 | English Roses |  |
RUSSIAN PEACE.
“Russia continues to pursue her policy of peace.”
The Times, 1 May, 1896.
The Times, 1 May, 1896.
We know the feelings of the fox
To geese and fowls are pure devotion,
If mainly meant for his promotion—
While his good taste is orthodox.
We know the wolf for tender sheep,
If they should chance to think it harder,
Combines affection with his ardour
Determined what he gets to keep—
In calm of death's unwaking sleep,
With love that's bounded by the larder.
And Russia's kindness has no lease,
An endless “Policy of Peace.”
To geese and fowls are pure devotion,
If mainly meant for his promotion—
While his good taste is orthodox.
We know the wolf for tender sheep,
If they should chance to think it harder,
Combines affection with his ardour
Determined what he gets to keep—
In calm of death's unwaking sleep,
With love that's bounded by the larder.
And Russia's kindness has no lease,
An endless “Policy of Peace.”
Religiously she on her path
Of civilizing power and progress,
Pursues her mission like an ogress
And leaves us even no aftermath.
Devouring in her Christian creed
A valley here and there a village,
She ploughs the land with ruddy tillage
And broadcast sows the generous seed;
She makes all prostrate kingdoms bleed,
And gives them to the Cross and pillage;
Wipes out in rapine each rude crease,
And wires a “Policy of Peace.”
Of civilizing power and progress,
Pursues her mission like an ogress
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Devouring in her Christian creed
A valley here and there a village,
She ploughs the land with ruddy tillage
And broadcast sows the generous seed;
She makes all prostrate kingdoms bleed,
And gives them to the Cross and pillage;
Wipes out in rapine each rude crease,
And wires a “Policy of Peace.”
But here the Khanates pave her road
And even the Afghan realm she fingers,
Or at the gate of China lingers
And wants to ease her heavy load.
There on the Pamirs is her mat,
And everywhere she cuts new slices
Or makes a tool of Turkish vices;
She trifles with the Persian cat,
And pushes closer to Herat
The hand that threatens or entices.
The rouble is the ready grease,
To smooth her “Policy of Peace.”
And even the Afghan realm she fingers,
Or at the gate of China lingers
And wants to ease her heavy load.
There on the Pamirs is her mat,
And everywhere she cuts new slices
Or makes a tool of Turkish vices;
She trifles with the Persian cat,
And pushes closer to Herat
The hand that threatens or entices.
The rouble is the ready grease,
To smooth her “Policy of Peace.”
Yes, Russia labours with the Lord
For others and her little coffers,
And to confiding peoples offers
The blessings of her faith and sword.
Stout Missionaries bear her arms
With sisters, candlesticks and crosses,
The sacred bones and private glosses,
And all her panoply of charms;
To heal the Abyssinians' harms,
And soothe the Negus for his losses.
While as the graves on graves increase,
She spreads her “Policy of Peace.”
For others and her little coffers,
And to confiding peoples offers
The blessings of her faith and sword.
Stout Missionaries bear her arms
With sisters, candlesticks and crosses,
The sacred bones and private glosses,
And all her panoply of charms;
To heal the Abyssinians' harms,
And soothe the Negus for his losses.
While as the graves on graves increase,
She spreads her “Policy of Peace.”
Her philanthropic raids in lust
Of land go on, though rather grimly,
To those who read her mandate dimly
In burning towns and wrack and dust.
We mark a silence sad and cold
Bequeathed to every subject nation,
Which humbly bows to her salvation;
It savours of the winter's hold,
Or quiet in the burial mould
And the still churchyard's desolation.
But yet her mercies do not cease,
And show her “Policy of Peace.”
Of land go on, though rather grimly,
To those who read her mandate dimly
In burning towns and wrack and dust.
We mark a silence sad and cold
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Which humbly bows to her salvation;
It savours of the winter's hold,
Or quiet in the burial mould
And the still churchyard's desolation.
But yet her mercies do not cease,
And show her “Policy of Peace.”
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