To Chaddaev

Of love, of hope, of quiet glory 
Not long I nursed the self-deceit, 
Vanished are adolescent dallies 
Like a dream, like the morning mist; 
But still desire burns within us; 
Beneath the press of fateful power 
With impatient soul 
We hark the native country's summons. 
We bide with yearning expectation 
The moment of sacred liberty, 
As the young lover bides 
The moment of the promised meeting. 
The while with liberty we burn, 
The while our hearts are quick for honour, 
My friend, to our land we dedicate 
The soul's exquisite raptures! 
Comrade, believe: it will arise, 
The star of captivating bliss, 
Russia with rouse herself from sleep, 
And on the ruins of despotism 
Our names will be inscribed! 

* Translated by Nick and Dimitri Derkatch