Though discontent the action was Which constituted my offence, I felt the weight of Russian laws When chained to other malcontents. Before the chains had time to rust I plodded through the mud and dust As many exiles erst had trod, Their footprints often stained with blood. With clanking chains and painful stride, With Cossack guards on either side, We marched in silence, in the reach Of sabres that discouraged speech. A sad procession, for full well Our destinations could we tell. Down country lane and village street We limped with bruised and blistered feet, In single file, as some infirm Though monstrous centipede or worm, Beset by some tormenting foe, Might move with locomotion slow, And tortured by its enemy, Propel its foul dimensions by. Past where the Urals, bleak and high, Invade the cerulean sky With summits desolate and gray, With weary tread we wound our way. Where intertwining branches made A vernal canopy of shade, The song-birds, from their arches high Mocked at our chains, as we passed by; The only forms of earth or air, Deprived of rightful freedom there. At night in forest depths profound, We lay upon the cheerless ground, Where on our route we chanced to be, Nor couch nor coverlet had we Between us and the turf or stones, To soothe our tired and aching bones. Our limbs emaciated grew, Ragged were we and dirty, too, As o'er the trans-Slavonian plains, We dragged our grievous weight of chains. As passed the autumn months away Six leagues we measured every day, Six leagues our loads were daily borne, On shoulders galled and callous-worn. Each morning was our march begun, Before the advent of the sun, While every evening in the west He sank, before we paused for rest. Time and again upon the road, The weaker dropped beneath their load, And fainting from fatigue and pain, They sank, but rose not up again. Where the Pacific's broad expanse Of sleeping waters, calm and fair, Divide the mighty continents With their pelagic barrier; Upon the Asiatic shore, Some twelve leagues from the sea or more, In course of time, our weary line Was halted at a penal mine. 'Twas there within a log stockade Constructed in a manner crude, That we our habitation made Through many months of servitude.