Classic Poem

Sad Moscow, thy fate do I see,
Fire, fire, in the city all cry;
Like quails from the eagle all flee,
Escape in a moment or die.

It looks like the battle of Troy,
The storm rises higher and higher;
The scene of destruction all hearts must annoy,
The whirlwinds, the smoke and the fire.

The dread conflagration rolls forth,
Augmenting the rage of the wind,
Which blows it from south unto north,
And leaves but the embers behind.

It looks like Gomorrah the flame,
Is moving still higher and higher;
Aloud from all quarters the people proclaim,
The whirlwind, the smoke and the fire.

A dead fumigation now swells,
A blue circle darkens the air,
With tones as the pealing of bells,
Farewell to the brave and the fair.

O, Moscow, thou city of grace,
Consigned to a dread burning pyre,
From morning to ev'ning, with sorrow I trace,
The wild winds, the smoke and the fire.

The dogs in the kennel all howl,
The wether takes flight with the ox;
Appall'd on the wing is the fowl,
The pigeon deserting her box.

With a heart full of pain in the night,
'Mid hillocks and bogs I retire;
Through lone deadly valleys I steer by its light,
The wild storm, the smoke and the fire.

Though far the crash breaks on my ear,
The stars glimmer dull in the sky;
The shrieks of the women I hear,
The fall of the kingdom is nigh.

O, Heaven, when earth is no more,
And all things in nature expire;
May I thus, with safety keep distant before,
The whirlwind, the smoke and the fire.