Classic Poem

Now silence wraps the battlefield!
The tents with lights are gleaming;
And lo! the bright moon's silver shield
In the calm heaven is beaming.
Fill, fill the glass of rapture yet
In unity full-hearted;
In wine the bloody strife forget,
The grief for the departed!
The glasses' ruby stream to drain
Is glory's pride and pleasure —
Wine! conqueror thou of care and pain,
Thou art the hero's treasure.

Now to the warriors of old time,
The strong in fight and glory!
These warriors and their deeds sublime
Are lost in distant story!
The grave hath gathered up their dust,
Their homes, — the storm hath razed them;
Their helmets are devoured by rust,
And silent those who praised them:
But in their children live their fires,
We tread the land that bore them,
And see the shadows of our sires
With all their triumphs o'er them.

Oh, come! in all your brightness, come,
And smile complacent, near us;
Look from your high and misty home,
Encourage us and hear us.
O Svyatoslav! time's injured son,
Thy path an eagle's flying:
" There is no shame in dying — On!
There is no shame in dying! "
And Donskoy, thou! courageous man,
Midst heathen foes we find thee;
Destruction leading in thy van,
And naught but death behind thee.

Thou, Peter! thou, the hero's crown,
" Poltava! " is repeated:
Thy foes have thrown their sabres down,
Thee, all the world has greeted.
What? Robbers, would you build your throne
Upon our cities' ruin?
Thy horse and rider fell — begone!
For vengeance is pursuing.
Go hide thee in thy native woods,
There by ambition smother;
Fate drives thee to their solitudes,
Yes! thou, the rebel's brother.

Who is that white-haired hero, who
That northern more than Roman?
His penetrating glance looks through
The phalanx of the foeman;
From yonder clouds what shadowy rows
Are tow'rds his footsteps turning?
The spirits of the Alpine snows
Are wailing loud and mourning.
Franks and Sarmatians, at his view,
Death's icy paleness borrow;
Well they may fear him, well may rue, —
It is the great Suvorov!

Hail, sons of ages long gone by!
Your glories are recorded;
We follow you to victory,
Like you to be rewarded.
We see your ranks, — they lead us on, —
The foe retreats before us;
We scatter death, as ye have done,
While ye are smiling o'er us.
Drawn sword, and flowing glass, elate
We look to our Creator!
" And death for death, and hate for hate,
And curses on the traitor. "

This glass then to our countr's joys,
Ne'er may our hearts feel colder;
The scenes of mirth while we were boys,
Of love, when we grew older!
Our country's plains, our country's sky,
The streams that flow beneath it;
The memories of infancy,
And all the thoughts that wreathe it
With joyous hopes and visions blest, —
Dear shrine of our affection,
How glows our heart, how beats our breast,
When beams the recollection!

That is our country, there our home,
There wife and babes attend us;
And oft their prayers towards us roam,
And oft to Heaven commend us!
There dwell our plighted, chosen ones;
How bright their memory flashes!
Our monarchs' dust, our monarchs' thrones,
And there our fathers' ashes.
For them we fight, for them we rove,
For them have all forsaken;
And may our land's undying love
In our sons' breasts awaken!

Now to the Tsar that rules the Russ,
And be his sceptre glorious;
His throne an altar is to us, —
We swear to be victorious.
The oath is heard, — 't is stamped in blood, —
'T is sworn, — there 's no returning;
Our swords shall make our promise good,
Our hearts with love are burning.
Each Russ a son of victory,
To duty's ranks we throng us;
Let every craven coward fly,
For fear was ne'er among us.
. . . . . . . . . .

One glass to vengeance! In the fray
" Heaven for the right! " our voices,
And " death or victory! " proudly say;
And victory's self rejoices.
Oh, count not on your numbers, foe!
In vain ye boast your numbers;
Our march is like the torrent's flow,
Which never, never slumbers.
We have no treasures, but we bring
Our arrows and our lances,
And round us desolation fling,
And death is in our glances.

The Robber! he had spread his power
Around our Moskva's borders;
And from our Kremlin's sacred tower
He issued forth his orders.
" I trample on the base-born clay,
Which folly's pride assembles,
And prince and subject both obey. "
Insulting one! — he trembles.
For Vengeance wakes her from her rest,
And arms her with her torches,
Heaves ruin on the tyrant's breast,
And drives him from our porches.

Now bring thy slavish princes, now,
To our ice-girded nation;
And lead them o'er our paths of snow
To horror and starvation.
Come, Winter! rouse thee from thy bed,
And close our country's portals.
Oh, see! he strews the land with dead,
With piles of frozen mortals.
Now, Robber! look what thou hast done;
Come, for the strife prepare thee!
The land we fight on is our own, —
God's vengeance, wretch, is near thee!