On the distant rim
Lift the outlines proud,
Of their mountain walls
To the drifting cloud.
Through the Steppes there rolls
Stream on stream to sea,
Wide meandering,
Straying far and free.
Do I Southward gaze--
Like the ocean there,
Ripening fields of grain
Wave and ripple fair.
Softest velvet sod
Decks the meadow floor,
In the vineyards green
Swells the grape once more.
Do I Northward turn--
O'er the waste lands lone,
Soft as eider down
Are the snowflakes blown.
And his azure waves
High the ocean lifts,
On his cold blue breast
Now an iceberg drifts.
And as leaping flame
Burn the Northern lights,
On the darkness gleam
Through the silent nights.
Even so art thou,
Russian realm, become,--
Thou my native land,
Shield of Christendom!
Far away hast thou,
Throughout lands untold,
In thy glory fair,
Russia, been enrolled!
Art thou not in space
E'en o'er well supplied?
Where a spirit bold
Freely wanders wide!
Hast thou not alway
Gold and grain rich stored?
For thy friend a feast?
For thy foe a sword?
Guards and shields thee not
With a sacred might,
Holy altar forms,
Deeds of glory bright?
To whom hast thou e'er
Bent an humble knee?
Or before whom bowed
Seeking charity?
In the Kurgan deep,
Met in open fight,
Thou hast e'en subdued
The fierce Tartar's might.
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