Pressed to the borders where you lately passed
Bulging with insolence and fat with pride,
You stake your all upon a desperate cast
To stem the gathering tide.
Eastward the Russian draws you to his fold,
Content, on his own ground, to bide his day,
Out of whose toils not many feet of old
Found the returning way.
And still along the seas our watchers keep
Their grip upon your throat with bands of steel,