THE SUNDAY MASSACRE, ST. PETERSBURG, JANUARY 22

H E heard his loyal people cry
Like children to a saint:
" Help, Little Father, or we die!
We starve, we freeze, we faint.
The noble hears not for his crimes,
The soldier, for his drum,
The Procurator, for his chimes —
To thee at last we come.

" To-morrow, when the bells have ceased,
Before thy palace door
A throng shall stand, as at a feast,
Thy mercy to implore.
And that with favor it be crowned,
The prayer we bring to thee
Shall on the Holy Cross be bound
As Christ on Calvary. "

Then the good angel of the Czar
Spake with a sibyl's voice:
" Let no mischance this moment mar,
'T is sent thee to rejoice.
Go meet thy people as they trudge
Toward thee their weary way,
To find in thee a righteous judge;
And go unarmed as they.

" Enough, through centuries of wrong,
Thy line's inverted fame,
Romanoff has been long, too long
The synonym of shame.
Then haste to meet the cross afar,
Do thou what courage can,
And thou shalt be the greater Czar
If thou but show thee man. "

He rose, resolved; but — fortune dire! —
One glance his purpose crossed:
An impulse from some recreant sire
Triumphed, and he was lost.
The flower is trampled in the sod;
False dawn delays the day:
And once again the Will of God
Marches the bloody way.