Epitaph

Here murdered by the frenzied, not the free, Lies the latest monarch of a star-crossed line; Anointed Emperor by right divine, From Arctic icefields to the Aral sea, From Warsaw to the walls of Tartary. His country’s travail claimed a high design; Too stubborn to respond, he shrank supine Before the large demand of destiny.

Bereft of crown, and throne, and hearth and name, Grief lent him majesty, and suffering Gave him a more than regal diadem. His people kissed the desecrated hem Of robes not now of splendour but of shame, And knelt before their undiminished King.