“The Czar is dying!”. . . And the long day passed,
And Dusk came up the awful Russian plain
And dimmed the palace where the Czar at last
Lay bound with thongs of pain.
The hours stole by, and the attendants slept;
For a brief space the monarch was alone.
Elsewhere the worn Czarina sobbed and wept
In stifled undertone.
The Czar of all the Russias―even he!―
Lay suffering torture with each labored breath;
Soon to be stripped of all his majesty
For the majesty of Death.
“A wise and noble Ruler,” Europe said . . .
And of a sudden trembles many a throne
Which will have lost a friend when he is dead
Who lieth there alone.
But thro’ the night what awful sounds are these
That on his dying ear now break and swell,
Like voices caught and borne upon the breeze
From spirits out of hell?
What is this long procession stumbling past
With bleeding feet and outcries of despair―
Wan-eyed, white-lipped, with faces all aghast,
And rent and tangled hair?
Great God, what prayers mount the silent night
From those thin lips! What tears those wild eyes weep!
What curses from those corded throats and white
Burst strong and fierce and deep!
Oh, see the bare backs guttered by the knout!
The prints of blood where those torn feet have trod!
Pure women spat upon, their strength worn out―
Dost Thou see these things, God?
The Czar of all the Russias sees them―ay,
Although his eyes are swiftly growing dim;
Those anguished prayers breathed to the silent sky
Are audible to him.
He sees old men with bare and mangled backs
Go staggering on with neither sleep nor rest;
The fainting mothers falling in their tracks
With starved lips at the breast.
Who are these ghosts? Have they come up from hell
Across Siberian steppes once more to bleed?
To crouch at last in a foul prison cell,
On tortured thought to feed?
The Czar―the Czar of all the Russias―knows.
Attendants, ho! Awake! the Czar is dead!
Straighten the body and the wild eyes close―
Set the crown above the head!
Now, every wretch beneath Siberian star―
Give praise to Heaven with uplifted head!
Thank God, thank God, that all the Russias’ Czar
Is dead―is dead―is dead!
“The Czar of All the Russias” as it appears in Higginson’s When the Birds Go North Again (1898).