From clime to clime, pursued by storm and stress, In Destiny's dark nets long time I wrestled, Until on Friendship's lap I fluttering nestled, And bent my weary head for her caress.... With wistful prayers, with visionary grieving, With all the trustful hope of early years, I sought new friends with zeal and new believing; But bitter was their greeting to mine ears. And even here, in this lone dwelling-place Of desert-storm, of cold, and desolation, There was prepared for me a consolation: Three of ye here, O friends! did I embrace. Thou enteredst first the poet's house of sorrow, O Pustchin! thanks be with thee, thanks, and praise Ev'n exile's bitter day from thee could borrow The light and joy of old Lyceum-days. Thee too, my Gortchakoff; although thy name Was Fortune's spell, though her cold gleam was on thee, Yet from thy noble thoughts she never won thee: To honour and thy fiends thou'rt still the same. Far different paths of life to us were fated, Far different roads before our feet were traced, In a by-road, but for a moment mated, We met by chance, and brotherly embraced. When sorrow's flood o'erwhelmd me, like a sea; And like an orphan, houseless, poor, unfriended, My head beneath the storm I sadly bended, Seer of the Aonian maids! I look'd for thee: Thou camest--lazy child of inspiration, My Delvig; and thy voice awaken'd straight In this numb'd heart the glow of consolation; And I was comforted, and bless'd my fate. Even in infancy within us burn'd The light of song--the poet-spell had bound us; Even in infancy there flitted round us Two Muses, whose sweet glamour soon we learn'd. Even then _I_ loved applause--that vain delusion!-- _Thou_ sang'st but for thy Muse, and for thy heart; _I_ squander'd gifts and life with rash profusion, _Thou_ cherishedst thy gifts in peace apart. The worship of the Muse no care beseems; The Beautiful is calm, and high, and holy; Youth is a cunning counsellor--of folly!-- Lulling our sense with vain and empty dreams.... Upon the past we gaze--the same, yet other-- And find no trace.--We wake, alas! too late. Was it not so with us, Delvig, my brother?-- My brother in our Muse as in our fate! 'Tis time, 'tis time! Let us once more be free! The world's not worth this torturing resistance! Beneath retirement's shade will glide existence-- Thee, my belated friend--I wait for thee! Come! with the flame of an enchanted story Tradition's lore shall wake, our hearts to move; We'll talk of Caucasus, of war, of glory, Of Schiller, and of genius, and of love.