Well, that price, what is its destined end and aim?
The indulgence of ambitions cherished madly?
The pursuit of warrior fame?

Your realm is ever widening, Tsar, and lengthening,
Though its peoples--your dear children--prosper not;
Railways stretching, boundaries creeping, legions strengthening!
And the end, O Tsar, is--where?--the purpose--what?
The Afghan, Tartar, Turk feel your advancing,
The Persian and the Mongol hear your tread,
And an eager watchful eye is eastward glancing
Where the Lion lifts his head.

And your children, "Little Father"? They are lying
In their thousands at your threshold, waiting death.
Gold you gather whilst your foodless thralls are dying!
Is appeal, oh Great White Tsar, but wasted breath?
On armaments aggressive are you spending
What might solace the "black people" midst their dead?
Of the millions the effusive Frank is lending
Is there _nothing_ left for bread?

* * * * *

BOUILLABAISSE.

[There has been some correspondence lately about
Bouillabaisse, and a writer in the _Evening News_ (who
misquotes THACKERAY) actually gives a recipe without oil!]