Classic Poem

I.

Still burns the prophet's fire, as when of old
Elijah called, on Carmel, on the name,
The one sole name; and see! it mounts in flame,
Just on the limits of eternal cold.

Pure, bright, and full, it swells; — a sacred glow
Rolls o'er the spotless wilderness of snow,
And floating flakes of crystal burn as gems,
Worthy to shine in angels' diadems:

And then, in sounding tones, come thoughts of power,
Full of sublimity and truth and awe:
Thunders in majesty the unyielding law;
Relenting grace descends in healing shower.

We feel as nothing in the infinite:
We feel that infinite within our souls, —
Away the cloud of doubt and darkness rolls;
Our spirits stand, assured and free, in light.

II.

Not the trumpet calls to fight, —
Louder calls the patriot Tzar.
Strongly armed with sword and right,
We rush to war.

Treads the Frank our holy land,
By the world-invader led, —
Soon we make the ruffian band
Its gory bed.

Moscow's fire, an altar-flame,
Lights us through a waste of snow;
On, through ice, we chase the game
With fervid glow.

Louder than the trumpet's peal,
Rings the voice of patriot Tzar; —
With fiery hearts and flashing steel,
We rush to war.