In one regard I plainly see
Thou hast betimes great progress made;
Religious prejudice for thee
Hath in its sepulcher been laid.
It grieves thee not that they who praise
A prophet whom thou countest none,
Afflict a land, from ancient days
Holding the faith which is thine own.
But pride thee not in progress such;
It is the progress of disease,
That holds thee in its numbing clutch
And soon thy vital parts shall freeze.
If thou wert truly tolerant
Thy blood within thy veins would boil
That creed, the worst or best, should plant
Its foot on an unwilling soil.
It is not breadth but policy
That holdeth back the avenging hand;
Of all the Turks the worst is he
Of Christian name in Christian land.