Above each gate a blessed Saint
Asks favor of the skies,
And the hosts of the foe do fail and faint
At the gleam of their watchful eyes;
And Pole, and Tartar, and haughty Gaul,
Flee, dismayed, from the Kremlin wall.
Here lie our ancient Czars, asleep,—
Ivan and Feodor,—
While loving angels round them keep
Sweet peace forevermore!
Only, when Easter bells ring loud,
They sign the cross beneath the shroud.
O Troitsa's altar is divine,—
St. Sergius! hear our prayers!—
And Kiéff, Olga's lofty shrine,
The name of "The Holy" bears;
But Moscow blends all rays in one—
They are the stars, and she the sun!