The knout upon the bare white back! The gaunt wolves, close upon the track, And this that one might wear a crown With harlot in desire! Yet on, beneath the great North Star, That long line struggled black and far And great men praised the goodly Czar— ** * The storm burst forth! From out that storm The clean, red lightning leapt, And lo, a prostrate royal form!— Like any blood, his crept Down through the snow, all smoking warm, And Alexander slept! Yea, one lies dead for millions dead! One red spot in the snow For one long damning line of red; While exiles endless go— The babe at breast, the mother's head Bowed down, and dying so! And did a woman do this deed? Then build her scaffold high, That all may on her forehead read Her martyr's right to die! Ring Cossack round on royal steed! Now lift her to the sky! But see! From out the black hood shines 1 A light few look upon! Poor exiles, see! from dark, deep mines, * The Czar is dead; the woman dead, About her neck a cord. In God's house rests his royal head- Yet I had rather have her bed Than thine, most royal lord! Yea, rather be that woman dead, To hide in dread, with both hands red, While, like the dead, still endless tread CHARITY. Her hands were clasped downward and doubled, Her robes were all dust and disorder'd, Her glory of hair, and her brow; Her face that had lifted and lorded, Fell pallid and passionless now. She heard not accusers that brought her Nor heeded, nor said, nor besought her All crushed and stone-cast in behavior, What wrote He? How fondly one lingers Fell down from the beautiful fingers O better the Scian uncherished Had died ere a note or device He arose, and He looked on the daughter And he heard the revilers that brought her— And he said, "She has sinned; let the blameless Come forward and cast the first stone!" But they, they fled shamed and yet shameless; And she, she stood white and alone. Who now shall accuse and arraign us? What man shall condemn and disown? Since Christ has said only the stainless Shall cast at his fellows a stone. For what man can bare us his bosom, O woman, born first to believe us; O first then in all that is human, Lo first where the Nazarene trod, O woman! O beautiful woman! Be then first in the kingdom of God! The faithful helm commands the keel, So, man to man; in fair accord, On thought and will, the winds may wait; From soul to soul the shortest line At best will bended be: The ship that holds the straightest course Still sails the convex sea. THE CITY STREETS. A City of Palaces! Yes, that's true: a city of palaces built for trade; Look down this street-what a splendid view of the temples where fabulous gains are made. Just glance at the wealth of a single pile, the marble pillars, the miles of glass, |