The Little Czar
Oh, Great White Czar of Russia, who hid your face and ran,
You’ve flung afar the grandest chance that ever came to man!
You might have been, and could have been—ah, think it to your shame!—
The Czar of all the Russias, in fact as well as name.
‘The Father of your People,’ your children called to you
To do the things to save them which only you could do.
Your soldiers whipped their faces—the trodden snow is red
With the blood of men and women; and the blood is on your head!
I saw in dreams a monarch, of his power all unaware,
Step down amongst his people from off his palace stair:
The Grand Dukes shrank and trembled, the traitors fled afar—
Through all the mighty Russias rang the order of the Czar!
You might have journeyed freely, wherever path is made,
Through all your vast dominions, alone and unafraid;
And, in the eyes of subjects, the cultured and the rude,
Have seen, instead of hatred, the tears of gratitude.
Oh, little Czar of Russia, a weak man and a fool,
At the mercy of your nobles—their prisoner and their tool—
Your freedom and your people’s and their love was to be won:
Ah, me! it would have been a deed a coward might have done.
Yet we who know so little might say one word for you:
How many in our weakness have lost our kingdoms, too!
And facing death and exile, when all the world seemed black,
How many in our after-strength have won our kingdoms back!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Related quotes
The White Tzar
The White Czar is Peter the Great. Batyushka, Father dear, and
Gosudar, Sovereign, are titles the Russian people are fond of
giving to the Czar in their popular songs.
Dost thou see on the rampart's height
That wreath of mist, in the light
Of the midnight moon? O, hist!
It is not a wreath of mist;
It is the Czar, the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!
He has heard, among the dead,
The artillery roll o'erhead;
The drums and the tramp of feet
Of his soldiery in the street;
He is awake! the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!
He has heard in the grave the cries
Of his people: "Awake! arise!"
He has rent the gold brocade
Whereof his shroud was made;
He is risen! the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!
From the Volga and the Don
He has led his armies on,
Over river and morass,
Over desert and mountain pass;
The Czar, the Orthodox Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!
He looks from the mountain-chain
Toward the seas, that cleave in twain
The continents; his hand
Points southward o'er the land
Of Roumili! O Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!
And the words break from his lips:
"I am the builder of ships,
And my ships shall sail these seas
To the Pillars of Hercules!
I say it; the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!
"The Bosphorus shall be free;
It shall make room for me;
And the gates of its water-streets
Be unbarred before my fleets.
I say it; the White Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!
"And the Christian shall no more
Be crushed, as heretofore,
Beneath thine iron rule,
O Sultan of Istamboul!
I swear it; I the Czar,
Batyushka! Gosudar!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Rasputin
There lived a certain man in russia long ago
He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow
Most people looked at him with terror and with fear
But to moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear
He could preach the Bible like a preacher
Full of ecstacy and fire
But he also was the kind of teacher
Women would desire
Ra ra rasputin
Lover of the russian queen
There was a cat that really was gone
Ra ra rasputin
Russias greatest love machine
It was a shame how he carried on
He ruled the russian land and never mind the czar
But the kasachok he danced really wunderbar
In all affairs of state he was the man to please
But he was real great when he had a girl to squeeze
For the queen he was no wheeler dealer
Though shed heard the things hed done
She believed he was a holy healer
Who would heal her son
Ra ra rasputin
Lover of the russian queen
There was a cat that really was gone
Ra ra rasputin
Russias greatest love machine
It was a shame how he carried on
(spoken:)
But when his drinking and lusting and his hunger
For power became known to more and more people,
The demands to do something about this outrageous
Man became louder and louder.
This mans just got to go! declared his enemies
But the ladies begged dont you try to do it, please
No doubt this rasputin had lots of hidden charms
Though he was a brute they just fell into his arms
Then one night some men of higher standing
Set a trap, theyre not to blame
Come to visit us they kept demanding
And he really came
Ra ra rasputin
Lover of the russian queen
They put some poison into his wine
Ra ra rasputin
Russias greatest love machine
He drank it all and he said I feel fine
Ra ra rasputin
Lover of the russian queen
They didnt quit, they wanted his head
Ra ra rasputin
Russias greatest love machine
And so they shot him till he was dead
(spoken:) oh, those russians...
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Hail To The Czar!
All hail to the Czar! By the fringe of the foam
That thunders, untamed, around Albion's shore,
See multitudes throng, dense as sea-birds whose home
Is betwixt the deaf rocks and the ocean's mad roar;
And across the ridged waters stand straining their eyes
For a glimpse of the Eagle that comes from afar:
Lo! it swoops towards the beach, and they greet it with cries
That silence the billows-``All hail to the Czar!''
