What's become of Waring since he gave us all the slip ?

Look East where whole new thousands are
In Vishnu land, what Avatar !
In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
Or, North in Moscow, toward the Czar,
Who, with the gentlest of footfalls
Over the Kremlin's pavement, bright
With serpentine and siennite,
Steps, with five other Generals,
Who simultaneously take snuff,
That each may have pretext enough
To kerchiefwise unfold his sash
Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff
To hold fast where a steel chain snaps,
And leave the grand white neck no gash?
In Moscow, Waring, to those rough
Cold natures borne, perhaps,
Like the lambwhite maiden, (clear
Thro' the circle of mute kings,
Unable to repress the tear,
Each as his sceptre down he flings),

Robert Browning