Poems (Proctor)/Russia
RUSSIA.(1890.)
Where is the dauntless spirit
Of the glorious Slavs of old?—
The swift resolve, the swifter hand,
The force no king controlled?
O for one peal of the Veché bell!
One hour of the potent surge and swell
When they hailed with scorn a recreant chief:
"Prince! we salute thee!"—and he fell
From his high estate, at their bidding bold,
As falls to earth a light-hung leaf
When the north wind roars adown the wold!
O for the Cossacks' burning zeal,
On the boundless plain, by the flowing river,
When all for freedom they defied,
And with their latest heart-beat cried,
"May the Russian Land rejoice forever!"
Of the glorious Slavs of old?—
The swift resolve, the swifter hand,
The force no king controlled?
O for one peal of the Veché bell!
One hour of the potent surge and swell
When they hailed with scorn a recreant chief:
"Prince! we salute thee!"—and he fell
From his high estate, at their bidding bold,
As falls to earth a light-hung leaf
When the north wind roars adown the wold!
O for the Cossacks' burning zeal,
On the boundless plain, by the flowing river,
When all for freedom they defied,
And with their latest heart-beat cried,
"May the Russian Land rejoice forever!"
What! shall a hundred millions
Be dumb at the word of one?
The light of their day be darkened
While above them shines the sun?
Shall the flower of the Russian people,
The tender, lofty souls,
Through exile, torture, madness,
But swell the martyrs' rolls?—
Rise in your ancient grandeur,
O race of love and fire,
And flame till ice and rock shall melt
In the blast of your holy ire!
Till the very stars shall fight for you,
And all the winds that blow
Shall swell your cry for Liberty,
Shall chant your speechless woe!
Let the sword rest in its scabbard;—
Your wrongs shall be the blade
To cleave the bonds that have bound you,
And win the world to aid.
In the might of Slavie manhood,
In the power of God on high,
Claim and defend your birthright!—
And the despot's rule shall die.
Be dumb at the word of one?
The light of their day be darkened
While above them shines the sun?
Shall the flower of the Russian people,
The tender, lofty souls,
Through exile, torture, madness,
But swell the martyrs' rolls?—
Rise in your ancient grandeur,
O race of love and fire,
And flame till ice and rock shall melt
In the blast of your holy ire!
Till the very stars shall fight for you,
And all the winds that blow
Shall swell your cry for Liberty,
Shall chant your speechless woe!
Let the sword rest in its scabbard;—
Your wrongs shall be the blade
To cleave the bonds that have bound you,
And win the world to aid.
In the might of Slavie manhood,
In the power of God on high,
Claim and defend your birthright!—
And the despot's rule shall die.