Loud thunder rattles around him; the plains and the forests tremble at the approach of Peter, who by his side so sternly looks towards the south, girt round with dreadful thunder! Is it not the conqueror of Kazán? It is he, ye Caspian waters, who humbled the proud Selim, and strewed the desert with the dead bodies of his enemies. Thus the heroes addressed each other: “Not in vain we toiled; not fruitless our united efforts, that the whole world should stand in awe of Russia. By the aid of our arms, our boundaries have been widened on the north, on the west, and on the east. Anna now triumphs in the south; she has crowned her troops with victory.” The cloud has passed, and the heroes within it: the eye no longer sees, the ear no longer hears them. The blood of the Tartar has purpled the river; he dares not again venture to the fight; he seeks refuge in the desert; and, forgetful alike of the sword, the camp, his own shame, he pictures to himself his friends weltering in their blood; the waving of the light leaf startles him like whizzing balls as they fly through the air. The shouts of the victors echo through the woods and valleys; but the wretch who abandons the fight dreads his own shadow. The moon, a witness to her children’s flight, shares in their shame, and, deeply reddening, hides her face in darkness. Fame flies through the gloom of the night; her trumpet proclaims to the universe the terrible might of Russia. The Danube rushes into the sea, and, roaring in echo to the acclamations of the conquerors, dashes its furious waves against the Turk, who seeks to hide his shame behind its waters. To and fro he runs like a wild beast wounded, and, despairing, he thinks that for the last time he moves his steps; the earth disdains to support the wretch who could not guard her; darkness and fear confuse his path. Where is now the boasting Stamboul?--thy courage, thy obstinacy in the fight, thy malice against the nations of the North, thy contempt of our strength? No sooner hadst thou commanded thy hordes to advance than thou thoughtest to conquer; cruelly thy janissary vented his rage; like a tiger he rushed upon the Muscovite troop. Soon the boaster fell; he weltered in his own blood. Water with your tears, children of Hagar, the foot which has trampled you down! Kiss ye that hand whose bloody sword brought fear before your eyes. Anna’s stern glance is quick to grant relief to those who seek it; it shines forth, for the storm has passed away. She sees you prostrate before her; fervent in affection towards her own subjects, to her enemies she proffers punishment or pardon.