done!
O foul young fox, no more young girls' fresh lips
Shall bruise and bleed to cool your lecher's lust.
Slowly from out the great high terraced clouds
The round moon sailed. The dead were left alone.

* * * * *

I talked with one of those who did this thing,
A coughing half-starved lad, mere skin and bone.
I said: "They found upon those dead men, gold.
Why did you not take it?" Then with proud-raised head,
He looked at me and said: "_Sorr_, _we're not thaves_!"

_Brother_, _from up the maimed and mangled earth_,
_Strewn with our flesh and bones_, _wet with our blood_,
_Let that great word go up to unjust heaven_
_And smite the cheek of the devil they've called_ "_God_!"

"HOLY RUSSIA."

Crouched in the terrible land,
The circle of pitiless ice,
With frozen bloody feet
And her pestilential summer's
Fever-throb in her brow,
Look, in her deep slow eyes
The mists of her sleep of faith
Stir, and a gleam of light,
The ray of a blood-red sun,
Beams out into the dusk.
From far away, from the west,
From the east, from the south, there come
Faint sweet breaths of the breeze
Of plenteous warmth and light.
And she moves, and around her neck
She feels the iron-scaled Snake
Whose fangs suck at the heart
Hid by her tattered dress,
By her lean and hanging teat.
Russia, O land of faith,
O realm of the ageless Slav,
O oppressed one of eternity,
This darkest hour is the hour,
The hour of the coming dawn!
Europe the rank, the corrupt,
Lies stretched out at your feet.
Turkey, India, lo all,
East and south, it is yours!

Years, years ago a nation, {44}
Oppressed as you are oppressed,
Burst her bonds and leaped out,
A volcanic sea-wave of fire,
Quenched at last but in blood,
Though not before the red spray
Dashed the Pyramids, the Escurial,
Rome and your own grey Kremlin.
That was the great sea-wave
Of a nation that disbelieved,
Of a nation that had not faith!
_What shall the sea-wave be_
_Of this race of eternal belief_,
_This nation of a passionate faith_?

PERE-LA-CHAISE. {45}
(_Paris_.)

I stood in Pere-la-Chaise. The putrid city,
Paris, the harlot of the nations, lay,
The bug-bright thing that knows not love nor pity,
Flashing her bare shame to the summer's day.

Here