 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
TO THE TSAR.
Crownéd Death, who sittest on the nations
At thy bloody bid,
Quenching starry strains and aspirations,
Like a coffin lid;
Shutting down the thoughts that look and languish,
For their kindred sky,
With the burden of an iron anguish,
Till they cannot fly;
Shutting up, in helpless hopeless rigour,
Hearts that Heavenward call—
Lance at point, and hand upon the trigger—
God is over all.
At thy bloody bid,
Quenching starry strains and aspirations,
Like a coffin lid;
Shutting down the thoughts that look and languish,
For their kindred sky,
With the burden of an iron anguish,
Till they cannot fly;
Shutting up, in helpless hopeless rigour,
Hearts that Heavenward call—
Lance at point, and hand upon the trigger—
God is over all.
Crownéd Death, who with a breast not human
Hatest all things fair,
Waging cruel war with tender woman,
To the altar stair;
Flogging dainty frames, that at condition
Slavish faint and fret,
And with nothing for their soft petition
But the bayonet;
Blows and curses, and the coward thrusting
Of the Cossack spear—
Only these for woman weak and trusting—
God Himself is near.
Hatest all things fair,
Waging cruel war with tender woman,
To the altar stair;
Flogging dainty frames, that at condition
Slavish faint and fret,
And with nothing for their soft petition
But the bayonet;
Blows and curses, and the coward thrusting
Of the Cossack spear—
Only these for woman weak and trusting—
God Himself is near.
Crownèd Death, who but with bonds and terror
Beatest down the lands,
And with crimson streams would'st drown the error
Done by butcher hands;
Throned among the waves and woes, that toss us
On their tempest tide,
Grinning like a Skeleton Colossus,
Which doth earth bestride;
Girt by brutal force, that sere and solemn
Mercy never gives,
Cracked and worthless as a crumbling column—
God Almighty lives.
Beatest down the lands,
And with crimson streams would'st drown the error
Done by butcher hands;
Throned among the waves and woes, that toss us
On their tempest tide,
Grinning like a Skeleton Colossus,
Which doth earth bestride;
Girt by brutal force, that sere and solemn
Mercy never gives,
Cracked and worthless as a crumbling column—
God Almighty lives.
437
Crownéd Death, thou thing of paint and patches,
Fighting against fate,
Thinkest thou to break the will, that hatches
Doom against thy state?
Thinkest thou, to stem the march of ocean
In triumphant flood,
By the mops of might and devils' potion,
Innocence's blood?
Ah, though thou exalted art, and savage
Heedest not the sigh
Wrung from prostrate realms thy armies ravage—
God Himself is high.
Fighting against fate,
Thinkest thou to break the will, that hatches
Doom against thy state?
Thinkest thou, to stem the march of ocean
In triumphant flood,
By the mops of might and devils' potion,
Innocence's blood?
Ah, though thou exalted art, and savage
Heedest not the sigh
Wrung from prostrate realms thy armies ravage—
God Himself is high.
Crownéd Death, dost deem thy bolts and shackles
Can a moment bind,
If the gilded Folly round thee cackles,
Man's immortal mind?
Guns and generals, and brazen swagger
Blinding none but thee,
Are as fragile as a pasteboard dagger,
To the soul's decree;
If thou still dost scatter fears and fetters,
On the dreary drudge—
Nihilists and regicides, thy betters—
God Himself is Judge.
Can a moment bind,
If the gilded Folly round thee cackles,
Man's immortal mind?
Guns and generals, and brazen swagger
Blinding none but thee,
Are as fragile as a pasteboard dagger,
To the soul's decree;
If thou still dost scatter fears and fetters,
On the dreary drudge—
Nihilists and regicides, thy betters—
God Himself is Judge.
Crownéd death, the truth from tower and steeple
Now goes flashing forth,
Vengeance for a starved downtrodden people,
Wakes thy frozen North;
Women, children, man not man, arousing
At that conquering cry,
Catch the sweet voice, through thy mad carousing,
Of young Liberty;
Oh, they feel, though earth be clouded under,
Heaven above is blue,
And if all thy hangmen falsely thunder,
God Himself is true.
Now goes flashing forth,
Vengeance for a starved downtrodden people,
Wakes thy frozen North;
Women, children, man not man, arousing
At that conquering cry,
Catch the sweet voice, through thy mad carousing,
Of young Liberty;
Oh, they feel, though earth be clouded under,
Heaven above is blue,
And if all thy hangmen falsely thunder,
God Himself is true.
Crownéd Death, thy own dark days are numbered,
And the reckoning speeds,
Which too long for weary slaves hath slumbered,
While thy country bleeds;
Tyranny, at length, a black December,
Damned shall surely pass—
And an unwise king, O Tsar, remember,
Is a crownéd ass!
But, in spite of thy imperial braying,
And the drunken ring
Of grand dukes in scarlet sins' arraying—
God Himself is King.
And the reckoning speeds,
Which too long for weary slaves hath slumbered,
While thy country bleeds;
Tyranny, at length, a black December,
Damned shall surely pass—
And an unwise king, O Tsar, remember,
Is a crownéd ass!
But, in spite of thy imperial braying,
And the drunken ring
Of grand dukes in scarlet sins' arraying—
God Himself is King.
438
Crownèd Death, who rulest but by killing,
Varnished o'er with lie,
With thy big battalion's murderous drilling,
Thou thyself shalt die;
Yet the slaves, against whom thy affection
Stubborn is as steel
Homicidal, shall in resurrection
Grind thee under heel;
While thou slayest love and all things holy,
Pitiless at strife
Still with unarmed right and justice lowly—
God Himself is Life.
Varnished o'er with lie,
With thy big battalion's murderous drilling,
Thou thyself shalt die;
Yet the slaves, against whom thy affection
Stubborn is as steel
Homicidal, shall in resurrection
Grind thee under heel;
While thou slayest love and all things holy,
Pitiless at strife
Still with unarmed right and justice lowly—
God Himself is Life.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |