We could not turn from that colossal foe, <br />The morning shadow of whose hideous head <br />Darkened the furthest West, and who did throw <br />His evening shade on Ind. The polar bow <br />Behind him flamed and paled, and through the red <br />Uncertain dark his vasty shape did grow <br />Upon the sleepless nations. Lay him low! <br />Aye, low as for our priceless English dead <br />We lie and groan to-day in England! Oh, <br />My God! I think Thou hast not finished <br />This Thy fair world, where, triumph Ill or Good, <br />We still must weep; where or to lose or gain <br />Is woe; where Pain is medicined by Pain, <br />And Blood can only be washed out by Blood.<br /><br />Sydney Thompson Dobell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/czar-nicholas/
