Siberia

And the exile there

Is one with those;

They are part, and lie is part,

For the sands are in his heart,

And the killing snows.

Therefore, in those wastes

None curse the Czar.

Each man's tongue is cloven by

The North Blast, that heweth nigh

With sharp scymitar.

And such doom each sees,

Till, hunger-gnawn,

And cold-slain, he at length sinks there,

Yet scarce more a corpse than ere

His last breath was drawn.