The Guardian Of The Red Disk.

Spoken by a Citizen of Malta - 1300.     A curious title held in high repute,     One among many honors, thickly strewn     On my lord Bishop's head, his grace of Malta.     Nobly he bears them all, - with tact, skill, zeal,     Fulfills each special office, vast or slight,     Nor slurs the least minutia, - therewithal     Wears such a stately aspect of command,     Broad-checked, broad-chested, reverend, sanctified,     Haloed with white about the tonsure's rim,     With dropped lids o'er the piercing Spanish eyes     (Lynx-keen, I warrant, to spy out heresy);     Tall, massive form, o'ertowering all in presence,     Or ere they kneel to kiss the large white hand.     His looks sustain his deeds, - the perfect prelate,     Whose void chair shall be taken, but not filled.     You know not, who are foreign to the isle,     Haply, what this Red Disk may be, he guards.     'T is the bright blotch, big as the Royal seal,     Branded beneath the beard of every Jew.     These vermin so infest the isle, so slide     Into all byways, highways that may lead     Direct or roundabout to wealth or power,     Some plain, plump mark was needed, to protect     From the degrading contact Christian folk.     The evil had grown monstrous: certain Jews     Wore such a haughty air, had so refined,     With super-subtile arts, strict, monkish lives,     And studious habit, the coarse Hebrew type,     One might have elbowed in the public mart     Iscariot, - nor suspected one's soul-peril.     Christ's blood! it sets my flesh a-creep to think!     We may breathe freely now, not fearing taint,     Praise be our good Lord Bishop! He keeps count     Of every Jew, and prints on cheek or chin     The scarlet stamp of separateness, of shame.     No beard, blue-black, grizzled or Judas-colored,     May hide that damning little wafer-flame.     When one appears therewith, the urchins know     Good sport's at hand; they fling their stones and mud,     Sure of their game. But most the wisdom shows     Upon the unbelievers' selves; they learn     Their proper rank; crouch, cringe, and hide, - lay by     Their insolence of self-esteem; no more     Flaunt forth in rich attire, but in dull weeds,     Slovenly donned, would slink past unobserved;     Bow servile necks and crook obsequious knees,     Chin sunk in hollow chest, eyes fixed on earth     Or blinking sidewise, but to apprehend     Whether or not the hated spot be spied.     I warrant my Lord Bishop has full hands,     Guarding the Red Disk - lest one rogue escape!