II
Russia, thy bitter sorrows partly spring
From the deep cleavage which, as with a knife,
Severs what is most native in thy life
From what thy troubled history doth bring
Out of dark days that threatened once to wring
That life itself from thee. The very strife
That heals our Europe through thy pains, is rife
With thine own Tragedy, still on the wing.
Here stand thine institutes, designed to sway
A local life within thee, Zemstvo, Mir,
And Duma, people’s parliaments; and here
The iron empire with the feet of clay,
That froward issue of the Olden day
When Ivan’s legions laid the Tartar spear.
Hesepe, 22nd May