-time repose! "'Tis thanks to you, my loud Rad friends, These lessons _you_ have taught! By folly from the flaming forge _Our_ fortunes must be wrought. And _won't_ there be a blessed mess Before the fight is fought!" * * * * * [Illustration: "AN OLD OFFENDER."