Nor does the lightning-bolt with swifter blast
Topple down the towering pinnacle.
Child of luxury, child of freshness and delight,
Meshchérski, where hast thou hidden thyself?
Thou hast left the realms of light,
And withdrawn to the shores of the dead;
Thy dust is here, but thy soul is no more with us.
Where is it? It is there. Where is there? We know not.
We can only weep and sob forth,
Woe to us that we were ever born into the world!