All hail to the Czar! England's noblest and best,
Her oldest, her newest, her proudest are there,
And they vie in obeisance before the great guest,
For the prize of his nod, for the alms of his stare.
To the seat of their Empire they draw him along,
Where the Palace flies open to welcome his car,
And Prince, Press, and People, with leader and song,
Ring the change on the paean-``All hail to the Czar!''
All hail to the Czar! the bold Monarch who shook
From the heart of the Lion its insolent lust,
That once from the strongest no outrage would brook,
Till it crouched at his feet, till it crawled in the dust!
Who the laurels bequeathed to us tore from our brow,
Who extinguished our fame that once shone like a star,
Made our rulers to tremble, our heralds to bow,
And our bosoms to mock us-``All hail to the Czar!''
All hail to the Czar! O yes! show him your ships,
Had your courage not failed, he had seen before now,
As they dally at anchor, the gag on their lips,
And the peace-loving holiday trim on their prow!
Yes! show him your army, that mighty array
He so rashly defied when he ventured to mar
The last work of its hands, and remind it to say,
But with bayonets inverted-``All hail to the Czar!''
All hail to the Czar! As ye revel and feast,
I marvel the ghosts of the bootlessly slain
Do not come from their cold lonely graves in the East,
From the hillside that looks o'er the desolate main,
Which they perished to save, ye surrender, to live,
To the man ye now slaver, all base as ye are!
Do not stalk through the banquet-hall, pallid, and give
The gay toast ere ye drink it-``All hail to the Czar!''
All hail to the Czar! For his daughter he gave,
Like Atrides of old, without shrinking or qualm,
Though not that the white ships might move o'er the wave,
But that ours still might ride in immovable calm!
What Religion could once, now can Statecraft persuade;
And if ye would devote to the furies of war
Half as freely your sons as he gave up his maid,
Without shame might ye shout then-``All hail to the Czar!''
All hail to the Czar! Are ye then sunk so low,
O ye sons of the once fearless masters of earth!
That ye pour out the wine for an insolent foe,
That in depths of dishonour ye simulate mirth?
That, like unto mongrel hounds beaten and cowed,
Ye, crouched, lick alternately smiter and scar?-
Oh, rather my country lay deaf in its shroud,
Than had lived to hear silent-``All hail to the Czar!''
poem by Alfred Austin
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Babushka
THOU whose sunny heart outglows
Arctic snows;
Russia's hearth-fire, cherishing
Courage almost perishing;
Torch that beacons oversea
Till a world is at thy knee;
Babushka the Belovèd,
What Czar can exile thee?
Sweet, serene, unswerving soul,
To thy goal
Pressing on such mighty pinions
Tyrants quake for their dominions
And devise yet heavier key,
Deeper cell to prison thee,
Babushka the Belovèd,
Thyself art Liberty.
Though thy martyr body, old,
Chains may hold,
Clearer still thy voice goes ringing
Over steppe and mountain, bringing,
Holy mother of the free,
Millions more thy sons to be.
Babushka the Belovèd,
What death can silence thee?
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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This Government has found occasion to express, in a friendly spirit, but with much earnestness, to the Government of the Czar, its serious concern because of the harsh measures now being enforced against the Hebrews in Russia.
quote by Benjamin Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heaven In Black
Rising with the sun, the work has been done
But people are starting to stare
Called from afar to the court of the czar
Could it be something is wrong?
You stand face to face and your heart gathers pace
For the answer to a question a prize
If only you had known to be honest was wrong
For the work that youve done you will pay with your eyes
Into the black where the night
Never ends and the light
Leaves a scar on your soul
Where your heart used to hold
Your love here!
Heaven in black
Inside theres a voice saying was there a choice
Youd still be entombed in the night
Lucifers to blame, the reason for the flame
Theyve taken your sight but theyll not take your god
Into the black where the night
Never ends and the light
Leaves a scar on your soul
Where your heart used to hold
Your love here!
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Million Young Work Men
A million young workmen straight and strong lay stiff on the grass and roads,
And the million are now under soil and their rottening flesh will in the years feed roots of blood-red roses.
Yes, this million of young workmen slaughtered one another and never saw their red hands.
And oh, it would have been a great job of killing and a new and beautiful thing under the sun if the million knew why they hacked and tore each other to death.
The kings are grinning, the Kaiser and the czar—they are alive riding in leather-seated motor cars, and they have their women and roses for ease, and they eat fresh-poached eggs for breakfast, new butter on toast, sitting in tall water-tight houses reading the news of war.
