O holy city, country of my heart!
How oft, in vision, have I gazed enchanted
On thy fair towers—a sainted thing thou art!—
By Lávra's walls or Dniéper's wave, nor wanted
A spell to draw me from this life apart;
In thee my country I behold, victorious,
Holy and beautiful, and great and glorious.
The moon her soft ray on Petchérskoi poureth,
Its domes are shining in the river's wave;
The soul the spirit of the past adoreth,