Poems (Proctor)/Holy Russia
For works with similar titles, see Holy Russia.
HOLY RUSSIA.(Sergius of Throitsa, loquitur.)
Have you heard how Holy Russia Is guarded, night and day,By saints gone home to the world of light, Yet watching her realm for aye?—Nicholas, Vladimir, Michael, Catharine, Olga, Anna;Barbara, borne from her silent tower To the angels' glad hosanna;Cyril, Ivan, Alexander, Sergius, Feodor;Basil, the bishop beloved, And a thousand thousand more.They walk the streets of the city, Waving their stately palms,And the river that runs by the Father's throne Keeps time to their joyous psalms.But they do not forget, in their rapture, The land of their love below;Blessing they send to its poorest friend, Defiance to proudest foe.So in cloister, and palace, and cottage, Cathedral, and wayside shrine, We cherish their sacred Icons, Token of care divine;And with beaten gold in fret and fold, And gems the Czar might wear,And costliest pearls of the Indian seas, We make their vesture fair.We set them along our altars In many a gorgeous row,The blessed Saviour in their midst, And the Virgin, pure as snow;And lamps we hang before them, Soft as the star that shinesIn the, rosy west, when the purple clouds Drift dark above the pines.The deep chants ring; the censers swing In wreaths of fragrance by;And there we bend, while our prayers ascend To their waiting hearts on high;And our Lord, and Mary-Mother, With faces sweet and grave,Remembering all their tears and woes, Grant every boon they crave.
Have you heard that each true-born Russian, Child of the Lord in baptism,Receives some name of the shining ones With the touch of the precious chrism?—And the saint, thenceforth, is his angel; Ready, through gloom or sun,To share his sorrows and cheer his way Till his earthly years are done. When friends have fled, and love is lost, And darkest ills betide,There's a gleam of wings athwart the sky, And the peace of the glorifiedFalls on his soul as the gentle dew Descends on the parching plain,—And he knows that his angel heard his sighs And stooped to heal his pain.Nor cares he when, or where, or how The hour of his death may come,For the Lord of the saints will welcome him, And his angel bear him home.And, to mark his faith's devotion, As a jewel of love and prideHe bears on his breast forever The cross of the Crucified;—Bright with rubies and diamonds, Fashioned of silver and gold,Or only carved from the cedar That grows on the windy wold;Cut from a stone of the Ourals, Or the amber that strews the shore;—Close to his heart he wears it Till his pulses beat no more.
O happy, Holy Russia! Thrice favored of the Lord!Around whose towers, when danger lowers, The saints keep watch and ward!She need not fear the marshalled hosts Of her haughtiest Christian foe; Nor Islam's hate, though at Moscow's gate The stormy bugles blow!Fair will her eagle-banners float Above Sophia's dome,When heaven shall bring her righteous Czar In triumph to his Rome;And Constantine and Helena Will "Alleluia!" cry,To see the cross victorious In their imperial sky.Ah! what a day when all the way To Marmora's sunny sea—From Finland's snows to fields of rose— Shall Holy Russia be!