| |
| | “Pan-Mongolism—though the word is strange, |
| My ear acclaims its gongs.” |
| —VLADIMIR SOLOVYOV. |
YOU are the millions, we are multitude | |
| And multitude and multitude. | |
| Come, fight! Yea, we are Scythians, | |
| Yea, Asians, a squint-eyed, greedy brood. | |
| |
| For you: the centuries; for us: one hour. | 5 |
| Like slaves, obeying and abhorred, | |
| We were the shield between the breeds | |
| Of Europe and the raging Mongol horde. | |
| |
| For centuries your ancient hammers forged | |
| And drowned the thunder of far hates. | 10 |
| You heard like wild fantastic tales | |
| Old Lisbon’s and Messina’s sudden fates. | |
| |
| Yea, so to love as our hot blood can love | |
| Long since you ceased to love; the taste | |
| You have forgotten, of a love | 15 |
| That burns like fire and like the fire lays waste. | |
| |
| All things we love: clear numbers’ burning chill, | |
| The ecstasies that secret bloom. | |
| All things we know: the Gallic light | |
| And the parturient Germanic gloom. | 20 |
| |
| And we remember all: Parisian hells, | |
| The breath of Venice’s lagoons, | |
| Far fragrance of green lemon groves, | |
| And dim Cologne’s cathedral-splintered moons. | |
| |
| And flesh we love, its color and its taste, | 25 |
| Its deathy odor, heavy, raw. | |
| And is it our guilt if your bones | |
| May crack beneath our powerful supple paw? | |
| |
| It is our wont to seize wild colts at play: | |
| They rear and impotently shake | 30 |
| Wild manes—we crush their mighty croups. | |
| And shrewish women slaves we tame—or break. | |
| |
| Come unto us, from the black ways of war, | |
| Come to our peaceful arms and rest. | |
| Comrades, while it is not too late, | 35 |
| Sheathe the old sword. May brotherhood be blest. | |
| |
| If not, we have not anything to lose. | |
| We also know old perfidies. | |
| By sick descendants you will be | |
| Accursed for centuries and centuries. | 40 |
| |
| To welcome pretty Europe, we shall spread | |
| And scatter in the tangled space | |
| Of our wide thickets. We shall turn | |
| To you our alien Asiatic face. | |
| |
| For centuries your eyes were toward the East. | 45 |
| Our pearls you hoarded in your chests, | |
| And mockingly you bode the day | |
| When you could aim your cannon at our breasts. | |
| |
| The time has come! Disaster beats its wings. | |
| With every day the insults grow. | 50 |
| The hour will strike, and without ruth | |
| Your proud and powerless Paestums be laid low. | |
| |
| Oh pause, old world, while life still beats in you. | |
| Oh weary one, oh worn, oh wise! | |
| Halt here, as once did Œdipus | 55 |
| Before the Sphinx’s enigmatic eyes. | |
| |
| Yea, Russia is a Sphinx. Exulting, grieving, | |
| And sweating blood, she cannot sate | |
| Her eyes that gaze and gaze and gaze | |
| At you with stone-lipped love for you, and hate. | 60 |
| |
| Go, all of you, to Ural fastnesses, | |
| We clear the battle-ground for war; | |
| Cold Number shaping guns of steel | |
| Where the fierce Mongol hordes in frenzy pour. | |
| |
| But we, we shall no longer be your shield. | 65 |
| But, careless of the battle-cries, | |
| Shall watch the deadly duel seethe, | |
| Aloof, with indurate and narrow eyes. | |
| |
| We shall not move when the ferocious Hun | |
| Despoils the corpse and leaves it bare, | 70 |
| Burns towns, herds cattle in the church, | |
| And smell of white flesh roasting fills the air. | |
| |
| For the last time, old world, we bid you come, | |
| Feast brotherly within our walls. | |
| To share our peace and glowing toil | 75 |
| Once only the barbarian lyre calls. | |
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