THE AUTOCRAT’S PRAYER.
Europe! hear the voice that rose
From the chief of Freedom’s foes—
When he bade war’s thunders roll
O’er the country of the Pole—
To his Cossacks on parade
Thus the Calmuck robber said:
“Mine the might, and mine the right,
Stir ye, spur ye to the fight—
Bare the blade, and strike the blow
To the heart’s core of the foe—
Slaughter all the rebel bands
Found with weapons in their hands;
On! the holy work of fate
Russia’s God will consecrate.
“’Tis decreed that they shall bleed
For their dark and trait’rous deed.
Poles! to us by conquest given,
Ye provoke the wrath of Heaven:
Therefore, purging sword and shot
Use we must, and spare you not.
Guardian of our northern faith,
Guide us to the field of death!
“Ere we’ve done, many a one
Shall weep they ever saw the sun.
Rouse the noble in his hall
To a fiery festival;
Dash the stubborn peasant’s mirth—
Drown in blood his alien hearth;
Babe or mother, never falter—
Spear the priest before the altar.
Onward, and avenge our wrong!
God is good, and Russia strong!”
Englishman’s Magazine, No 1.