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Always the generations pass, Like sand through Heaven’s blue hour-glass!

The time the King of Rome is born-- Napoleon’s son, that eaglet thing-- Bonaparte finds beside his throne One evening, laughing in her wing, The Chinese sea-child; and she cries, Breaking his heart with emerald eyes And fairy-bred unearthly grace: “Master, take your destined place-- Across white foam and water blue The streets of China call to you: The Empire of China is crumbling down.” Then he bends to kiss her mouth, And gets but incense, dust and drouth.

Custodians, custodians! Mongols and Manchurians! Christians, wolves, Mohammedans!

In hard Berlin they cried: “O King, China’s way is a shameful thing!”

In Tokio they cry: “O King, China’s way is a shameful thing!”

And thus our song might call the roll Of every land from pole to pole, And every rumor known to time Of China doddering--or sublime.