Hard proof of valour this,--the spirit’s fiery test: Fierce combat, grown more fierce,--bear high the burning breast! See on the waves there ride two mountains, fiery-bound, Ætna and Hecla, loose on ocean’s heaving bed,-- The burning torches spread, And ruin stalks around. Ocean, and shore, and air, rush backward at the sight, The Greek and Turk stand still, and groan in wild affright; Calm as a rock the Russ is welcoming death with death; But ah! destruction now blazes its fiery links, And even victory sinks Its heavy weight beneath. O frightful tragedy! A furnace is the sea,-- The triumph ours,--the flames have reached the enemy: He burns, he dies in smoke, beneath the struggle rude The Northern heroes sink, with weariness oppressed, And ask a moment’s rest, As if they were subdued. And whence that threatening cloud that hangs upon their head? That threatens now to burst? What? Is their leader dead? And is he borne away, who all our bosoms warmed? He fell,--there lies his sword,--there lie his shield and helm. What sorrows overwhelm The conqueror disarmed! Oh, no! He wakes again from night,--he waves his hand, Beckoning to the brave ranks that mourning round him stand: “My brother!” cried he--“Heaven! And is my brother gone? Their sails unfurl! My friends, oh, see! oh, see! They fly,-- On,--‘Death or vengeance!’ cry, On, on to Stamboul’s throne!” He fled. O hero! Peace! There is no cause for grief,-- He lives,--thy brother lives, and Spiridóv, his chief! No dolphin saved them there,--it was the Almighty God, The God who sees thy deed, thy valour who approves, And tries the men He loves With His afflictive rod. The dreadful dream is passed,--passed like a mist away, And dawns, serene and bright, a cloudless victory day: The trump of shadeless joy,--the trump of triumph speaks; The hero and his friend are met, and fled their fears; They kiss each other’s cheeks, They water them with tears. They cried, “And is our fame, and is our glory stained? God is our shield,--revenge and victory shall be gained! We live,--and Mahmud’s might a hundred times shall fall; We live,--the astonished world our hero-deeds shall see, And every victory A burning fleet recall.” Whence this unusual glare o’er midnight’s ocean spread? At what unwonted hour has Phœbus left his bed? No, they are Russian crowds who struggle with the foe, ’Tis their accordant torch that flashes through the night. Sequana, see the might Of Stamboul sink below!