Peace, Ermák, on thine ashes rest!
Thine image of bright silver made,
Which in Siberia’s mines was laid,
Is by the crown of Russia prest.
But why speak I with hasty zeal?
What do my foolish words reveal?
We do not even know the place
Where rest thy bones in earth’s embrace.
The wild beasts trample them upon,
Or Ostiaks, as they hurry on,