We’ll consecrate to thee a towering marble dome! From yonder Southern sea, oh, bring thy trophies home, Bring Scio’s trophies home,--those trophies still shall be Thy glory, Orlóv! Thine the records of thy deeds, When future valour reads Astrea’s victory! Oh, could my wakened Muse a worthy offering bring! Oh, could my grateful lyre a song of glory sing! Oh, could I steal from thee the high and towering thought, With thy proud name the world, the listening world I’d fill! And Camoens’ harp be still, And Gama be forgot! Thine was a nobler far than Jason’s enterprise, Whose name shines like a star in history’s glorious skies: He bore in triumph home the rich, the golden fleece; But with thy valour thou, and with thy conquering band, Hast saved thy fatherland, And given to Hellas peace. But oh! My tongue is weak to celebrate thy glory, Thy valiant deeds shall live in everlasting story, For public gratitude thy name will e’er enshrine,-- Who loves his country, who his Empress loves, will throw His garland on thy brow, And watch that fame of thine. But when thou humbledst low the Moslem’s pride and scorn, And bad’st her crescent sink, her vain and feeble horn, And pass’dst the Belt again, with songs and hymns of joy, Who that perceived thy flag, in all its mightiness,-- What Russian could repress The tears that dimmed his eye? I see the people rush to welcome thee again, Thy ships, with trophies deep, upon the swelling main; I see the maidens haste, the aged and the young; The children wave their hands, and to their father turn, And thousand questions burn On their inquiring tongue. “Is this the eagle proud of whom we have been told, Who led against the Turks the Russian heroes bold, And with their warriors’ blood the azure ocean dyed? Is this our Orlóv,--this with eagle’s heart and name, His foe’s reproach and shame, And Russia’s strength and pride?” Oh, yes! Oh, yes, ’tis he! The eagle there appears, And ocean bears him on, as proud of him she bears: And see his brother too, who led to victory, there-- And Spirídov, whose praise all ages shall renew, And Greyg and Ilín too,-- The heroes, without fear. But wherefore do I rest,--what fancies led me on? The glorious eagle now to Asia’s coast is flown, O’er streams, and hills, and vales, he takes his course sublime, My eye in vain pursues his all-subduing flight. O vision of delight! O victory-girded time!