Alexander Pushkin
To Chaadaev

Of love, of hope, of quiet glory
Not long I nursed the self-deceit,
Vanished are adolescent dallies
Like a dream, like the morning mist;
But still desire burns within us;
Beneath the press of fateful power
With impatient soul
We hark the native country's summons.
We bide with yearning expectation
The moment of sacred liberty,
As the young lover bides
The moment of the promised meeting.
The while with liberty we burn,
The while our hearts are quick for honour,
My friend, to our land we dedicate
The soul's exquisite raptures!
Comrade, believe: it will arise,
The star of captivating bliss,
Russia with rouse herself from sleep,
And on the ruins of despotism
Our names will be inscribed!

Translated by Dimitri Derkatch