THE WAITS TO THE CZAR.
Word of Peace!—on Earth first spoken nigh two thousand years ago,
Art thou at this moment broken?—and who dares belie thee so?
'Tis a tyrant, cruel, scheming, whose ambition takes the field
In the very name, blaspheming, which that message then revealed.
Frost and snow, keen Christmas weather, and the biting winter wind,
Bid us lovingly together huddle closely, all mankind;
Blood is on the Danube freezing; wounds are agonized with cold,
Only for the sake of pleasing one proud felon uncontrolled.
All good souls are now beseeching blessings on their fellow man,
But one savage, overreaching, brutal despot, thousands ban.
On the field of battle lying, torn and mangled for his whim,
Hear we not the tortured dying call down curses upon him?
Nations now like kindly neighbours should, as round the Yule log, close.
Must we take to guns and sabres? Will the tyrant make us foes?
Hear the wounded writhing under Cossack hoofs and lances then,
Gracious Heaven! and may the thunder of our cannon roar Amen!