William Watson (Уильям Уотсон)

The Russ at Kara

O King of kings, that watching from Thy throne
  Sufferest the monster of Ust-Kara's hold,
  With bosom than Siberia's wastes more cold,
And hear'st the wail of captives crushed and prone,
And sett'st no sign in heaven! Shall naught atone
  For their wild pangs whose tale is yet scarce told,
  Women by uttermost woe made deadly bold,
In the far dungeon's night that hid their moan?
Why waits Thy shattering arm, nor smites this Power
  Whose beak and talons rend the unshielded breast,
    Whose wings shed terror and a plague of gloom,
  Whose ravin is the hearts of the oppressed;
Whose brood are hell-births—Hate that bides its hour,
    Wrath, and a people's curse that loathe their doom?

1. To a Friend
2. Well He Slumbers, Greatly Slain
3. And These - Are These Indeed the End
4. Liberty Rejected
5. On Exaggerated Deference to Foreign Literary Opinion

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1280

Последние стихотворения

To English version