The Tartar's Dream

Prayer-mat and priestly turban have turned footpad, With wanton boysʹ bold glances men are flattered;

The Churchʹs 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!

Bokharaʹs humble dust and Samarkandʹs 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 Godʹs firm purposes no bonds endure

Is this what life holds—that Turaniaʹs peoples All hope in one another must abjure?

Call in the soul of man a new fire to birth! Cry a new revolution over the earth!”