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| | “Trample their Paradise, Attila!” |
| —VYACHESLAV IVANOV. |
WHERE do you stray, heavy Huns, | |
| Who weigh on the world like a cloud? | |
| Far, under Asian suns, | |
| Your cast-iron tread is loud. | |
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| Swoop down in a drunken horde | 5 |
| From your dark encampments, rise | |
| In a tide of crimson poured | |
| Over this land that dies. | |
| |
| O slaves of freedom, pitch | |
| Your tent by the palace gate. | 10 |
| Plow deep, dig wide the ditch | |
| Where the throne shone on your hate. | |
| |
| Heap books to build a fire! | |
| Dance in their ruddy light. | |
| Foul altar steps with mire: | 15 |
| You are children in our sight. | |
| |
| And we, the poets, the wise, | |
| From the onslaught that darkens and raves, | |
| Defending the torch you despise, | |
| Shall hold it in deserts and caves. | 20 |
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| Under the scattering storm, | |
| The tempests that raven and tear, | |
| What will the hazards of harm | |
| From our long labor spare? | |
| |
| All that we only knew | 25 |
| Shall perish and sink and grow dim. | |
| But you who shall slay me, you | |
| I salute with hosanna and hymn. | |
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