Ii

Russia, thy bitter sorrows partly spring From the deep cleavage which, as with a knife, Severs what is most native in thy life From what thy troubled history doth bring Out of dark days that threatened once to wring That life itself from thee. The very strife That heals our Europe through thy pains, is rife With thine own Tragedy, still on the wing. Here stand thine institutes, designed to sway A local life within thee, Zemstvo, Mir, And Duma, people’s parliaments; and here The iron empire with the feet of clay, That froward issue of the Olden day When Ivan’s legions laid the Tartar spear.

HESEPE, 22nd May