Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Russia

John Gould Fletcher

862 A. D.

DARKNESS broods over the east,

Over the plain, the land of horses;

Darkness and wintry silence

And death.

The Northmen enter RussiaBut a blue-white light from the north

Suddenly flares up at midnight;

And in the glare, on the horizon,

A horseman rides alone.

He sits on his great white horse;

A strong white bow is in his hands;

Beneath his gold-horned helmet

Thick braids of golden hair descend.

He goes forth conquering and to conquer,

He goes forth seeking a golden crown—

From the frozen marshes of the north

To where the rivers bend south-eastward.

Rurik, Sineus and Truvor and their descendants found great citiesA brood of lions follow him,

Shaggy-haired, with broad golden manes;

Eaters of sheep,

Founders of cities.

In the depths of the steppe,

Upon the banks of broad golden rivers,

Facing south-westward,

The cities rise:

Kiev with its golden domes

On which there stands the Cross,

Vladimir, Ryazan, Tver,

Novgorod, Moscow.

Lord Novgorod the great

Looks to the north and east;

Moscow sits in the centre,

And dreams.

The cities contend with each other for the masteryThe heroes go forth every morning

To battle with each other.

At night about the wine-board

They sit, feasting.

1224 A. D.

Out of the east

Comes the great dawn;

Red is the dawn,

Red and fearful.

The Tatars suddenly invade RussiaFrom the south-east

Runs a red horse;

Foam drips from his bridle-bits,

His hoof withers the grass.

Dark is the man

Who rides on him,

Clad in black armor,

Lean and yellow his face.

He carries a great black sword

With which to smite the people;

He has power to take peace from the earth.

That men may kill each other.

Under the yoke

The princes pass;

They are his oxen,

He their lord.

Russia pays tribute to the Khan of the Western MongolsEvery day in the mills

The grain is ground;

Each day rich tribute

Goes to the Golden Horde.

Whose capitol is on the Lower VolgaDown at Sarai

Is the camp of the Khan;

Wearily travel

The oxen thither.

Down at Sarai

The great Khan sleeps,

But the claws of his falcons

Are fastened into the lion’s throat.

1380 A. D.
The Tatars are defeated by the Princes of Moscow, who attain to great power

Noonday within the east,

Noonday and a loud sound of bells

Pealing and crying

That the Third Rome is born.

Out of the great red gates

Of the Third Rome

Rides a man in scarlet

Mounted upon a black horse.

A golden cross is on his breast,

A pair of scales is in his hand

With which to measure and fit the earth,

With which to weigh the people’s grain.

A measure of wheat for a penny,

And three measures of barley for a penny.

See that thou hurt not oil or wine,

See that the land is tilled.

And crush the remaining independent principalitiesBut woe to thee, city of Pskov!

Woe to thee, Lord Novgorod!

The weight of the law of the Third Rome

Shall break your liberty.

Great expansion of the Muscovy powerWoe to thee, people of Rus,

Who set at nought the scales of law:

North, east, south, west, you shall wander,

But never find a home.

1603 A. D.
“The Troublous Times”

Darkness broods over the east,

Over the plain, that land of horses;

Darkness and wintry silence

And death.

Far away to the west

Hangs a great crimson fire;

It is the sunlight departing

Over the plain.

Rise of the House of Romanov: Peter the Great, 1689–1725Out of the west there rides

The horseman of the twilight,

The great pale horseman

Whose name is Death.

And he carries in his hand

A lash of thongs;

And he has power to slay

With hunger.

And the eagles of the west

Pass after him;

Sea-eagles unsated

Fan with their dark wings his face.

Darkness settles faster

Upon the plain;

But the man on the gaunt grey horse

Rides on.

On to the north

Where a blue-white light faintly glimmers

Over the black pine-forests,

Over the frozen seas.

Founding of Petrograd, the third capital of RussiaTwo cities have long ago fallen,

But there is one city to found yet—

A city of dreary phantoms,

A city of death.

At the edges of the north,

At the borders of the locked sea,

The pale horse rears

And stands.

Darkness, total darkness!

And in the darkness

Furiously from east to west

The winds go forth to battle.

Oppressive rule—stirrings of revolt

But the souls of them that were slain

And buried beneath the granite

Rise up again at midnight

And cry their final cry:

“How long, how long the darkness,

How long wilt not avenge us?

For here our blood is written

On every inch of soil;

“For here our cause is crushed

Under the hoofs of proud horsemen;

For here our cause is forgotten,

Dead in the utter darkness.”

So they cry all together,

And only the silence answers.

But the power of that silence

Has given them power to live.

And they go out to the streets of the city,

To speak to all hearts at midnight,

How the last seal will be loosened,

The final trumpet blown.

1917 A. D. Revolution

Dawn comes out of the east,

Dawn with a tumult of flying horses;

White clouds of springtime,

Careering, galloping.

Stallion on stallion charging

Westward, to the horizon;

But in the midst of them

Rides Liberty unbound.

Her tossing, golden hair

Is mingled with the sea of manes;

Her voice cries, “On, you wild ones,

Stop not nor falter!”

Out of ten thousand trenches

A million weary eyes

Shall see her pass across the plains,

And cry, “Come faster!”

A million starving ones

Shall smile at her,

Shall stretch out their cold hands to her

Before they die.

A million broken ones

Shall make their bodies

The pathway for her feet;

A million eager ones

Shall leap forth from their trenches

To follow her command.

Like a white flame that gathers force

She shall fill all the land

With song of victory.

Like the great flame of noon,

She shall spread out her wings;

And grant us all we longed for, could not find,

The peace surpassing human understanding.

March 16, 1917, 1.15 p. m.