Throughout our native Russian ground.
35
And yet a trip in winter season
Is often easy, even nice.
Like modish verse devoid of reason,
The winter road is smooth as ice.
Our bold Autmedons* stay cheery,
Our Russian troikas never weary;
And mileposts soothe the idle eye
As fencelike they go flashing by.
Unluckily, Dame Larin wasted
No funds on renting fresher horse,
Which meant a longer trip of course;
And so our maiden fully tasted
Her share of travel's dull delights:
They rode for seven days and nights.
36
But now they're near. Before them, gleaming,
Lies Moscow with its stones of white,
Its ancient domes and spires streaming
With golden crosses, ember-bright.
Ah, friends, I too have been delighted
When all at once far-off I've sighted
That splendid view of distant domes,
Of churches, belfries, stately homes!
How oft. . . forlorn and separated
When wayward fate has made me stray
I've dreamt of Moscow far away!
Ah, Moscow! How that sound is freighted
With meaning for our Russian hearts!
How many echoes it imparts!
37
And here's Petrvsky Castle,* hoary
Amid its park. In sombre dress
It wears with pride its recent glory:
Napoleon, drunk with fresh success,
Awaited here, in vain, surrender
For kneeling Moscow's hand to tender
The ancient Kremlin's hallowed keys.
But Moscow never bent her knees,
Nor bowed her head in subjugation;
No welcome feast did she prepare
The restless hero waiting there
But lit instead a conflagration.
From here he watched, immersed in thought,
The awesome blaze my Moscow wrought.
38
Farewell now, scene of fame unsteady,
Petrvsky Castle. Hey! Be fleet!
There gleam the city gates already!
