Classic Poem

Thy acrid fumes my laggard sense excite.
There's war and wrangle hidden in thy heart
That make one's breast with expectation start,
Eager to seek armed enemies to smite.

Thy savor is a danger and delight,
For those of valorous souls, the favorite art,
Thy fire with all mine own becomes a part,
I yearn to battle madly for the right.

And on far Ukraine's snowy steppes I see
Pale, shackled Poles to far Siberia led,
Torn from the gentle pleasance of their homes.
And then I yearn to hasten and to free
Their hands, and trample upon Cossack dead,
Beneath the shade of Nijnii's golden domes!