Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/162



The time has come! Disaster beats its wings. With every day the insults grow. The. hour will strike, and without ruth Your proud and powerless Paestums be laid low.

Oh pause, old world, while life still beats in you. Oh weary one, oh worn, oh wise! Halt here, as once did Œdipus Before the Sphinx's enigmatic eyes.

Yea, Russia is a Sphinx. Exulting, grieving, And sweating blood, she cannot sate Her eyes that gaze and gaze and gaze At you with stone-lipped love for you, and hate.

Go, all of you, to Ural fastnesses, We clear the battle-ground for war; Cold Number shaping guns of steel Where the fierce Mongol hordes in frenzy pour.

But we, we shall no longer be your shield. But, careless of the battle-cries, Shall watch the deadly duel seethe, Aloof, with indurate and narrow eyes.

We shall not move when the ferocious Hun Despoils the corpse and leaves it bare, Burns towns, herds cattle in the church, And smell of white flesh roasting fills the air.

For the last time, old world, we bid you come, Feast brotherly within our walls. To share our peace and glowing toil Once only the barbarian lyre calls.