Before the altar will you lay again
Your "shining armour," and renew your plight
To wear it ever clean of stain?
Like incense will you lift to God your breath
In praise that you are privileged by fate
To do His little ones to death?
That saw your cruisers' latest gallant feat,
Kneel at your side, and ask with pious mient
A special blessing on the fleet?
I will be humble. Though my own bright sword
Has shattered Belgium, yet will I bestow
The credit on a higher Lord.
The smoke of burning temples shall ascend,
With none to intercept the savoury fume,
Straight upward to my honoured Friend."
God is not mocked with words: His judgment stands;
Nor all the waters of His cleansing seas
Can wash the blood-guilt from your hands?
What other hope has this New Year to give?
For outraged earth has laid on you a ban
Not to be lifted while you live.
O.S.
My Brother,—There are many who in these days gnash their teeth against you and pursue with malice and reproach the words you utter and the deeds you perform, so that verily the tempests of the world beat about your head. It may please you, therefore, to know that there is one man at least whose affectionate admiration for you has suffered no decrease, nay, has rather been augmented a hundredfold by the events of the past half-year. Need I say that I am that man?
It is true that I have been shorn of my honours and privileges, that I live in exile as a prisoner and that the vile insulters of fallen majesty compass me about. I who once dwelt in splendour and issued my commands to the legions of the faithful am treated with contumely by a filthy pack of time-servers, and have nothing that I can call my own except, for the moment, the air that I breathe. Oh, for an hour of the old liberty and power! It would amuse me to see the faces of Enver and of my wretched brother Mohammed as I ordered them to execution—them and their gang of villainous parasites. By the bowstring of my fathers, but that would be a great and worthy killing! Pardon the fond day-dreams of a poor and lonely old man whose only crime has been that he loved his country too well and treated his enemies with a kindness not to be understood by those black and revengeful hearts.
I remember that in the old days there were not wanting those who warned me against you. "Beware," they said, "of the German Emperor. He will use you for his own purposes, and will then cast you aside like an orange that has been squeezed." But I paid no heed to their jealous imaginings, and I had my reward. Not, indeed, that you were able to save me when the wicked burst upon me and cast me down. The stroke was too sudden, and you, alas, were too far. But the memory of our delightful friendship is still with me to sustain and comfort me in my tribulations. I still have some of the letters in which you poured out your heart to me, and when melancholy oppresses me I take them from my breast and read them over and over again.
It is a joy to me to know that there is a firm alliance between my brave Turks and your magnanimous soldiers. I doubt not that Allah, the good old friend of the Turks, will continue to bless you and give you victory after victory over your enemies. It is no less a joy to learn how gloriously and how sagaciously you are conducting this war. They tell me that your ships have bombarded the coast towns of England, and that five or six hundred of the inhabitants have fallen before your avenging shells. What matters it that these towns were not fortified in the strict and stupid sense, and that there were many women and children amongst those you slew? The towns were fortified in the sense that they were hostile to your high benevolence, and as for women and children you need not even dream of excusing yourself to me. These English are no better than Armenians. It is necessary to extirpate them, and the younger you catch them the less time they have for devising wickedness against the Chosen of Allah. As for women, they need hardly be taken into account. In all matters I know by your actions that you agree. You must proceed on your noble course until the last of these infidels is swept away to perdition.
May I condole with you on the loss of your four ships of war by the guns of the British Admiral Sturdee? That was, indeed, a cowardly blow, and it is hard to understand why it was allowed.
Farewell then, my Brother. Be assuring again of the undying friendship and admiration of the poor exile,
[Reports continue to reach us from our brave troops in the field that they "never felt fitter," are "in the best of spirits," and so forth.]
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