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I love thee, Peter's proud creation,
Thy princely stateliness of line,
The regal Neva coursing, patient,
Twixt sober walls of massive stone;
The iron lacework of thy fences,
Thy wistful, moonless, lustrous nights,
Dusk-clothed but limpid…
I love thy chaste,
Inclement winter with its bracing
And moveless air, the lusty bite
And pinch of frost, the sledges racing
On Neva's banks, the bloom of bright
Young cheeks, the ballroom's noise and glitter,
And, at a bachelor's get-together,
The hiss and sparkle of iced champagne
And punch bowls topped with bluish flame.
I love the dash and animation
Of Fields of Mars where, trim and staid,
Both foot and horse pass on parade,
Their symmetry and neat formation
A pretty sight. In battles charred,
Here flags sail by, triumphant flowing,
There helmets meet the eye, their glowing.
Well furbished sides by bullets scarred.
I love to hear the thunder crashing,
O gallant city mine and fair,
When to the royal house of Russia
The tsar's young spouse presents an heir;
When mark we, full of pride and glee,
Our latest martial victory,
Or when the Neva boldly smashes
Its pale-blue chains, and off to sea
The crumbling ice, exultant, rushes.
Stand thou, O Peter's citadel,
Like Russia steadfast and enduring,
And let the elements rebel
No more bur be subdued; your fury
Contain, O Finnish waves, and quell,
And may the feud of old begotten
Now and for ever be forgotten,
And undisturbed leave Peter's sleep!…
[1833]
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