The Crimean Tartars

AND still the Tartar loves the shores

The Euxine washes, and deplores

The glories of his race, gone by!

And often when the east-winds sigh,—

The winds that warm from Asia blow,—

He dreams ’t is the murmur of hosts that go

Forth with Genghis and Timour strong;

And his dark eyes flash, and he hears the song

Of the victors sung where the tent lines glisten,

While, couched on carpets Bokhara wove

For the chiefs that over their pastures rove,

The Khan and his jewelled ladies listen.

 

But the wind goes by, and a roll of drums

From the fort of the conquering Russian comes;

And their ships sail over the Euxine’s foam,

And their bells ring clear from tower and dome:

“It was written in Fate’s decree,” he cries;

“Allah requite us in Paradise!”