What word for them thy voice would spell,
     What quick perdition for them weave,
     Did they in such a voice believe. 
     Not thine to raise the avenger’s shriek,
     Nor turn to them a Tolstoi cheek;
     Nor menace him, the waverer still,
     Man of much heart and little will,
     The criminal of his high seat,
     Whose plea of Guiltless judges it. 
     For him thy voice shall bring to hand
     Salvation, and to thy torn land,
     Seen on the breakers.  Now has come
     The day when thou canst not be dumb,
     Spirit of Russia:- those who bind
     Thy limbs and iron-cap thy mind,
     Take thee for quaking flesh, misdoubt
     That thou art of the rabble rout
     Which cries and flees, with whimpering lip,
     From reckless gun and brutal whip;
     But he who has at heart the deeds
     Of thy heroic offspring reads
     In them a soul; not given to shrink
     From peril on the abyss’s brink;
     With never dread of murderous power;
     With view beyond the crimson hour;
     Neither an instinct-driven might,
     Nor visionary erudite;
     A soul; that art thou.  It remains
     For thee to stay thy children’s veins,
     The countertides of hate arrest,
     Give to thy sons a breathing breast,
     And Him resembling, in His sight,
     Say to thy land, Let there be Light.

     October 21, 1905

     The hundred years have passed, and he
     Whose name appeased a nation’s fears,
     As with a hand laid over sea;
     To thunder through the foeman’s ears
     Defeat before his blast of fire;
     Lives in the immortality
     That poets dream and noblest souls desire.

     Never did nation’s need evoke
     Hero like him for aid, the while
     A Continent was cannon-smoke
     Or peace in slavery:  this one Isle
     Reflecting Nature:  this one man
     Her sea-hound and her mortal stroke,
     With war-worn body aye in battle’s van.

     And do we love him well, as well
     As he his country, we may greet,
     With hand on steel, our passing bell
     Nigh on the swing, for prelude sweet
     To the music heard when his last breath
     Hung on its ebb beside the knell,
     And victory in his ear sang gracious Death.

     Ah, day of glory! day of tears! 
     Day of a people bowed as one! 
     Behold across those hundred years
     The lion flash of gun at gun: 
     Our bitter pride; our love bereaved;
     What pall of cloud o’ercame our sun
     That day, to bear his wreath, the end achieved.

     Joy that no more with murder’s frown
     The ancient rivals bark apart. 
     Now Nelson to brave France is shown
     A hero after her own heart: 
     And he now scanning that quick race,
     To whom through life his glove was thrown,
     Would know a sister spirit to embrace.