The woods have doff'd their garb of purply gold; The faded fields with silver frost are steaming; Through the pale clouds the sun, reluctant gleaming, Behind the circling hills his disk hath roll'd. Blaze brightly, hearth! my cell is dark and lonely: And thou, O Wine, thou friend of Autumn chill, Pour through my heart a joyous glow--if only One moment's brief forgetfulness of ill! Ay, I am very sad; no friend is here With whom to pledge a long unlooked-for meeting, To press his hand in eagerness of greeting, And wish him life and joy for many a year. I drink alone; and Fancy's spells awaken-- With a vain industry--the voice of friends: No well-known footstep strikes mine ear forsaken, No well-beloved face my heart attends. I drink alone; ev'n now, on Neva's shore, Haply my name on friendly lips has trembled.... Round that bright board, say, are ye _all_ assembled? Are there no other names ye count no more? Has our good custom been betray'd by others? Whom hath the cold world lured from ye away? Whose voice is silent in the call of brothers? Who is not come? Who is not with you? Say! _He_ is not come, he of the curled hair, He of the eye of fire and sweet-voiced numbers: Beneath Italia's myrtle-groves he slumbers; He slumbers well, although no friend was there, Above the lonely grave where he is sleeping, A Russian line to trace with pious hand, That some sad wanderer might read it, weeping-- Some Russian, wandering in a foreign land. Art _thou_ too seated in the friendly ring, O restless Pilgrim? Haply now thou ridest O'er the long tropic-wave; or now abidest 'Mid seas with ice eternal glimmering! Thrice happy voyage!... With a jest thou leapedst From the Lyceum's threshold to thy bark, Thenceforth thy path aye on the main thou keepedst, O child beloved of wave and tempest dark! Well hast thou kept, 'neath many a stranger sky, The loves, the hopes of Childhood's golden hour: And old Lyceum scenes, by memory's power, 'Mid lonely waves have ris'n before thine eye; Thou wav'dst thy hand to us from distant ocean, Ever thy faithful heart its treasure bore; "A long farewell!" thou criedst, with fond emotion, "Unless our fate hath doom'd we meet no more." The bond that binds us, friends, is fair and true! Destructless as the soul, and as eternal-- Careless and free, unshakable, fraternal, Beneath the Muses' friendly shade it grew. We are the same: wherever Fate may guide us, Or Fortune lead--wherever we may go, The world is aye a foreign land beside us; _Our_ fatherland is Tsarkoe Selo!