The spring in this place is different, it seems, from the spring ... i — Siberia

"What are the splendours of the gaudy court, Its tinsel trappings, and its pageant pomps? To me far happier seems the banish’d lord, Amid Siberia’s unrejoicing wilds Who pines all lonesome, in the chambers hoar Of some high castle shut, whose windows dim In distant ken discover trackless plains, Where Winter ever whirls his icy car; While still repeated objects of his view, The gloomy battlements, and ivied spires, That crown the solitary dome, arise; While from the topmost turret the slow clock, Far heard along th’ inhospitable wastes, With sad-returning chime awakes new grief; Ev’n he far happier seems than is the proud, The potent Satrap, whom he left behind ’Mid Moscow’s golden palaces, to drown In ease and luxury the laughing hours."

"... a bleak expanse, Shagg’d o’er with wavy rocks, cheerless, and void Of every life, that from the dreary months Flies conscious southward. Miserable they! Who, here entangled in the gathering ice, Take their last look of the descending sun; While, full of death, and fierce with tenfold frost, The long long night, incumbent o’er their head, Falls horrible."

"But what is this? our infant Winter sinks, Diverted of his grandeur, should our eye Astonish’d shoot into the Frigid Zone; Where, for relentless months, continual night, Holds o’er the glittering waste her starry reign. There, thro’ the prison of unbounded wilds, Barr’d by the hand of Nature from escape, Wide-roams the Russian exile. Nought around Strikes his sad eye, but desarts lost in snow; And heavy-loaded groves; and solid floods, That stretch, athwart the solitary vast, Their icy horrors to the frozen main; And cheerless towns far-distant, never bless’d, Save when its annual course the caravan Bends to the golden coast of rich Cathay With news of human-kind. Yet there life glows; Yet cherish’d there, beneath the shining waste, The furry nations harbour."

"Deep in the Siberian mine, Keep your patience proud; The bitter toil shall not be lost, The rebel thought unbowed."

"Yet more outragious is the season still, A deeper horror, in Siberian wilds; Where Winter keeps his unrejoicing court, And in his airy hall the loud misrule Of driving tempest is for ever heard. There thro’ the ragged woods absorpt in snow, Sole tenant of these shades, the shaggy bear, With dangling ice all horrid, stalks forlorn; Slow-pac’d and sourer as the storms increase, He makes his bed beneath the drifted snow; And, scorning the complainings of distress. Hardens his heart against assailing want. While tempted vigorous o’er the marble waste. On sleds reclin’d, the furry Russian sits; And, by his rain-deer drawn, behind him throws A shining kingdom in a winter’s day."

"In Siberia’s wastes The ice-wind’s breath Woundeth like the toothèd steel; Lost Siberia doth reveal Only blight and death."