I love the peaceful sight,
When, with his soul deep in the past immersed,
He keeps his chronicle. Oft have I longed
To guess what 'tis he writes of. Is 't perchance
The dark dominion of the Tartars? Is it
Ivan's grim punishments, the stormy Council
of Novgorod? Is it about the glory
Of our dear fatherland?--I ask in vain!
Not on his lofty brow, nor in his looks
May one peruse his secret thoughts; always
The same aspect; lowly at once, and lofty--
Like some state Minister grown grey in office,
Calmly alike he contemplates the just
And guilty, with indifference he hears
Evil and good, and knows not wrath nor pity.
PIMEN. Wakest thou, brother?
GREGORY. Honoured father, give me
Thy blessing.
PIMEN. May God bless thee on this day,
Tomorrow, and for ever.
GREGORY. All night long
Thou hast been writing and abstained from sleep,
While demon visions have disturbed my peace,
The fiend molested me. I dreamed I scaled
By winding stairs a turret, from whose height
Moscow appeared an anthill, where the people
Seethed in the squares below and pointed at me
With laughter. Shame and terror came upon me--
And falling headlong, I awoke. Three times
I dreamed the selfsame dream.
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