I dreamed a million ghosts of the young workmen rose in their shirts all soaked in crimson … and yelled:
God damn the grinning kings, God damn the kaiser and the czar.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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The March of Ivan
Are you coming, Ivan, coming?—Ah, the ways are long and slow,
In the vast land that we know not—and we never sought to know.
We are watching through the daybreak, when the anxious night is done,
For the dots upon the skyline—black against the rising sun;
We are watching through the morning haze, and waiting through the night,
For the long, dark, distant columns that proclaim the Muscovite!
Are you coming, Ivan, coming? (Oh! the world is growing gray
With the terror of the future and the madness of to-day!)
Are you marching, Ivan—forward? (Oh! the world is dark’ning fast,
For the crimes of greater nations ’gainst the small ones in the past.)
Yours, in part, to make atonement, so remember what you are!
Ivan! Sing!—“The Slav is coming! On for Russia and the Czar!”
Ivan’s Song
“Yes, I’m coming, Ivan, coming—I am marching out again
On the weary roads of Russia, past the forest, marsh and plain;
Past the field and past the village, in the shine and in the rain—
By the cart-rut and the grass-track and the jolting cattle-train.
(And, maybe, some gleam of glory penetrates my sluggish brain)
I am marching out for Russia, and for Europe and for you—
But, maybe, I’m mainly marching just because they told me to.
“I have marched to many frontiers, in the pregnant days gone by,
When they told us where to march to, but they did not tell us why.
And they showed us whom to fight with, and they told us where to die.
I have seen our grey battalions to their Heaven—or Hades—hurled—
’Twas enough it was for Russia!—what cared we about the world?
“Did one moan of Ivan’s mother penetrate to other lands?
Did one prayer of Ivan’s father—with his old and knotted hands?
Did one sob from Ivan’s sweetheart, or one cry from Ivan’s wife?
Or a wail from Ivan’s children, for the loss of Ivan’s life?
Marching with the Wolf of Hunger—marching with the Bear of Strength!
We have marched for many winters—but the end is near at length!
“’Tis a long, long march from Plevna, when the Bear went to his den.
It is far from the Crimea; Oh! you did not want us then!
From the shambles of Port Arthur, ’twas a weary way and slow—
And our track was always dotted with the black dots on the snow.
By black dots and crimson splashes you may trace poor Ivan’s track—
And I think that Ivan’s banner should be red, and white and black.
“Ne’er was Present-blinded tyrant who learnt wisdom from the Past,
And there’s one forgot the errand that brought Ivan this way last!
‘To the frontier, and no further’ seemed our motto and our vow,
Since we marched from burning Moscow—but we’re marching further now!
Neighbour’s burning house—or city!—they are easy to forget;
But we lit a light for Europe that shall be rekindled yet!
“Never song of Ivan’s valour, or of ‘Russia’s Flag Unfurled!’
Or the Iron Cross of Russia, penetrates the Outer World.
Ye! who civilise and peddle, ye who hesitate and lag,
Never heard the Russian March and never saw the Russian flag!
You have called on us to save you, never saying why, or how,
But the samovar is boiling! and you’ll hear and see us now.
“From our garrets and our cellars—from the little all we had—
Where the winter brings the sleigh-bells to the streets of Petrograd;
From our huts and from our hutches—from wherever we may be—
From our goat’s-flesh and our mare’s milk and our black unsweetened tea,
From the silence of Siberia, and the strange, snow-deadened streets—
From the blazing banks of Jordan, where we dip our winding-sheets.
From our black bread and our vodka—asking naught, and undismayed—
From our never-empty cradles!—we are coming to your aid.
“Oh, we leave no bands behind us, blaring tunes of Tyranny,
And we wave no swords above us, yelling songs of Liberty;
And no blatant voice of ruler, as we tramp through dry and wet,
Blares: ‘Remember You are Russians!’—we’re not likely to forget.
There are some who have forgotten—merely men, like you and me—
And one object of our marching is to jog their memory.
“You shall hear us, you shall see us—save the dead and deaf and blind—
While the armour of our winter hardens thick and fast behind.
We are marching, we are coming, and we are not on the sea—
You shall see us on the furthest frontier of our enemy!
And while you fix up your frontiers, and remember what you are,
We shall march with Peace for Europe!—back to Russia and the Czar.”
poem by Henry Lawson
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Skaal
While they struggle on exhausted,
While they plough through bog and flood,
While they drag their sick and wounded
Where the tracks are drenched with blood;
While the Fates seemed joined to crush her
And her bravest hearts lie low,
I might sing one song for Russia,
Even though she be our foe.
Still be generous to foemen,
And have charity for all—
Right or wrong, fill up the wine cup;
‘Skaal!’ unto all brave men—‘Skaal!’
