PRAYER-MAT and priestly turban have turned footpad,
With wanton boys' bold glances men are flattered;
The Church's mantle and the creed in shreds,
The robe of State and nation torn and tattered.
I cling to faith-but may its spark not soon
Lie quenched under these rubbish-heaps thick-scattered!
Bokhara's humble dust and Samarkand's
The turbulent billows of many winds have battered.
A gem set in a ring of misery
That circles me on every side, am I.
Suddenly quivered the dust of Samarkand,
And from an ancient tomb a light shone, pure
As the first gleam of daybreak, and a voice
Was heard:-'I am the spirit of Timur!
Chains may hold fast the men of Tartary,
But God's firm purposes no bonds endure
Is this what life holds-that Turania's peoples
All hope in one another must abjure ?
Call in the soul of man a new fire to birth!
of Cry a new revolution over the earth!