WHAT master hand shall set on the right path

These our blind guides, that wander to and fro?

What pen shall write the nation's helpless wrath?

What cry shall speak its woe?

That noble army, that so stirred our pride —

So stout, so well-equipped, so trim arrayed —

Melts like a snow-wreath from a warm hill-side,

And we can give no aid!

That starving army haunts us night and day;

Clouding our gladness, deepening our care;

By our warm hearths — "Alas, no fire have they!"

Snow falls — "'tis falling there!"

We strive to chase the phantom: still it bides;

Stretches gaunt hands between us and our meat;

In our warm beds, lies freezing at our sides:

Trips up our dancing feet.

Why hauntest thou us, grim spectre? 'Twas not we

Who brought thee to this miserable end.

As flowed thy blood for us, our gold for thee

We, without stint, did spend.

"All art we had, all industry, all skill,

To feed and clothe, and lodge thee, was bestowed."

Thus from the blue lips, agonised and shrill,

The spectre's answer flowed:

"My blood is on your heads! My blood, not spilt

As soldiers' blood should be, upon the field.

Oh! that I had but fallen, hilt to hilt,

Like Spartan on his shield!

"A soldier, I had met the soldier's death,

Nor grudged the life so for my country given.

But thus, like beasts, not men, to yield men's breath,

Uncared for, over-driven —

"Rotting in our own filth, like mangy hounds,

Cramped, frost and hunger-bitten to the bones,

Wrestling with death 'mid smells, and sights, and sounds

That turn kind hearts to stones.

"To die for very lack of clothes and food,

Of shelter, bedding, medicine, and fire;

While six miles off lay, piled up many a rood,

All we did so require!

"This guilt lies at your door. You wear no crown -

But what is She who wears it unto you?

You raise up ministers and pluck them down;

What you will, they must do.

"If they put leadership in baby hands,

'Tis that you wink, or slumber, or approve;

If, like an iron wall, Routine still stands;

You will, and it must move?

"If Aristocracy's cold shadow fall

Across the soldier's path, to you is given

The might to rend away that ancient pall,

And let in light of Heaven!

"I was the People's soldier. In their name

I stood against the CZAR in battle's hour,

If I, not he, be baffled, rest the shame

With you, that have the power!"