TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN OF IVÁN KOZLÓFF.
BY T.B. SHAW.
O Kiéff! where religion ever seemeth
To light existence in our native land;
Where o'er Petchérskoi's dome the bright cross gleameth,
Like some fair star, that still in heaven doth stand;
Where, like a golden sheet, around thee streameth
Thy plain, and meads that far away expand;
And by thy hoary wall, with ceaseless motion,
Old Dniéper's foaming swell sweeps on to ocean.
How oft to thee in spirit have I panted,