Of Russia.

Unto the plains of Muscovy

My mind has sometimes wondered,

In that grand struggle to the sea,

Where pelts for trade were plundered.

That Golden Horde, the vestiges

Of once a mighty empire

Left to a ball of hostages

A power to inspire;

And when that largest nation rolled

In onward press to coasts,

The Cossack merchants made their gold,

And dined in winter roasts;

With Catherine and Peter rose

A mighty force of Christians,

And I could wish we might be close,

To lands of such magicians.

That amber splendour's stately room

Bespeaks of inward powers,

Which outward shows, as standing loom,

The Kremlin's faery towers.

Concerned in glory, Christian place,

That spans the continents' shelves,

Touching China's, Europe's, race,

And where an Alaskan delves

Into a shocking sea of cold.

Those bronze cast, copper, golden domes,

Which lighten with glowing fires,

Tell where a hopeful vision roams,

Of faith to our common sires,

Abraham and Jesus written

In Christmas sounds, best of all,

Where the Classical tradition

Supremely blesses a hall;

And where in very bitter wild

Siberian countrymen,

Bear up a brave and happy child,

And their pride is warm within,

Then let the honoured histories read

Aloud to a swelling heart,

Remember those who fought and bled,

And took on the nation's part.

Its peoples' beauty a byword;

Were ever there angels set

In the midst of an earthly herd

In Russia they spin the net

Of their charms, of their looks, and lives;

Where prettiness is a fact

And regarded modesty thrives,

In a virtue's noble pact.