Russia, 1917
No monarch's hand can stay the morning star
Of Liberty. Though, like a miner's lamp
Long years her light burned swart with dungeon damp,
Yet Liberty above the fallen czar
Now flames electric, etching vast and far
Her radiant image on the darkling camp
Of mazed Russia, healing the old cramp
Of tyranny and superstition's scar.
No gulf of earth or tide can stay the increase
Of freedom's lovers. Russia, not our meed
Of tears for your long anguish, nor indeed
Our happy tears for your divine release
Shall speak our love, but this: with souls alive
To war with you on czars who still survive.
Of Liberty. Though, like a miner's lamp
Long years her light burned swart with dungeon damp,
Yet Liberty above the fallen czar
Now flames electric, etching vast and far
Her radiant image on the darkling camp
Of mazed Russia, healing the old cramp
Of tyranny and superstition's scar.
No gulf of earth or tide can stay the increase
Of freedom's lovers. Russia, not our meed
Of tears for your long anguish, nor indeed
Our happy tears for your divine release
Shall speak our love, but this: with souls alive
To war with you on czars who still survive.
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