Konstantin Batyushkov
To Dashkov

My friend! I have seen the sea's menace
And the vengeful sky's cursed punishment:
The despicable deeds of mortal enemies,
Blare of war, catastrophic conflagrations.
I have seen the multitudes of rich men
Fleeing in nothing but tattered rags,
I've seen the weathered faces of mothers
Chased from their beloved motherland.
I saw them all stumbling at the crossroads,
How, clutching nursing children to breasts,
They wept in despair and desperation
And, stirred with a renewed trepidation,
Looked to the reddening skies up above.
And then, filled thrice-fold with horror,
I wandered around Moscow grown empty,
Among the scattered ruins and the graves,
And with my tears of mourning did water
Its sacred remains, also thrice-fold blessed.
There, where the magnificient edifices
And all the ancient towers of the Tsars,
Witnesses to the ageless glory of the past
And to the glory of our precarious days;
And there, where in peaceful graves reposed
The mortal remains of the Holy Fathers,
And the centuries slowly trickling by had
Neither touched nor altered their relics;
And there, where by the hand of luxury,
The days of our lives and fruit of our work,
Before golden-headed domed Moscow
Rose its marvelous temples and gardens —
Now only ashes and mounds of rubble,
Only piles of bodies on the river bank,
Only the pale legions of the impoverished
Remained, as far as my eyes could see!
And you, my dear friend, my compatriot,
You order me to sing of love and joy,
Of happiness carefree, and harmony,
And the noisy intoxication of youth
!In the midst of military vicissitudes,
Enduring the capital's terrifying glow,
To the peaceful voice of a reed flute,
To summon shepherdesses into a choir,
To sing of the treacherous amusements
Of the Armidas and of the fickle Harpies,
Among the graves of my friends who
Sacrificed their lives on the field of glory!
No, never! I would rather my talent wither,
And my lyre, though precious to my fellows,
Grow silent, if ever by me you are forgotten,
Oh Moscow, fair fatherland's golden ground!
No, never! Not until on the field of honor,
For the ancient city of my grandfathers,
I offer in sacrifice to the face of vengeance
Even my life, and my love for the motherland;
Until, chest to chest with a wounded hero
Who has tasted the path of glory, three times I
Place my own breast in the line of fire,
Before the enemy massed in tight formation —
My friend, until that time I will be estranged
From the Nine Muses and the Three Graces,
And shun the wreaths woven by love's hand,
Taking no notice of noisy rejoicing in wine!