e my heart attends.

I drink alone; ev'n now, on Neva's shore,
Haply my name on friendly lips has trembled....
Round that bright board, say, are ye _all_ assembled?
Are there no other names ye count no more?
Has our good custom been betray'd by others?
Whom hath the cold world lured from ye away?
Whose voice is silent in the call of brothers?
Who is not come? Who is not with you? Say!

_He_ is not come, he of the curled hair,
He of the eye of fire and sweet-voiced numbers:
Beneath Italia's myrtle-groves he slumbers;
He slumbers well, although no friend was there,
Above the lonely grave where he is sleeping,
A Russian line to trace with pious hand,
That some sad wanderer might read it, weeping--
Some Russian, wandering in a foreign land.

Art _thou_ too seated in the friendly ring,
O restless Pilgrim? Haply now thou ridest
O'er the long tropic-wave; or now abidest
'Mid seas with ice eternal glimmering!
Thrice happy voyage!... With a jest thou leapedst
From the Lyceum's threshold to thy bark,
Thenceforth thy path aye on the main thou keepedst,
O child beloved of wave and tempest dark!

Well hast thou kept, 'neath many a stranger sky,
The loves, the hopes of Childhood's golden hour:
And old Lyceum scenes, by memory's power,
'Mid lonely waves have ris'n before thine eye;
Thou wav'dst thy hand to us from distant ocean,
Ever thy faithful heart its treasure bore;
"A long farewell!" thou criedst, with fond emotion,
"Unless our fate hath doom'd we meet no more."

The bond that binds us, friends, is fair and true!
Destructless as the soul, and as eternal--
Careless and free, unshakable, fraternal,
Beneath the Muses' friendly shade it grew.
We are the same: wherever Fate may guide us,
Or Fortune lead--wherever we may go,
The world is aye a foreign land beside us;
_Our_ fatherland is Tsarkoe Selo!

From clime to clime, pursued by storm and stress,
In Destiny's dark nets long time I wrestled,
Until on Friendship's lap I fluttering nestled,
And bent my weary head for her caress....
With wistful prayers, with visionary grieving,
With all the trustful hope of early years,
I sought new friends with zeal and new believing;
But bitter was their greeting to mine ears.

And even here, in this lone dwelling-place
Of desert-storm, of cold, and desolation,
There was prepared for me a consolation:
Three of