And as leaping flame
Burn the Northern lights,
On the darkness gleam
Through the silent nights.
Even so art thou,
Russian realm, become,—
Thou my native land,
Shield of Christendom!
Far away hast thou,
Throughout lands untold,
In thy glory fair,
Russia, been enrolled!
Art thou not in space
E'en o'er well supplied?
Where a spirit bold
Freely wanders wide!
Hast thou not alway
Gold and grain rich stored?
For thy friend a feast?
For thy foe a sword?
Guards and shields thee not
With a sacred might,
Holy altar forms,
Deeds of glory bright?
To whom hast thou e'er
Bent an humble knee?
Or before whom bowed
Seeking charity?
In the Kurgan deep,
Met in open fight,
Thou hast e'en subdued
The fierce Tartar's might.
Fought to bloody death
The Lithuanian horde,
The defiant Pole
Scattered with a sword.
And how long ago,
Black clouds, rising out
Of the distant West,
Compassed thee about?