And Pole and Tartar and haughty Gaul

And the chants, and the groans of the dying, as one, Went up to the Lord when the carnage was done.

Have you heard how Holy Russia Is guarded, night and day, By saints gone home to the world of light, Yet watching her realm for aye?

And there he reclines with the air of a god, As if armies and kingdoms would fall at his nod; On his brow the imperial borla is bound, Its crimson fringe drooping his temples around, And above float the plumes of that bird of the skies …

Your King may be powerful—a brother I'll be— But vassal to none on the land or the sea!

O Troitsa's altar is divine,— St. Sergius! hear our prayers! And Kiëff, Olga's lofty shrine, The name of "The Holy" bears; But Moscow blends all rays in one,— They are the stars, and she the sun!

Ah! what a day when all the way To Marmora's sunny sea— From Finland's snows to fields of rose— Shall Holy Russia be!