Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/175

Fit end for nightmare mist of blood and tears,
Red climax to the slow, abortive years.

The world draws breath one long, deep-shuddering sigh,
At that which dullest brain prefigured clear
As swift-sure bolt from thunder-threatening sky.
How heaven-anointed humblest lots appear
Beside his glittering eminence of fear;
His spiked crown, sackcloth purple, poisoned cates,
His golden palace honey-combed with hates.

Well, it is done ! A most heroic plan,
Which after myriad plots succeeds at last
In robbing of his life one poor old man,
Whose sole offense his birthright has but passed
To fresher blood, with younger strength recast.
What men are these, who, clamoring to be free,
Would bestialize the world to what they be?

Whose sons are they who made that snow-wreathed head
Their frenzy s target ? In their Russian veins,
What alien current urged on to smite him dead
Whose word had loosed a million Russian chains?
What brutes were they for whom such speechless pains,