By no dry death another king goes down

The way of kings. Yet may no free man’s voice,

For stern compassion and deep awe, rejoice

That one sign more is given against the crown,

That one more head those dark red waters drown

Which rise round thrones whose trembling equipoise

Is propped on sand and bloodshed and such toys

As human hearts that shrink at human frown.

The name writ red on Polish earth, the star

That was to outshine our England’s in the far

East heaven of empire—where is one that saith

Proud words now, prophesying of this White Czar?

“In bloodless pangs few kings yield up their breath,

Few tyrants perish by no violent death.”