Spirit of Russia, now has come The day when thou canst not be dumb. Around thee foams the torrent tide, Above thee its fell fountain, Pride. The senseless rock awaits thy word To crumble; shall it be unheard? Already, like a tempest-sun, That shoots the flare and shuts to dun, Thy land ’twixt flame and darkness heaves, Showing the blade wherewith Fate cleaves, If mortals in high courage fail At the one breath before the gale. Those rulers in all forms of lust, Who trod thy children down to dust On the red Sunday, know right well What word for them thy voice would spell, What quick perdition for them weave, Did they in such a voice believe. Not thine to raise the avenger’s shriek, Nor turn to them a Tolstoi cheek; Nor menace him, the waverer still, Man of much heart and little will, The criminal of his high seat, Whose plea of Guiltless judges it. For him thy voice shall bring to hand Salvation, and to thy torn land, Seen on the breakers. Now has come The day when thou canst not be dumb, Spirit of Russia:—those who bind Thy limbs and iron-cap thy mind, Take thee for quaking flesh, misdoubt That thou art of the rabble rout Which cries and flees, with whimpering lip, From reckless gun and brutal whip; But he who has at heart the deeds Of thy heroic offspring reads In them a soul; not given to shrink From peril on the abyss’s brink; With never dread of murderous power; With view beyond the crimson hour; Neither an instinct-driven might, Nor visionary erudite; A soul; that art thou. It remains For thee to stay thy children’s veins, The countertides of hate arrest, Give to thy sons a breathing breast, And Him resembling, in His sight, Say to thy land, Let there be Light.

OCTOBER 21, 1905

The hundred years have passed, and he Whose name appeased a nation’s fears, As with a hand laid over sea; To thunder through the foeman’s ears Defeat before his blast of fire; Lives in the immortality That poets dream and noblest souls desire. Never did nation’s need evoke Hero like him for aid, the while A Continent was cannon-smoke Or peace in slavery: this one Isle Reflecting Nature: this one man Her sea-hound and her mortal stroke, With war-worn body aye in battle’s van. And do we love him well, as well As he his country, we may greet, With hand on steel, our passing bell Nigh on the swing, for prelude sweet To the music heard when his last breath Hung on its ebb beside the knell, And Victory in his ear sang gracious Death. Ah, day of glory! day of tears! Day of a people bowed as one! Behold across those hundred years The lion flash of gun at gun: Our bitter pride; our love bereaved; What pall of cloud o’ercame our sun That day, to bear his wreath, the end achieved. Joy that no more with murder’s frown The ancient rivals bark apart. Now Nelson to brave France is shown A hero after her own heart: And he now scanning that quick race, To whom through life his glove was thrown, Would know a sister spirit to embrace.

THE CENTENARY OF GARIBALDI

We who have seen Italia in the throes, Half risen but to be hurled to ground, and now Like a ripe field of wheat where once drove plough All bounteous as she is fair, we think of those Who blew the breath of life into her frame: Cavour, Mazzini, Garibaldi: Three: Her Brain, her Soul, her Sword; and set her free From ruinous discords, with one lustrous aim. That aim, albeit they were of minds diverse, Conjoined them, not to strive without surcease; For them could be no babblement of peace While lay their country under Slavery’s curse. The set of torn Italia’s glorious day Was ever sunrise in each filial breast. Of eagle beaks by righteousness unblest They felt her pulsing body made the prey. Wherefore they struck, and had to count their dead. With bitter smile of resolution nerved To try new issues, holding faith unswerved, Promise they gathered from the rich blood shed. In them Italia, visible to us then As living, rose; for proof that huge brute Force Has never being from celestial source, And is the lord of cravens, not of men. Now breaking up the crust of temporal strife, Who reads their acts enshrined in History, sees That Tyrants were the Revolutionaries, The Rebels men heart-vowed to hallowed life. Pure as the Archangel’s cleaving Darkness thro’, The Sword he sees, the keen unwearied Sword, A single blade against a circling horde, And aye for Freedom and the trampled few. The cry of Liberty from dungeon cell, From exile, was his God’s command to smite, As for a swim in sea he joined the fight, With radiant face, full sure that he did well. Behold a warrior dealing mortal strokes, Whose nature was a child’s: amid his foes A wary trickster: at the battle’s close, No gentler friend this leopard dashed with fox. Down the long roll of History will run The story of these deeds, and speed his race Beneath defeat more hotly to embrace The noble cause and trust to another sun. And lo, that sun is in Italia’s skies This day, by grace of his good sword in part. It beckons her to keep a warrior heart For guard of beauty, all too sweet a prize. Earth gave him: blessèd be the Earth that gave. Earth’s Master crowned his honest work on earth: Proudly Italia names his place of birth: The bosom of Humanity his grave.

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