the Pyramid-builders, bows still,
For a time, to the knout of the TSAR, to the
Muscovite's merciless will;
But four millions of Israel's children are not
to be crushed in the path
Of a TSAR, like the Hittites of old, when great
RAMESES flamed in his wrath
Alone through their numberless hosts. No,
the days of the Titans of Wrong
Are past, for the Truth is a torch, and the
voice of the peoples is strong.
Even PENTAOUR, the poet of Might, spake in
pity that rings down the years
Of the life of "the peasant that tills" of his
terrible toil and his tears;
Of the rats and the locusts that ravaged, and,
worse, the tax-gathering horde
Who tithed all his pitiful tilth with the aid
of the stick and the cord;
And the splendour of RAMESES pales in the
text of the old Coptic Muse,
And--one hears the mad rush of the wheels
that the fierce Red Sea billow pursues!

O Muscovite, blind in your wrath, with
your heel on the Israelite's neck,
And your hand on that baleful old blade,
Persecution, 'twere wisdom to reck
The PHARAOH'S calm warning. Beware!
Lo, the Pyramids pierce the grey gloom