While they suffer, cold and hungry,
All the heart-break of defeat,
And the twice heroic rearguard
Grimly holds the grim retreat;
While they fight the last alive on
Fields where countless corpses are,
We might drop one tear for Ivan,
Dead for Russia and the Czar!
Sullen grief of boorish brother,
Sister’s scalding tears that flow,
Choking grief of grey-haired mother,
Father’s stony face bent low:
Hopeless stare of wife or daughter,
And the sweetheart dumb and white,
And the far-off fields of slaughter
Where their Ivan lies to-night.
Even England feared disaster,
With all Europe in despair,
In the days when Europe’s master
Baited Bruin in his lair.
Greater nations made submission,
And a tyrant’s yoke they earned;
But The Man with curbed ambition
Staggered back while Moscow burned,—
Burned to save the world from ruin
That dark winter long ago;
Ah! the gaunt and hunted Bruin
Hugged the tyrant in the snow!
We can cry the crimes of Russia,
Who know naught of Russia’s work—
We who died to conquer freemen,
We who fought to save the Turk.
Ah! we well may cant and cackle,
In the streets and in the clubs,
While the Russia that we know not
Licks her wounds and feeds her cubs.
But the Fates for ever beckon—
Every nation has its debt,
And her foes may have to reckon,
Reckon with ‘der Russland’ yet.
Through long ages slept the Dragon,
We have roused the ugly beast—
Russia still may stand the vanguard
Of the West against the East.
And though Ivan sees no farther
Than to-night through lurid gloom
Every hour he holds Port Arthur
May postpone the White Man’s doom.
Right or wrong—whate’er in future
May this blundering world befall,
Human kindness will survive it—
Brothers! ‘Skaal!’ to brave men, ‘Skaal!’
poem by Henry Lawson
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With my team I am an absolute czar. My men know it. I order plays and they obey. If the don't, I fine them.
quote by John McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Deprive a mirror of its silver and even the czar won't see his face.
Russia! ! ! !
Russia has power
The power to build a tower
They will never cower
At the site of a bigger tower
Because they still have power
Russia has power over stuff
Because they are really tough
People in Russia never ever run
Because they always have a gun
Russia owns a big bomb
AND SO YOU WILL LISTEN TO THEM!
poem by Puby Mannheimer
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Sic Semper Liberatoribus!
As one who feels the breathless nightmare grip
His heart-strings, and through visioned horrors fares,
Now on a thin-ledged chasm's rock-crumbling lip,
Now on a tottering pinnacle that dare
The front of heaven, while always unawares
Weird monsters start above, around, beneath,
Each glaring from some uglier mask of death,
So the White Czar imperial progress made
Through terror-haunted days. A shock, a cry
Whose echoes ring the globe-the spectre's laid.
Hurled o'er the abyss, see the crowned martyr lie
Resting in peace-fear, change, and death gone by.
Fit end for nightmare-mist of blood and tears,
Red climax to the slow, abortive years.
The world draws breath-one long, deep-shuddering sigh,
At that which dullest brain prefigured clear
As swift-sure bolt from thunder-threatening sky.
How heaven-anointed humblest lots appear
Beside his glittering eminence of fear;
His spiked crown, sackcloth purple, poisoned cates,
His golden palace honey-combed with hates.
Well is it done! A most heroic plan,
Which after myriad plots succeeds at last
In robbing of his life this poor old man,
Whose sole offense-his birthright-has but passed
To fresher blood, with younger strength recast.
What men are these, who, clamoring to be free,
Would bestialize the world to what they be?
Whose sons are they who made the snow-wreathed head
Their frenzy's target? In their Russian veins,
What alien current urged on to smite him dead,
Whose word had loosed a million Russian chains?
What brutes were they for whom such speechless pains,
So royally endured, no human thrill
Awoke, in hearts drunk with the lust to kill?
Not brutes! No tiger of the wilderness,
No jackal of the jungle, bears such brand
As man's black heart, who shrinks not to confess
The desperate deed of his deliberate hand.
Our kind, our kin, have done this thing. We stand
Bowed earthward, red with shame, to see such wrong
Prorogue Love's cause and Truth's-God knows how long!
poem by Emma Lazarus
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No, the czar did not want us in the schools.
quote by Mary Antin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The mighty coward
He was called the king of zanga,
his physique so built he's glaring with danger.
He lost his banter, now frowning with fire
his eyes red and strong, he's glowing with anger.
He found great pleasure in oppressing the weak,
they tremble in fear, for he threatens to kill.
He was seen as a mighty warlord,
for he was good with the sword.
