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.

'Tis time no less for me ... Friends, feast amain!
Behold, a joyful meeting is before us;
Think of the poet's prophecy; for o'er us
A year shall pass, and we shall meet again!
My vision's covenant shall have fulfilling;
A year--and I shall be with ye once more!
Oh, then, what shouts, what hand