He goes all over impossing fear.
wherever he goes, he lives a sign of death.
His palace is filled with skulls
of those slain by his sword,
and he smiles with bliss after tasting their blood.
But soon after, his rulling days were ended
for he became a coward in the sight of death.
He lost courage at the battle field,
his hands trembling, losing his sword.
His mighty heart had fled,
his terror rage quenched.
He saw a warrior like beast and was scared
trying to run, his head was cut off from his neck.
Now the great terror is no more,
for hiss terror days was ended on the battle field.
The mighty warrioir died a mighty coward,
for his fear got him slain by that warrior like beast.
poem by Randy Micheal
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Unfinished (?)
even spring has post-partum depression:
a flower spoke of her mother.
quotes, falling with the rain
(from the toungues of beggars
rich men laugh
and die in ignoance)
(it was a just-off haiku
from the czar of my own private Russia)
you were a gambler
of time
wasted, gained
or not yet spent
knocking at my room
with dead flowers in your fist
aw, you tried so hard
but I am not a wordly woman
or a talking woman,
or a seeing woman
or a laughing woman
or a singing woman.
poem by Emily Driscoll
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Weakness In His Strength
"WEAKNESS IN HIS STRENGTH"
Quote;
Weakness in his strength
Born by hatred and raised by anger
He felt like his life was hangin on a hanger
Poor little one,
People loved his dad, but to him he was dead
Happiness.
His dad's name, in his senses
Covered by memories
And surrounded by sadness
He said he had seen the worst
But he is not the first
He had failure as his big brother
Hatred kept near them as their mother
He thanked God for every breath
But could not find the weakness in his strength
The weakness in his strength
Poor little one, with his
Weakness in his strength
Lights looked bright to others but to him
They looked deem
Funeral for his mother…
Dead and gone was Mrs. Hatred
That's the moment he forgot about hate and
Decided to move in with dad,
Living Mr. Anger alone which left him mad
Success, a beautiful lady his dad
Started dating last weak
She was introduced to him
But still felt weak
Education, who she met at school and changed his life
Who she later made his wife
Had to hire a babysitter by the name of health
After having a baby who they named wealth.
The weakness in his strength
Weakness in his strength
Started facing death.
Written by,
Ino29
poem by Ino29 Music
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The Ballad Of The Children Of The Czar
1
The children of the Czar
Played with a bouncing ball
In the May morning, in the Czar's garden,
Tossing it back and forth.
It fell among the flowerbeds
Or fled to the north gate.
A daylight moon hung up
In the Western sky, bald white.
Like Papa's face, said Sister,
Hurling the white ball forth.
2
While I ate a baked potato
Six thousand miles apart,
In Brooklyn, in 1916,
Aged two, irrational.
When Franklin D. Roosevelt
Was an Arrow Collar ad.
O Nicholas! Alas! Alas!
My grandfather coughed in your army,
Hid in a wine-stinking barrel,
For three days in Bucharest
Then left for America
To become a king himself.
3
I am my father's father,
You are your children's guilt.
In history's pity and terror
The child is Aeneas again;
Troy is in the nursery,
The rocking horse is on fire.
Child labor! The child must carry
His fathers on his back.
But seeing that so much is past
And that history has no ruth
For the individual,
Who drinks tea, who catches cold,
Let anger be general:
I hate an abstract thing.
4
Brother and sister bounced
The bounding, unbroken ball,
The shattering sun fell down
Like swords upon their play,
Moving eastward among the stars
Toward February and October.
But the Maywind brushed their cheeks
Like a mother watching sleep,
And if for a moment they fight
Over the bouncing ball
And sister pinches brother
And brother kicks her shins,
Well! The heart of man in known:
It is a cactus bloom.
5
The ground on which the ball bounces
Is another bouncing ball.
The wheeling, whirling world
Makes no will glad.
Spinning in its spotlight darkness,
It is too big for their hands.
A pitiless, purposeless Thing,
Arbitrary, and unspent,
Made for no play, for no children,
But chasing only itself.
The innocent are overtaken,
They are not innocent.
They are their father's fathers,
The past is inevitable.
6
Now, in another October
Of this tragic star,
I see my second year,
I eat my baked potato.
It is my buttered world,
But, poked by my unlearned hand,
It falls from the highchair down
And I begin to howl
And I see the ball roll under
The iron gate which is locked.
Sister is screaming, brother is howling,
The ball has evaded their will.
Even a bouncing ball
Is uncontrollable,
And is under the garden wall.
I am overtaken by terror
Thinking of my father's fathers,
And of my own will.
poem by Delmore Schwartz
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